I mean not my falseness. That is a different thing, one I feel
someway responsible for. But the thinking lies feel to be a heritage
from ancient evil selves.
I lie to myself, to the air around me--I blow lies into space from my
quiet lips. And one half of me knows them for lies and the other half
of me _believes_ them.
Those half-known lies, the _need_ of the lies half-believed, are the
realization of an essential Artist-spirit.
The oblique belief in them and the recognition of them as lies
proclaim me to myself, as a writing-person: Liar and Artist.
_It’s not death_