I read this section of an Anne Carson poem (from her book The Beauty Of The Husband) a few days ago. It spoke to me about me.
What really connects words and things?
Not much, decided my husband
and proceeded to use language
in the way that Homer says the gods do.
All human words are known to the gods but have for them
entirely other meanings
alongside our meanings.
They flip the switch at will.
My husband lied about everything.
Money, meetings, mistresses,
the birthplace of his parents,
the store where he bought shirts, the spelling of his own name.
He lied when it was not necessary to lie.
He lied when it wasn't even convenient.
He lied when he knew they knew he was lying.
He lied when it broke their hearts.
My brazen, compulsive lying really is not much different.