For softer reading only.. OT..
A Higher Truth by Taki
A few years ago I was invited to take part in a debate about journalism at the Oxford Union, known among people who'd rather talk than fight as the oldest and most prestigious debate forum in the world. The hall where the debates are held is a replica of the House of Commons. The atmosphere during the debates can best be described as that of the Greek Parliament. Anyone can interrupt, jeer, hiss, cheer, applaud or even insult the speaker. Or pose a question at any given moment. The worst booing is reserved for those who read their speeches; in fact I don't know of anyone who was allowed to finish what he or she had to say reading from a prepared text.
Having debated before at both Oxford and Cambridge, I began my speech by announcing that the public has no right to know anything whatsoever, and that the more people were informed the worse they get. The din that followed threatened to stampede the cows that were peacefully grazing on the outskirts of the medieval town. That is when I reminded the audience that, as a
Richard Sala
direct descendant of Demosthenes, I would brook no interruptions. "The truth cannot afford obstructions," I hollered over the hubbub. And that is when a very pretty young girl sitting in the front benches got up and very politely asked, in a weak but earnest voice, "Do you tell the truth?"
Well, I did my best, but even as I spoke, and heard the winged words flying away, I knew I was doing a Pontius Pilate, or a Hillary Clinton, for that matter. Because let's face it, the only statements that appear in the press that are absolutely true are those that tell the time stores open, or the exchange rate of the dollar. Everything else is the truth of impression, rather than fact.
The reason I'm writing about truth this week is Edmund Morris' book about Ronald Reagan, and the autobiography of Eddie Fisher about the various women he's bedded in the past. Not that I'm comparing the two. Morris is a somewhat respected quasi-academic and an able biographer of Teddy Roosevelt. Fisher is about as low as you can get, and I'm being charitable. (I had the bad luck to be with Peter Lawford in a nightclub underneath the 59th St. Bridge in January of 1965, and Lawford asked him to my table. I was then married to my first wife, Cristina de Caraman, known as the prettiest girl in Paris, and Fisher tried to pick her up by telling her she looked like Natalie Wood. "Unfortunately, you don't look like Robert Wagner," said Cristina, and sent him off.)
No, what Morris and Fisher have in common is that in both cases the words may be true, but the message is not. Morris uses an English expression–"upstairs"–to indicate that Reagan did not like former president George Bush. The latter has denied it, and I believe him. This is Morris using emotional truth, and like all good Englishmen (he's South African born, but he's learned his English lesson well) he is a past master at it. I also watched Morris on 60 Minutes, and when he began to cry over Reagan's illness I thought it was the best acting I'd seen since Bill Clinton's performance at the prayer breakfast last year.
Fisher is a sleazebag sans pareil, and his opus detailing the affairs he's had has to be on a par of grotesque taste with that of Geraldo Rivera's on the same subject. The one definition of a gentleman that I particularly like is that of "a man who never makes a lady feel anything but one." In Fisher's case, I don't even believe the purported factual truth. Michelle Phillips has denied having had an affair–she was eight months pregnant at the time the sleazeball claims he had her–and I believe her because she already has gone on record saying she was no angel and has listed her "sins." Even if Fisher is telling it like it was, there is no proof that the truth is being served. Of course I have not read nor plan to read his scummy book, but if he had any talent, which he doesn't, he would have treated his female subjects in the manner Alastair Reid, a travel writer of note, treated Spain: "If one wants to write about Spain, the facts will get you nowhere." (Reid fabricated conversations and created composite characters in a number of travel pieces about that most difficult to understand of countries.)
Is there a worse way to define a woman than to describe what she did in bed? Men who write about their conquests are either very, very lousy at it, or feel extremely inferior. Fisher and Rivera qualify for either diagnosis, most likely both.
But back to the truth. In everyday life, truth is not just a matter of facts one can pin down. I remember an American friend of mine being shocked to see two Greek families shrieking abuse at each other from the opposite sides of a Greek courtroom, while the judge stood by, positively encouraging the shouting. When my friend whispered something to me about the rules of evidence, an old and wizened Greek hack next to us whispered back, "In this part of the world, factual truth is not as important as emotional truth."
I happen to agree, at least sometimes. Take for example the case of truth in a marriage. Gianni Agnelli, the most charismatic, civilized and Don Juanish of CEOs–he's head of Fiat–said it perfectly. Asked about his extracurricular activities on ABC, he refused to comment, but said, "One can be a very good husband who fools around, just as one can be a very bad husband who doesn't." Hear, hear! Half the trouble with divorce cases is that they hinge on factual truth. But a man can be a good husband, come home on time, even be considerate in the sack, but it doesn't necessarily mean that he loves his wife and will not leave her for a newer model later on. On the other hand, the man may be a real swine, get drunk, bring women home when she's away, yet never bore the old lady and never make her feel unwanted. See what I mean by emotional truth? (But try explaining it to an American judge.)
By all this I don't mean that our whole tradition of trying to establish objective facts should be sneezed at; only that facts have a way of obscuring the higher truth at times. On to higher truth, says I–but I don't expect the Fishers, Riveras and Clintons to be listening.
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