Fib Quotes

Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs.

If thinking and reason crack under pressure of emotional convulsions or when commissioned facts are resulting from fibs and fake constructions, truth may be in great peril. ( ”Blame storming”)

No, Lucius is harmless,' I fibbed. If you don't count the fact that he thinks he's a warrior prince representing a semi-cannibalistic race of undead bat people.

I know too well how dangerous hope can be, how it grows and sometimes dies, taking its host with it. It's more powerful than anything Dr.Fibs keeps in his labs, more precious than all the secrets inside Sublevel Two.

I know I fib a good deal. After all, a woman's charm is fifty per cent illusion, but when a thing is important I tell the truth. - Blanche Scene II

Next time I fall in love it's going to be with someone who isn't an expert in fibbing." "You're in love with me?" "You didn't know that?" "I did, but it's nice to hear." "Scares the hell out of me.

Shouts of dismay rose as the red flesh splattered against the table. It was only a tomato, but one would think I was pulping a decaying heart by the noise the big, strong FIB officers were making.

A liar deceives himself more than anyone, for he believes he can remain a person of good character when he cannot.

When one fib becomes due as it were, you must forge another to take up the old acceptance; and so the stock of your lies in circulation inevitably multiplies, and the danger of detection increases every day.

My other hand?' Lopen said. 'The one that was cut off long ago, eaten by a fearsome beast? It is making a rude gesture toward you right now. I thought you would want to know, so you can prepare to be insulted.

And now you see why lies matter. The actual fib might not matter, but what it shows us is that what you say can’t always be trusted. You can’t always be trusted.

I bow to no beast.

It wasn't till they were on the bridge that Delly asked RB, "So, Ferris Boyd's your favorite?" She didn't mind, mostly. RB answered so fast, though, she knew he wasn't fibbing. "She's my favorite friend," he told her. "You're my favorite everything.

He darted a guilty look toward his dad. “Will you—get me a bottle of spicy?” My eyes jerked to his. “Maybe some barbecue sauce?” I closed my mouth before a bug flew into it. “Sure.” I did not believe this. I was pimping ketchup to the son of the FIB’s captain.

I have never really believed in a smiling face. They might just be hiding their pain. I mean look at me, I smile all the time.

Fibs, you must know, are entirely acceptable when they serve the purpose of getting one to the library.

My second thoughts condemn And wonder how I dare To look you in the eye. What right have I to swear Even at one a.m. To love you till I die? Earth meets too many crimes For fibs to interest her; If I can give my word, Forgiveness can recur Any number of times In Time. Which is absurd. Tempus fugit. Quite. So finish up your drink. All flesh is grass. It is. But who on earth can think With heavy heart or light Of what will come of this?

Throughout her life, Warren published little tip sheets — 'Althea's Ways to Achieve Reading' — to encourage people to find time for books. She approved of fibbing if it gave you an additional opportunity read. 'The night you promised to go to dinner with the best friend of your foster aunt, just telephone that you have such a bad cold you're afraid she'll catch it,' she wrote in one of her tip sheets. 'Stay at home instead and gobble Lucy Gayheart in one gulp like a boa constrictor.

I have learned that under certain circumstances, a fib is not only permissible, but can even be an act of perfect grace.

Jenks laughed, taking to the air and saying, “Give it up, FIB man. It’ll take more than you to get her out. Remember what Ivy and I did to your finest last spring? Add Rachel to that, and you can say your prayers.” From behind me came Edden’s dry “You think Ivy wants another stint as a candy striper?

Okay so I fibbed a little about the kids. I didn't want her to feel bad. I mean we can't all be lucky enough to have a hamster.

My Teacher Sees Right Through Me I didn’t do my homework. My teacher asked me, “Why?” I answered him, “It’s much too hard.” He said, “You didn’t try.” I told him, “My dog ate it.” He said, “You have no dog.” I said, “I went out running.” He said, “You never jog.” I told him, “I had chores to do.” He said, “You watched TV.” I said, “I saw the doctor.” He said, “You were with me.” My teacher sees right through my fibs, which makes me very sad. It’s hard to fool the teacher when the teacher is your dad.

Above all, I hope I have dispelled the bleak and imbecilic idea that the aim of writing is to express yourself clearly in plain, simple English using as few words as possible. This is a fiction, a fib, a fallacy, a fantasy, and a falsehood. To write for mere utility is as foolish as to dress for mere utility. ... Clothes and language can be things of beauty, I would no more write without art because I didn't need to than I would wander outdoors naked just because it was warm enough.

You’re such a great liar when you lie to yourself.

You took your clothes off?" "You didn't notice?" "No! Jeez Louise, I don't even know you." "If you look under the covers, you'll know me better." "I don't want to know you better!" "That's a big fib," Diesel said.

But I care myself if I tell fibs; I never tell them unless there's something rather good to be gained.

I looked at Mum and realized -- twang! -- that she was telling an untruth. A big untruth. And I remember thinking in that instant how thrilling and grown-up it must be to say something so completely untrue, as opposed to the little amateur fibs I was already practiced at -- horrid little apprentice sinner that I was --like the ones about you'd already said your prayers or washed under the fingernails. Yes, I was impressed. I too must learn to say these gorgeous untruths. Imaginary kings and queens would be my houseguests when I was older.

See, he may come back, sometimes they do, and I hope you don’t mind, but I fibbed a little, told the customer she was dating a police detective who never missed a workout. You don’t, do you? Ever miss a workout?

Pippi stroking his back. ‘Bosh, that was a true fib,’ she added. ‘But if it was true, how could it be a fib? Perhaps when all’s said and done, he really has been a butler in Sourabaya, after all! Well, if that’s so, I know who’s going

You live a great deal too much in the society of women. And you have contracted two very bad habits in consequence. You have learnt to talk nonsense seriously, and you have got into a way of telling fibs for the pleasure of telling them.

He had wandered with innocence and naivete into this web, and now every move would wrap him tighter. Each lie would stick to the others, until one day he would find himself in a tight little cocoon, trapped and suffocating from the thousands of little fibs that living and working in that cursed swamp of a city seemed to require every man to ooze.

Even knowing it wasn’t real, knowing that she was looking through an eight by twoinch fib, the temptation was overwhelming to believe.

Writing fiction isn't about lying through your teeth, but more like, fibbing with a little class.

To those of us who truly love one another, the occasional flaming fib serves only to strengthen the ties.

Why don’t you ever ask me what happened, first? You always ask the people who hurt other people what happened first, as if I am going to tell a fib.

Now, even when I make an outfit for myself, I wonder what other people will think. The truth is that I secretly love what seems to be my own individuality, and I hope I always will, but fully embodying it is another matter. I always want everyone to think I am a good girl. Whenever I am around a lot of people, it is amazing how obsequious I can be. I fib and chatter away, saying things I don't want to or mean in any way. I feel like it is to my advantage to do so. I hate it. I hope for a revolution in ethics and morals. Then, my obsequiousness and this need to plod through life according to others' expectations would simply dissolve. Oh,

Dandelion spoke first; elaborately, fluently, colourfully and volubly, embellishing his tale with ornaments so beautiful and fanciful they almost obscured the fibs and confabulations. Then the Witcher spoke. He spoke the same truth, and spoke so dryly, boringly and flatly that Dandelion couldn’t bare it and kept butting in, for which the dwarves reprimanded him. And then the story was over and a lengthy silence fell. 'To the archer Milva!' Zoltan Chivay cleared his throat, saluting with his cup. 'To the Nilfgaardian. To Regis the herbalist who entertained the travellers in his cottage with moonshine and mandrake. And to Angoulême, whom I never knew. May the earth lie lightly on them all. May they have in the beyond plenty of whatever they were short of on earth. And may their names live forever in songs and tales. Let’s drink to them.

What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked. She looked nervously down at the papers in her hand even though I knew for a fact she had memorized every word. “When I was eleven I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when the recruiters came to see me. They showed me brochures and told me they were impressed by my test scores and asked if I was ready to be challenged. And I said yes. Because that was what a Gallagher Girl was to me then, a student at the toughest school in the world.” She took a deep breath and talked on. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked again. “When I was thirteen I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when Dr. Fibs allowed me to start doing my own experiments in the lab. I could go anywhere—make anything. Do anything my mind could dream up. Because I was a Gallagher Girl. And, to me, that meant I was the future.” Liz took another deep breath. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” This time, when Liz asked it, her voice cracked. “When I was seventeen I stood on a dark street in Washington, D.C., and watched one Gallagher Girl literally jump in front of a bullet to save the life of another. I saw a group of women gather around a girl whom they had never met, telling the world that if any harm was to come to their sister, it had to go through them first.” Liz straightened. She no longer had to look down at her paper as she said, “What is a Gallagher Girl? I’m eighteen now, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I don’t really know the answer to that question. Maybe she is destined to be our first international graduate and take her rightful place among Her Majesty’s Secret Service with MI6.” I glanced to my right and, call me crazy, but I could have sworn Rebecca Baxter was crying. “Maybe she is someone who chooses to give back, to serve her life protecting others just as someone once protected her.” Macey smirked but didn’t cry. I got the feeling that Macey McHenry might never cry again. “Who knows?” Liz asked. “Maybe she’s an undercover journalist.” I glanced at Tina Walters. “An FBI agent.” Eva Alvarez beamed. “A code breaker.” Kim Lee smiled. “A queen.” I thought of little Amirah and knew somehow that she’d be okay. “Maybe she’s even a college student.” Liz looked right at me. “Or maybe she’s so much more.” Then Liz went quiet for a moment. She too looked up at the place where the mansion used to stand. “You know, there was a time when I thought that the Gallagher Academy was made of stone and wood, Grand Halls and high-tech labs. When I thought it was bulletproof, hack-proof, and…yes…fireproof. And I stand before you today happy for the reminder that none of those things are true. Yes, I really am. Because I know now that a Gallagher Girl is not someone who draws her power from that building. I know now with scientific certainty that it is the other way around.” A hushed awe descended over the already quiet crowd as she said this. Maybe it was the gravity of her words and what they meant, but for me personally, I like to think it was Gilly looking down, smiling at us all. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked one final time. “She’s a genius, a scientist, a heroine, a spy. And now we are at the end of our time at school, and the one thing I know for certain is this: A Gallagher Girl is whatever she wants to be.” Thunderous, raucous applause filled the student section. Liz smiled and wiped her eyes. She leaned close to the microphone. “And, most of all, she is my sister.

I don't know if this deception qualified as a half-step down the slippery slope. I had no sensation of sliding. But of course we never notice the descent until we're rocketing along at high velocity.

Above all, I hope I have dispelled the bleak and imbecilic idea that the aim of writing is to express yourself clearly in plain, simple English using as few words as possible. This is a fiction, a fib, a fallacy, a fantasy, and a falsehood. To write for mere utility is as foolish as to dress for mere utility.

Her fingertips stumbled over the key she’d found years ago. She liked having it. A fib for the chain. Or a talisman. A reminder that secrets can sometimes be discovered when one looks closely at ordinary things.

since I know for a fact that her class had been in the physics labs when Mr. Fibs got attacked by the bees he thought he’d genetically modified to obey commands from a whistle. (Turns out they only respond to the voice of James Earl Jones.)

People, like buildings, have facades. Tom created his. His walk was a feat. It had taken him twenty years of killing bad guys and a pair of Tony Lama boots to perfect the illusion. He made sure that everyone felt it by the third clunk of his boot heel. When he entered a crime scene there was a hush, and no one ever quite knew why they were holding their breath. But he did. A crime scene was theater and the stage was his.

Men love other men. They are always explaining how much they love women, but we all know they're fibbing. They love each other... They watch each other on the cinema screen, give themselves great roles, think themselves powerful, boast, and can't get enough of being so strong, so brave, and so handsome. They write for each other, congratulate each other, support each other.

We also hate lying because it is more than just fibbing, it is a personal slight. It is the liar’s way of saying, “I don’t respect you.” That is precisely what we tell God when we lie. Lying is our special way of saying to God, “I hate the truth. I hate you.

Then the Alumni Association man cleared his throat and gave out with a pious spiel about Winifred Griffen Prior, saint on earth. How everyone fibs when it’s a question of money! I suppose the old bitch pictured the whole thing when she made her bequest, stingy as it is. She knew my presence would be requested; she wanted me writhing in the town’s harsh gaze while her own munificence was lauded.

Money in hand, I glanced up to find Glenn eyeing a rack of stuffed rats. As the salesman rang up my purchase, Glenn leaned close and, still staring at the rats, whispered, “What are those used for?” “I have no idea.” I got my receipt and jammed everything in my bag… Glenn surprised me by opening the car door for me, and as I settled in the seat, he leaned against the frame of the open window. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and strode inside. He was out in a moment with a small white bag. I watched him cross in front of the car—wondering. Timing himself between the traffic, he opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. “Well?” I asked as he set the package between us. “What did you get?” Glenn started the car and pulled out into traffic. “A stuffed rat.” “Oh,” I said, surprised. What the devil was he going to do with it? Even I didn’t know what it was for. I was dying to ask all the way to the FIB building but managed to keep my mouth shut even as we slipped into the cold shade of their underground parking.

Placebos certainly didn’t start with Grams or even Hahnemann. Plato was in favor of occasionally fibbing to fool patients into having a response to dubious remedies. Hippocrates, a fellow Greek who lived around the same time, also understood the power of the body to heal itself but opposed such mind games.

On these issues, the public fib. They say they want increased spending, and in theory they do—but in practice they think someone else should pay for it. However, there it is. As I used to say, the public aren’t always logical, but that’s their prerogative. They do expect their government to be, nonetheless.

Jos growled from under the counterpane to know what the time was; but when he at last extorted from the blushing Major (who never told fibs, however they might be to his advantage) what was the real hour of the morning, he broke out into a volley of bad language, which we will not repeat here, but by which he gave Dobbin to understand that he would jeopardy his soul if he got up at that moment, that the Major might go and be hanged, that he would not travel with Dobbin, and that it was most unkind and ungentlemanlike to disturb a man out of his sleep in that way; on which the discomfited Major was obliged to retreat, leaving Jos to resume his interrupted slumbers.

When people ask what I do for a living, I tell them I'm an elevator-button salesman. Then I ask them if they've ever seen those domed buttons that light up yellow. When they vaguely nod yes, I say, "Yeah, I don't sell that particular model." I fib about my occupation because if I tell them the truth, that I'm a duck farmer, they simply wouldn't believe me.

the psychopath will speak of himself in grandiose terms while blaming others and taking absolutely no responsibility for his actions.

Today was a rainy, dreary, wear-your-steel-toed-mud-shoes Wednesday.

A lie to get out of something, or take an advantage for oneself, that’s one thing; but a lie to make life more interesting—well, that’s entirely different.

Sometimes when you search for someone long enough you find them. They become real in your mind, and your mind brings the illusion to life in front of you.

I find cures.” Thwackonax moaned. “I don’t find problems, that’s my patient’s part of the job.

I can help you.” He finalised. “How?” Both Jezka and Faze asked. “I don’t know but it's nice to sound optimistic, wouldn’t you agree.

It's the little details that make for plausibility and plausibility makes fibs immaterial because nobody feels the need to check them.

Declan didn't even know why he lied about it. The fib was like bubblewrap, the truth carefully kept pristine and untouched for his collection.

Writing fiction is a respectable way of fibbing for a living—and enjoying it! -Anne George

He piled fib on top of lie on top of exaggeration and cemented it all with hyperbole.

Don’t let anyone, especially your doctor, tell you that A-Fib isn’t that serious, or you should just learn to live with it. (Beat Your A-Fib, page 165)

The original fib was dreary enough, the additional biographical titbits positively inane.

Things I Used to Get Hit For: Talking back. Being smart. Acting stupid. Not listening. Not answering the first time. Not doing what I’m told. Not doing it the second time I’m told. Running, jumping, yelling, laughing, falling down, skipping stairs, lying in the snow, rolling in the grass, playing in the dirt, walking in mud, not wiping my feet, not taking my shoes off. Sliding down the banister, acting like a wild Indian in the hallway. Making a mess and leaving it. Pissing my pants, just a little. Peeing the bed, hardly at all. Sleeping with a butter knife under my pillow. Shitting the bed because I was sick and it just ran out of me, but still my fault because I’m old enough to know better. Saying shit instead of crap or poop or number two. Not knowing better. Knowing something and doing it wrong anyway. Lying. Not confessing the truth even when I don’t know it. Telling white lies, even little ones, because fibbing isn’t fooling and not the least bit funny. Laughing at anything that’s not funny, especially cripples and retards. Covering up my white lies with more lies, black lies. Not coming the exact second I’m called. Getting out of bed too early, sometimes before the birds, and turning on the TV, which is one reason the picture tube died. Wearing out the cheap plastic hole on the channel selector by turning it so fast it sounds like a machine gun. Playing flip-and-catch with the TV’s volume button then losing it down the hole next to the radiator pipe. Vomiting. Gagging like I’m going to vomit. Saying puke instead of vomit. Throwing up anyplace but in the toilet or in a designated throw-up bucket. Using scissors on my hair. Cutting Kelly’s doll’s hair really short. Pinching Kelly. Punching Kelly even though she kicked me first. Tickling her too hard. Taking food without asking. Eating sugar from the sugar bowl. Not sharing. Not remembering to say please and thank you. Mumbling like an idiot. Using the emergency flashlight to read a comic book in bed because batteries don’t grow on trees. Splashing in puddles, even the puddles I don’t see until it’s too late. Giving my mother’s good rhinestone earrings to the teacher for Valentine’s Day. Splashing in the bathtub and getting the floor wet. Using the good towels. Leaving the good towels on the floor, though sometimes they fall all by themselves. Eating crackers in bed. Staining my shirt, tearing the knee in my pants, ruining my good clothes. Not changing into old clothes that don’t fit the minute I get home. Wasting food. Not eating everything on my plate. Hiding lumpy mashed potatoes and butternut squash and rubbery string beans or any food I don’t like under the vinyl seat cushions Mom bought for the wooden kitchen chairs. Leaving the butter dish out in summer and ruining the tablecloth. Making bubbles in my milk. Using a straw like a pee shooter. Throwing tooth picks at my sister. Wasting toothpicks and glue making junky little things that no one wants. School papers. Notes from the teacher. Report cards. Whispering in church. Sleeping in church. Notes from the assistant principal. Being late for anything. Walking out of Woolworth’s eating a candy bar I didn’t pay for. Riding my bike in the street. Leaving my bike out in the rain. Getting my bike stolen while visiting Grandpa Rudy at the hospital because I didn’t put a lock on it. Not washing my feet. Spitting. Getting a nosebleed in church. Embarrassing my mother in any way, anywhere, anytime, especially in public. Being a jerk. Acting shy. Being impolite. Forgetting what good manners are for. Being alive in all the wrong places with all the wrong people at all the wrong times.

Men love talking about women. At least then they don't have to talk about themselves. How is it that in thirty years no man has produced the slightest innovative work on masculinity? They are so expert, so voluble when it comes to holding forth about women, so why this silence when it comes to themselves? We know that the more they speak, the less they say -- of essentials, of what they really think. Perhaps they want us to talk about them instead? For example, perhaps they want to be told how their gang bangs look from the outside? Well, they look as if men want to see themselves fucking, as i they want to look at each other's dicks, to be together with their hard-ons; as if they want to get fucked themselves. It looks as if what they're scared to admit is what they really want: to fuck each other. Men love other men. They are always explaining how much they love women, but we all know they're fibbing. They love each other women. Many of them start thinking about friends when they're still inside a pussy.

Why do older people seem more honest, dependable? But it's true. People think lies are like the food pyramid or Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, broad at the base. What does a ninety-year-old have to fib about?

When it comes to lying, what one must consider is not the plausibility of the fib but the greed, fear, and stupidity of the receiver. One never lies to people; they lie to themselves. A good liar gives fools what they want to hear and allows them to free themselves from the facts at hand and choose the level of self-delusion that fits their foolishness and moral turpitude. That’s the secret. Oldest trick in the world.

He drove into the rich man's villas with his nervous ladies insipid esthete fibs, rose in his imagination to the misjudged hero and, pitifully misguided, systematically drove himself insane through loud Chopin music and Pre-Raphaelite ecstasies.

Sometimes it seems as though the only way a man can judge his own niceness, his own decency, is by looking at his relationships with women, or rather, with prospective or current sexual partners. It’s easy enough to be nice to your mates. You can buy them a drink, make them a tape, ring them up to see if they’re OK … there are any number of quick and painless methods of turning yourself into a Good Bloke. When it comes to girlfriends, though, it’s much trickier to be consistently honorable. One moment you’re ticking along, cleaning the toilet bowl, and expressing your feelings and doing all the other things that a modern chap is supposed to do; the next, you’re manipulating and sulking and double-dealing and fibbing with the best of them. I can’t work it out.

– you always do the little fib if you think it will avoid a real argument. You’ve always gone the easy way. Tell Mom you went to baseball practice when you really quit the team; tell Mom you went to church when you were at a movie. It’s some weird compulsion.

For over a year now, I've smelled her twat on his fingertips as he slipped into bed next to me. I've watched him ogle himself in the mirror, grooming like a horny baboon for their dates. I've listened to his lies, lies, lies - from simplistic child's fibs to elaborate Rube Goldbergian contraptions. I've tasted butterscotch on his dry-kiss lips, a cloying flavor that was never there before. I've felt the stubble on his cheeks that he knows I don't like but apparently she does. I've suffered betrayal with all five senses. For over a year.

Bet latviešu žurnālisti patiešām bija apbrīnojami okšķeri! Uzost lietu, par ko slepenībā sarakstījās tikai divi cilvēki! Ar tādu sasniegumu varētu lepoties pat FIB vai Skotlendjards! Būtu latvieši pie darīšanas, neviens krievu spiegs neturētos ne Londonas, ne Vašingtonas ministrijās!

We all lie. To ourselves and to each other. We make excuses by referring to our untruths as fibs or white lies, trivialising them as harmless. Or we claim they are necessary to shelter others from hurt. However we try to justify them, whatever their shape or form, they are still lies.

Any attorney with a conscience always speaks the truth. An attorney can and should practice law in a scrupulous manner, but some dishonest attorneys disregard ethical mandates in order to win. Unethical attorneys shape their clients stories, which is a fancy way of assisting them tell a fib.

If i could tell the misfits something to make the journey through school and beyond more comfortable, it would be this: you will always be the same person the bus driver was so happy to see on the first day of school. Never stop noticing things like a bus driver opening and closing a door from way past her reach. Don’t worry too much about show and tell – toys and lunch boxes don’t make you happy and some people are fibbing. Just try to get some laughs. If you’re scared about something you’ve never done before like reading or multiplication or dating, say this: “I’ll figure it out.” Then, remind yourself of everything you’ve figured out so far. It’s okay if it takes you a while to make friends – you’ll better appreciate what a friend is worth. As you grow, so will your world. And the bigger your world, the more people will hear your story and say, “I know how you feel.” In the meantime, hold on tight to your Joanies, Billys, Finns, Lauries, and Sades. And never forget this – all the great laughs come from the minds of misfits.

I’ll be good,” he repeated. “Something tells me you’ve told that particular fib more than once.” “Mostly when I’m making deals with God.” “How’s that working out for you?” “I haven’t been struck by lightning yet.” He shook his head. “Last month, on the golf course. In the thunderstorm. I was in mortal danger, wasn’t I?” “You almost died,” I whispered.

But it’s so very necessary. Nick must be taught a lesson. He’s never been taught a lesson! He glides through life with that charming-Nicky grin, his beloved-child entitlement, his fibs and shirkings, his shortcomings and selfishness, and no one calls him on anything. I think this experience will make him a better person. Or at least a sorrier one. Fucker.

For the first time in his life, he decided to focus on his math homework.

What have you done?” Shadow asked her, his eyes alive with fear. “I dunno, but I wish I hadn't.

She gazed over at her mother and took a deep breath. Perhaps her mother had never shown Abby affection, not really, but she had given her a knack for solitude, with its terrible lurches outward, and its smooth glide back to peace. Abby would toast her for that. It was really the world that was one’s brutal mother, the one that nursed and neglected you, and your own mother was only your sibling in that world. Abby lifted her glass. “May the worst always be behind you. May the sun daily warm your arms.…” She looked down at her cocktail napkin for assistance, but there was only a cartoon of a big-chested colleen, two shamrocks over her breasts. Abby looked back up. God’s word is quick! “May your car always start—” But perhaps God might also begin with tall, slow words; the belly bloat of a fib; the distended tale. “And may you always have a clean shirt,” she continued, her voice growing gallant, public and loud, “and a holding roof, healthy children and good cabbages—and may you be with me in my heart, Mother, as you are now, in this place; always and forever—like a flaming light.

2 NOTES “You broke your other appointment, didn’t you?” “I did not! I told you on the phone—these people canceled at the last minute—” “Oh, Geo dear, come off it! You know, I sometimes think, about you, whenever you do something really sweet, you’re ashamed of it afterwords! You knew jolly well how badly I needed you tonight, so you broke that appointment. I could tell you were fibbing, the minute you opened your mouth! You and I can’t pull the wool over each other’s eyes. I found that out, long ago. Haven’t you—after all these years?” “I certainly should have,” he agrees, smiling and thinking what an absurd and universally accepted bit of nonsense it is that your best friends must necessarily be the ones who best understand you.

We knew nothing; the gaps in our knowledge were random and annoying. They were potholes—they could be patched but they multiplied without pattern or remorse. And even if we knew something, had read something, were almost sure of something, we wouldn’t ever know the truth, or come anywhere close to it. The truth had to be seen. Anything else was a story, entertaining but more embroidered fib than crude, shapeless fact.

Lately, I catch myself lying all the time, little fibs that buy me extra minutes with you. Instead of feeling bad about it, I feel liberated. Being a good kid hasn’t been working out for me. So I let the bad girl in. Each lie is something that’s mine, that my mom and The Giant can’t take away from me. Each lie reminds me I’m an actual person with rights and desires and the ability to make choices on her own. Each lie is power—control over my life.

Anytime he said something about the will of God, it meant he weren't going to cooperate or do nothing but as he saw fit. He had no intentions of leaving Kansas Territory or turning himself in or paying attention to what any white soldier told him. He would tell a fib in a minute to help his cause. He was like everybody in war. He believed God was on his side. Everybody got God on their side in a war. Problem is, God ain't tellin' nobody who He's for.

If I might suggest a course of action?” “Not necessary,” I called, poking my head back out. “Do you mean to say this concatenation of events—“ “Totally planned,” I fibbed. “Scaring off any wild animals and such.” “As one does,” Harry said agreeably. “Like Bear Grylls does,” I said. “You bet your ass.” “What do you see?” Scarrow asked. “A whole lot of fucking dark, since I'm inside a walled-off tunnel, at night, in a snowstorm, you cross-stroking wankbasket.

Over the years Breece had lectured that truth was liquid. That it evaporated in the heat of passion, froze in the cold of fear, and bent itself around virginous, unpurposeful fibs. It could churn and pull you under, drown you in itself, or let you ride upon it like a surf. But truth was always relfective. It showed blackheads and blemishes, fat rolls and sags, scabs and scars. Truth was fearful, angry and dangerous, and that was why so many people did their utmost to avoid it.

Without direction, the respiratory technician goes to the head of the bed. She takes the tubing, attaches it to the oxygen, and turns it on as high as it will go. She provides a seal with her hand cupped over the plastic mask, over the nose and mouth of the toddler, and methodically provides oxygenated air. Doyle’s tiny chest rises and falls while I listen with my stethoscope. I am reaching for another breathing tube. “Fib!” Dr. Pedras feels for a pulse while another places gelled pads on her chest.

Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, ... The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "Heart's dearest, why do you cry?" Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine fib proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob, "Because you are going away." "Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, "Jo, I haf nothing but much love to gif you. I came to see if you could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he added, all in one breath. "Oh, yes!" said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried it.

Go sat quietly, the orange of the streetlight creating a rock-star halo around her profile. “This is going to be a real test for you, Nick,” she murmured, not looking at me. “You’ve always had trouble with the truth—you always do the little fib if you think it will avoid a real argument. You’ve always gone the easy way. Tell Mom you went to baseball practice when you really quit the team; tell Mom you went to church when you were at a movie. It’s some weird compulsion.” “This is very different from baseball, Go.” “It’s a lot different. But you’re still fibbing like a little boy. You’re still desperate to have everyone think you’re perfect. You never want to be the bad guy. So you tell Amy’s parents she didn’t want kids. You don’t tell me you’re cheating on your wife. You swear the credit cards in your name aren’t yours, you swear you were hanging out at a beach when you hate the beach, you swear your marriage was happy. I just don’t know what to believe right now.” “You’re kidding, right?” “Since Amy has disappeared, all you’ve done is lie. It makes me worry. About what’s going on.” Complete silence for a moment.

I don't worry about how other people perceive me. I figure out what I want, and I work very hard to make it happen. Simple recipe. I didn't achieve any goals by having it given to me on a silver platter, through fibbing or exaggeration, nor through favours. When you work hard, the universe almost always brings people to you - synergy. The universe will reflect the energy you give it. Stop worrying about what other people think of you, or worrying about the limit(s) they have, in their heads, about your potential. The universe will bring you into your purpose organically. Nothing out of force tastes as good as what you have worked your ass off to achieve, and for which the universe synergistically opens up for you, and brings into your world. As well it is not about proving other people wrong; first and foremost prove your own negative inner voice wrong. The inner voice that internalized the negative energies of others. Sometimes we are our own biggest hurdle. And as a subsequent outcome of rewiring your inner voice, you'll leave others speechless at contesting their limitations of you...seeing the supernova you are.

I’ve sprained it.” “Oh no! Let me see.” The receptionist jumped up from behind her desk. As she bent over Bess’s ankle, she didn’t notice Bess wink at Nancy. “If I could just get some ice,” Bess said, with a weak smile that looked totally convincing. The receptionist nodded. “Of course. We’ve got ice in our break area at the back of the office,” she said. “Here, let me help you.” Great! thought Nancy. Now, if I can just sneak into Bruce’s office . . . “I’ll use my cell phone to call the doctor,” she fibbed. She pulled her cell phone from her backpack. As the receptionist helped Bess down the hall, Nancy slipped quietly into the office. Quick, she thought. Shoving the phone back in her pack, she closed the door behind her and inspected the room. There’s not much time. She saw a candy-filled bowl on the desk. Each candy had a bright red wrapper marked with a distinctive and familiar white zigzag. That clinches it, Nancy thought. Bruce had to be the person she and Bess had chased the night before. Still, she knew she had to find more concrete proof linking him to the vandalism. She set her pack on the floor next to the desk and

I opened the curtain and entered the confessional, a dark wooden booth built into the side wall of the church. As I knelt on the small worn bench, I could hear a boy's halting confession through the wall, his prescribed penance inaudible as the panel slid open on my side and the priest directed his attention to me. "Yes, my child," he inquired softly. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my First Confession." "Yes, my child, and what sins have you committed?" .... "I talked in church twenty times, I disobeyed my mother five times, I wished harm to others several times, I told a fib three times, I talked back to my teacher twice." I held my breath. "And to whom did you wish harm?" My scheme had failed. He had picked out the one group of sins that most troubled me. Speaking as softly as I could, I made my admission. "I wished harm to Allie Reynolds." "The Yankee pitcher?" he asked, surprise and concern in his voice. "And how did you wish to harm him?" "I wanted him to break his arm." "And how often did you make this wish?" "Every night," I admitted, "before going to bed, in my prayers." "And were there others?" "Oh, yes," I admitted. "I wished that Robin Roberts of the Phillies would fall down the steps of his stoop, and that Richie Ashburn would break his hand." "Is there anything else?" "Yes, I wished that Enos Slaughter of the Cards would break his ankle, that Phil Rizzuto of the Yanks would fracture a rib, and that Alvin Dark of the Giants would hurt his knee." But, I hastened to add, "I wished that all these injuries would go away once the baseball season ended." ... "Are there any other sins, my child?" "No, Father." "For your penance, say two Hail Mary's, three Our Fathers, and," he added with a chuckle, "say a special prayer for the Dodgers. ...

We’re walking to our cars when Gabe says, “Hey, Lara Jean, did you know that if you say your name really fast, it sounds like Large? Try it! LaraJean.” Dutifully I repeat, “LaraJean. Larjean. Largy. Actually I think it sounds more like Largy, not Large.” Gabe nods to himself and announces, “I’m going to start calling you Large. You’re so little it’s funny. Right? Like those big guys who go by the name Tiny?” I shrug. “Sure.” Gabe turns to Darrell. “She’s so little she could be our mascot.” “Hey, I’m not that small,” I protest. “How tall are you?” Darrell asks me. “Five two,” I fib. It’s more like five one and a quarter. Tossing his spoon in the trash, Gabe says, “You’re so little you could fit in my pocket!” All the guys laugh. Peter’s smiling in a bemused way. Then Gabe suddenly grabs me and throws me over his shoulder like I’m a kid and he’s my dad. “Gabe! Put me down!” I shriek, kicking my legs and pounding on his chest. He starts spinning around in a circle, and all the guys are cracking up. “I’m going to adopt you, Large! You’re going to be my pet. I’ll put you in my old hamster cage!” I’m giggling so hard I can’t catch my breath and I’m starting to feel dizzy. “Put me down!” “Put her down, man,” Peter says, but he’s laughing too. Gabe runs toward somebody’s pickup truck and sets me down in the back. “Get me out of here!” I yell. Gabe’s already running away. All the guys start getting into their cars. “Bye, Large!” they call out. Peter jogs over to me and extends his hand so I can hop down. “Your friends are crazy,” I say, jumping onto the pavement. “They like you,” he says. “Really?” “Sure. They used to hate when I would bring Gen places. They don’t mind if you hang out with us.” Peter slings his arm around me. “Come on, Large. I’ll take you home.” As we walk to his car, I let my hair fall in my face so he doesn’t see me smiling. It sure is nice being part of a group, feeling like I belong.

He unlocked the safe and pulled out three guns and several magazines, as well as his FIB badge, an extra harness, and an extra pair of knives. Some of these disappeared to various concealed locations under his clothes and the rest went in his duffel bag. I blinked at the haul. “Are you planning to go to war? Sure you don’t want to pack an assault rifle as well?” He looked up from the bag. “You have met yourself, right?” He zipped the bag closed. “So should I get a gun too?” “I’d fear the day.” He grabbed a blazer and pulled it over his shoulder rig. “You do have a good blade,” he said, nodding toward the dagger concealed in my boot. “It was a gift.” “I never doubted as much. If you’re going to carry a dagger, you need to learn to use it.” I frowned at him. “I know how to use it. I stick the pointy end in things I don’t like.

Ah, Jerry. All my ideas are the same old scam: the bigger the fib, the bigger they bite. The first shamans around the fire were in on it – they knew growing maize along the Euphrates was for mugs. Tell people that reality is exactly what it appears to be, they’ll nail you to a lump of wood. But tell ’em they can go spirit-walking while they commute, tell ’em their best friend is a lump of crystal, tell ’em the government has been negotiating with little green men for the last fifty years, then every Joe Six-Pack from Brooklyn to Peoria sits up and listens. Disbelieving the reality under your feet gives you a licence to print your own. All it takes is an original twist – an artificial intelligence, created by the military to invade and take over the enemy’s computer and weapons systems, has broken loose and is controlling the whole planet with a chilling agenda of its own – and Joe Six-Pack hands you his credits cards, and says “Tell me more . . .

The Monday before we left on our trip, I wrote a note to Bonnie Clarke, Patrick’s teacher, telling her Patrick would be missing school on Friday, November 8. I said only that we would be visiting friends in Washington. While Patrick waited in the car-pool line, Mrs. Clarke had asked him whom he was going to see, expecting him to name cousins or other relatives. He had replied, “My mom and I are going to visit Diana.” When I arrived, Mrs. Clarke said, “This is so cute. You won’t believe what Patrick just told me. He said you two were going to see Diana. It couldn’t possibly be true!” Patrick and I both thought Mrs. Clarke was an exceptional teacher, but I was a little miffed that she would think he was fibbing. While I normally never talked about Diana, I couldn’t let it pass. I explained, “Patrick never lies. We are, in fact, going to visit Diana. She was his nanny while we lived in London.” Mrs. Clarke apologized quickly and exclaimed, “Oh! So you’re that American family. I had no idea.

What’s past cannot be mended, lass. So there can be no reason to talk more about my faults, either.” Lina raised her eyebrows, wondering if he believed that. How could one learn from past mistakes if one did not reconsider actions that had led to them? “Don’t say it,” he said with a smile. “You’ve nae need to. I resist reflecting on the past, because my actions rarely look as brilliant afterward as they did at the time. They never do when the reflection hits me from my father’s perspective.” She chuckled. “I think you fib about the dimming of your brilliance in your own mind, sir. But the rest is true, as I know for myself. Sithee, if Mam heard what you said to me earlier, I’ll soon hear her views about young ladies who linger with gentlemen on stairways after they’ve been ordered off to bed.” His lips twitched. When he bit hard on the lower one, the echo of her own words returned, and the unintended image they had created enflamed her cheeks. “You know that I meant after I had been ordered to bed,” she muttered. He grinned. “Do I?” She shook her head at him and fell silent, hoping he would stop teasing long enough for her to recover her equanimity.

Elizabeth glanced up as Ian handed her a glass of champagne. “Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him and gesturing to Duncan, the duke, and Jake, who were now convulsed with loud hilarity. “They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves,” she remarked. Ian absently glanced the group of laughing men, then back at her. “You’re breathtaking when you smile.” Elizabeth heard the huskiness in his voice and saw the almost slumberous look in his eyes, and she was wondering about its cause when he said softly, “Shall we retire?” That suggestion caused Elizabeth to assume his expression must be due to weariness. She, herself, was more than ready to seek the peace of her own chamber, but since she’d never been to a wedding reception before, she assumed that the protocol must be the same as at any other gala affair-which meant the host and hostess could not withdraw until the last of the guests had either left or retired. Tonight, every one of the guest chambers would be in use, and tomorrow a large wedding breakfast was planned, followed by a hunt. “I’m not sleepy-just a little fatigued from so much smiling,” she told him, pausing to bestow another smile on a guest who caught her eye and waved. Turning her face up to Ian, she offered graciously, “It’s been a long day. If you wish to retire, I’m sure everyone will understand.” “I’m sure they will,” he said dryly, and Elizabeth noted with puzzlement that his eyes were suddenly gleaming. “I’ll stay down here and stand in for you,” she volunteered. The gleam in his eyes brightened yet more. “You don’t think that my retiring alone will look a little odd?” Elizabeth knew it might seem impolite, if not precisely odd, but then inspiration struck, and she said reassuringly, “Leave everything to me. I’ll make your excuses if anyone asks.” His lips twitched. “Just out of curiosity-what excuse will you make for me?” “I’ll say you’re not feeling well. It can’t be anything too dire though, or we’ll be caught out in the fib when you appear looking fit for breakfast and the hunt in the morning.” She hesitated, thinking, and then said decisively, “I’ll say you have the headache.” His eyes widened with laughter. “It’s kind of you to volunteer to dissemble for me, my lady, but that particular untruth would have me on the dueling field for the next month, trying to defend against the aspersions it would cause to be cast upon my…ah…manly character.” “Why? Don’t gentlemen get headaches?” “Not,” he said with a roguish grin, “on their wedding night.” “I can’t see why.” “Can you not?” “No. And,” she added with an irate whisper, “I don’t see why everyone is staying down here this late. I’ve never been to a wedding reception, but it does seem as if they ought to be beginning to seek their beds.” “Elizabeth,” he said, trying not to laugh. “At a wedding reception, the guests cannot leave until the bride and groom retire. If you look over there, you’ll notice my great-aunts are already nodding in their chairs.” “Oh!” she exclaimed, instantly contrite. “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” “Because,” he said, taking her elbow and beginning to guide her from the ballroom, “I wanted you to enjoy every minute of our ball, even if we had to prop the guests up on the shrubbery.

Ten thousand men had come to attend solemn service, heads of the blocks, Kapos,functionaries of death. "Bless the Eternal. " The voice of the officiant had just made itself heard. I thought at first it was the wind. "Blessed be the Name of the Eternal!" Why, but why should I bless Him? in every fib er I rebelled. Because He had had thousands of children burned in His pits? Because He kept six crematories working night and day, on Sundays and feast days? Because in His great might He had created Auschwitz, Birkenau, Buna, and so many factories of death? How could I say to Him: "Blessed art thou, Eternal, Master of the Universe, Who chose us from among the races to be tortured day and night, to see our fathers, our mothers, our brothers, end in the crematory? Praised be Thy Holy Name, Thou Who hast chosen us to be butchered on Thine altar?" I heard the voice of the officiant rising up, powerful yet at the same time broken, amid the tears, sobs, the sighs of the whole congregation: "All the earth and the Universe are God's!" He kept stopping every moment, as though he did not have the strenght to find the meaning beneath the words. The melody choked in his throat. And I, mystic that I had been, I thought: "Yes, man is very strong, greater than God. When You were deceived by Adam and Eve, You drove them out of the Paradise. When Noah's generation displeased You, You brought down the Flood. When Sodom no longer found favour in Your eyes, You made the sky rain down fire and sulphur. But these men here, whom You have betrayed, whom You have allowed to be tortured, butchered, gassed, burned, what do they do? They pray before You! They praise Your name!" "All creation bears witness to the Greatness of God

Reflective nostalgics miss the past and dream about the past. Some of them study the past and even mourn the past, especially their own personal past. But they do not really want the past back. Perhaps this is because, deep down, they know that the old homestead is in ruins, or because it has been gentrified beyond recognition--or because they quietly recognize that they wouldn't much like it now anyway. Once upon a time life might have been sweeter or simpler, but it was also more dangerous, or more boring, or perhaps more unjust. Radically different from the reflective nostalgics are what Boym calls the restorative nostalgics, not all of whom recognize themselves as nostalgics at all. Restorative nostalgics don't just look at old photographs and piece together family stories. They are mythmakers and architects, builders of monuments and founders of nationalist political projects. They do not merely want to contemplate or learn from the past. They want, as Boym puts it, to "rebuild the lost home and patch up the memory gaps." Many of them don't recognize their own fictions about the past for what they are: "They believe their project is about truth." They are not interested in a nuanced past, in a world in which great leaders were flawed men, in which famous military victories had lethal side effects. They don't acknowledge that the past might have had its drawbacks. They want the cartoon version of history, and more importantly, they want to live in it, right now. They don't want to act out roles from the past because it amuses them: they want to behave as think their ancestors did, without irony. It is not by accident that restorative nostalgia often goes hand in hand with conspiracy theories and the medium-sized lies. These needn't be as harsh or crazy as the Smolensk conspiracy theory or the Soros conspiracy theory; they can gently invoke scapegoats rather than a full-fledged alternative reality. At a minimum, they can offer an explanation: The nation is no longer great because someone has attacked us, undermined us, sapped our strength. Someone—the immigrants, the foreigners, the elites, or indeed the EU—has perverted the course of history and reduced the nation to a shadow of its former self. The essential identity that we once had has been taken away and replaced with something cheap and artificial. Eventually, those who seek power on the back of restorative nostalgia will begin to cultivate these conspiracy theories, or alternative histories, or alternative fibs, whether or not they have any basis in fact.