Truth is a well-known pathological liar. It invariably turns out to be Fiction wearing a fancy frock. Self-proclaimed Fiction, on the other hand, is entirely honest. You can tell this, because it comes right out and says, "I'm a Liar," right there on the dust jacket.
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.
The reality often times does not match the rhetoric. The rhetoric is very easy if you keep the reality secret.
He was the Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee.
And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in a masquerade.
Maybe if you spend your life pretending you're on a movie set, you don't ever have to admit that the walls are made out of paper and the food is plastic and the words in your mouth aren't really yours.
Malice often takes the garb of truth.
If you would understand your own age, read the works of fiction produced in it. People in disguise speak freely.
In short, not only are things not what they seem, they are not even what they are called!
It is astounding to find that the belly of every black and evil thing is as white as snow. And it is saddening to discover how the concealed parts of angels are leporous.