(In a time when accusations of lying are common, we turn to a column by Dr. Frank Crane published about 1917, the year of the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia, and the publication of the diaries of Russian writer Leo Tolstoy. Tolstoy had died in 1910. Although nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature five consecutive years and nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize three times, he never won. Dr. Crane uses Tolstoy’s diary to talk about—-)

LYING TO YOURSELF

The private diary of Leo Tolstoy was recently published in Paris by his daughter, the Countess Alexandria Ivovna. One of his views therein expressed is:

“Lying to others is much less serious than lying to yourself.”

To know this is the beginning of wisdom.

Self-deception is the starting-point of moral decay.

Lying to others may be but a harmless amusement, but lying to yourself is sure to mean inward deformity, the germ-laden fleck that spreads disease throughout your whole character.

Yet it is the commonest, easiest, most subtle of sins.

If you talk with the inmates of the penitentiary, with the crime-wrecked and drug-soaked of the slums, you will find that every one of them is living like a spider in a web of delusions he has woven out of his own substance.

The profligate has told himself that “the world owes him a living” until he believes it.

The criminal lays his downfall at the door of society.

The prostitute can glibly prove that she is not to blame, she is the victim of injustice.

Every down-and-outer labors to justify himself and trace his misfortune to others.

As a matter of fact, no person since the world began was ever compelled to do wrong.

No rotten stone or cracked beam was ever laid in the edifice of any man’s character that he did not put there with his own hands.

When I say that another made me do an evil thing I lie to myself.

Others may have threatened, cajoled, tempted, pushed, or bribed me, but the fatal final step was never taken except by the consent of my own will.

You may offer me a habit-forming thing, you may argue with me that it will do me good, you may urge me by ridicule, and lead me on by example; and my appetite may second your efforts. I may crave the glass, my nerves may clamor for it, and my imagination may lure me to it; BUT I DO NOT HAVE TO DRINK.

Whatever excuses I may give, there is one thing I do not have to do, and I do only because I will do it, and that is to swallow the stuff.

And that is true of every injurious deed. If I do an act of fraud, or uncleanness, or cruelty, there is just one person guilty—it is myself.

The world is full of blubbering whiners, whimperers, and weaklings. Overfull.

That we do wrong is not so disgusting. We are all human, and perhaps all a little perverted. But having erred, let us be down-right and manly and honest about it. Let us acknowledge our guilt, admit that our lusts and greeds and selfishness, which other people or circumstances may have deftly played upon, are no valid excuse, and that the responsibility for our evil rests absolutely upon ourselves. We may be sinners; but at least we can play the man.

Don’t lie to yourself. Don’t wallow in self-pity. Don’t hunt extenuating circumstances. Don’t justify yourself by comparing your own with others’ wrongdoings.

The wickedness of others may bring pain or loss to you through no fault of yours. Each of us must  bear a portion of the vicarious burden of the world’s evil. But mark this; you never did wrong for any other reason than that you chose to do it.

Not to have committed the wrong deed may have meant suffering to y9ou or to those you love, may have meant humiliation, or calamity, or even death. BUT YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO DO IT. You could have died.

You may have to suffer, to be humiliated, to endure tragedy, to die; nor you,  nor any human being, ever had to do wrong.

So don’t lie to yourself.

Honesty toward yourself is the key that will open to you the New Life.