“Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isn’t it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill—he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness.” — Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

So speaks Zosima, the clear-eyed realist, lover of life, Russian Orthodox Elder, and moral center of Dostoevsky’s last novel, to Fyodor Pavlovitch, the drunken, clownish, deceitful patriarch of the Karamazov family.  Of course, Zosima’s advice falls on deaf, or at the very least, unreceptive ears, as such advice usually does. (I think, generally, advice like this is most heeded only where it’s least needed.)

I do believe that there are very few times when it’s permissible to lie to others without doing injury to one’s soul: In response to the “does this dress make my butt look fat?” sorts of questions, or perhaps a small lie that allows a person almost at the end of his life to pass along more peacefully than he otherwise might.  I could be wrong about that, but it’s what I think.