"To return to Francoise, I never in my life experienced a humiliation without having seen beforehand in her face the signs of ready-made condolences, and when in my anger at the thought of being pitied by her I tried to pretend that on the contrary I had scored a distinct success, my lies broke feebly against the wall of her respectful but obvious unbelief and the consciousness that she enjoyed of her own infallibility. For she knew the truth. She refrained from uttering it, and made only a slight movement with her lips as if she still had her mouth full and was finishing a tasty morsel. She refrained from uttering it? So at least I long believed, for at that time I still supposed that it was by means of words that one communicated the truth to others. Indeed the words that people said to me recorded their meaning so unalterably on the sensitive plate of my mind that I could not more believe it possible that someone who had professed to love me did not love me than Francoise herself could have doubted when she had read it 'in the paper' that some priest or gentleman or other was prepared, on receipt of a stamped envelope, to furnish us free of charge with an infallible remedy for every known complaint or with the means of multiplying our income a hundredfold. (If, on the other hand, our doctor were to prescribe for her the simplest cure for a cold in the head, she, so stubborn to endure the keenest suffering, would complain bitterly of what she had been made to sniff, insisting that it tickled her nose and that life was not worth living.) But she was the first person to prove to me by her example (which I was not to understand until long afterwards, when it was given me afresh and more painfully, as will be seen in the later volumes of this work, by a person who was dearer to me than Francoise) that the truth has no need to be uttered to be made apparent, and that one may perhaps gather it with more certainty, without waiting for words and without even taking any account of them, from countless outward signs, even from certain invisible phenomena, analogous in the sphere of human character to what atmospheric changes are in the physical world. I might perhaps have suspected this, since it frequently occurred to me at that time to say things myself in which there was no vestige of truth, while I made the real truth plain by all manner of involuntary confidences expressed by my body and in my actions (which were only too accurately interpreted by Francoise); I ought perhaps to have suspected it, but to do so I should first have had to be conscious that I myself was occasionally mendacious and deceitful. Now mendacity and deceitfulness were with me, as with most people, called into being in so immediate, so contingent a fashion, in the defence of some particular interest, that my mind, fixed on some lofty ideal, allowed my character to set about those urgent, sordid tasks in the darkness below and did not look down to observe them."
Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, pp. 62-63
"But she was the first person to prove to me by her example (which I was not to understand until long afterwards, when it was given me afresh and more painfully, as will be seen in the later volumes of this work, by a person who was dearer to me than Francoise) that the truth has no need to be uttered to be made apparent, and that one may perhaps gather it with more certainty, without waiting for words and without even taking any account of them, from countless outward signs, even from certain invisible phenomena, analogous in the sphere of human character to what atmospheric changes are in the physical world." Proust is, per usual, spot on here. Words seem to mean precious little, which is sad. I'm painfully old school in that I think that a man (again, forgive me, I grew up in the country) is judged by his word. This seems to be a concept that is a pretty rare commodity in Vermont, however, as the state is mainly populated by either outright liars or clumsy prevaricators. In the end it is much easier to show people things than to tell them, because in the end actions are all that matters (this is incredibly watered down Marcus Aurelius, by the bye). Several months ago I made a pretty substantial change to my life, but didn't really talk about it, because I felt it was more important to live the change as compared to yammering on about it.
Proust's second point relates to our willingness to lie, either consciously or unconsciously, in the service of a higher calling, "some lofty ideal." One wonders if this is just cognitive dissonance or an actual deliberate lie. You see this all the time in religion, where people tell the most shameful bold-faced lies but they are OK because they're in the service of God. I remember reading an article years ago from a guy who had done a lot of research on affairs, and had actually identified a whole series of categories. One that spoke to me was the "maintenance" affair. That is, an affair that allowed you to actually stay in your marriage. It might relate to some astonishing act of physical impropriety that your wife won't do anymore, or it might just features trips to the museum to discuss paintings. I remember think that this is quite logical and intelligent, but then had to come to grips that it also just validated affairs if not glorified them as a useful mechanism to make an unhappy marriage work. I had to call shenanigans on myself. "Now mendacity and deceitfulness were with me, as with most people, called into being in so immediate, so contingent a fashion, in the defence of some particular interest, that my mind, fixed on some lofty ideal, allowed my character to set about those urgent, sordid tasks in the darkness below and did not look down to observe them."
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