As you grow old, you forget, and as you forget, you have to stop lying, or at least cut way down.
To a quite unwreckable Lie,
To a most impeccable Lie!
To a water-tight, fire-proof, angle-iron, sunk-hinge, time-lock, steel-faced Lie!
Not a private hansom Lie,
But a pair-and-brougham Lie,
Not a little-place-at-Tooting, but a country-house-with-shooting
And a ring-fence-deer-park Lie.
The first rule of lying is never deviate from the facts.
We are apt to forget, though history at intervals reminds us, how far hypocrisy is to be preferred to sincere, unaffected villainy.
The hygienic metaphor — “cleansing”, “extermination”, “vermin” — always marks murderous intent.
“Who would do something that stupid?” This is the Inanity Defense, and it should never be believed.
The apology is usually imaginary, but then so is the offense.
Explanations always sound like justifications because that is what they are.
Small lies must be plausible; big lies must be vivid.
Anything announced as voluntary is mandatory.
To undermine a principle, profess fealty to it while insisting that every applicable case is a unique circumstance that dictates its temporary suspension.