“Above all, I would teach him to tell the truth. Truth-telling, I have found, is the key to responsible citizenship. The thousands of criminals I have seen in 40 years of law enforcement have had one thing in common: Every single one was a liar.”

J. Edgar Hoover was a well-documented concealer, stacking the deck of intrigue and expertly applying the knack of double-dealing, which included blackmail and a private pornography collection. He was a falsifier. If Hoover wasn’t an outright liar, he was certainly dishonest and duplicitous, common blemishes among autocrats. Leading to the question: on some level, are we all liars?

Most psychology experts conclude the answer is YES. Lying is a learned behavior, not an innate trait, but still as common as spit. Example: about every third time I say, “Nice to see you,” I confess to an untruth, perhaps not an outright perfidious lie but a remark wide of truth. Often I say, “I’ll call you in a day or two,” knowing I won’t call for weeks, if at all. Sometimes I distort truth just to be polite. To one degree or another, most of us use white lies or fail to acknowledge truth when the moment might be awkward or hurtful. No lie. Unless we choose a diplomatic response, there is no tactful answer to the question, “Do these pants make my backside look fat?” Especially if the obvious and truthful answer is: “Nothing short of two yards of fabric can conceal such a fat ass.”

The cynic philosopher Diogenes was a radical truth-teller, taking virtue to an extreme as he tried to find an honest man. Apparently, he found only liars in every man he examined in the glow of his lamp. No doubt he would get the same results if he surveyed the politicos in Washington DC. Or any other place.

Speaking of bigtime liars, Trump once claimed that he was the most honest man in America. Sure, on its surface, that’s a lie that we can all spot. Even his friends and family know he is a liar. In his case, it would be a stretch to find a person less honest than Trump. As we know, he is a barefaced liar. He makes lying a spectacle. For most of us, however, lying is a social kindness or an escape from unpleasantness. “Why, yes, you do look as if you have lost some weight.” “Of course, we’ll get together real soon.” “Believe it or not, my first memory came within minutes of my birth.” “I didn’t really want the promotion, anyway.” “I can tell when anyone is lying to me.” “It was so n ice to meet you.”

Politeness urges us to avoid awkwardness or insult. What would happen if we responded with unexpurgated truth? My God, your children are ugly.” “As a matter of fact, your haircut is a disaster.” “Sadly, your laziness precludes you from being promoted.” “Sorry, I won’t lend money to you because you are a swindler.” “Please don’t talk to me anymore because I find your company tedious.” If these are brutal truths, then any diplomatic responses meant to deceive would be lies. We lie to save face, to avoid unpleasantness, to boost the value of our accomplishments, to prevent conflict, and to excuse ourselves from work or school, not to mention dozens of other reasons which fall under the category of impromptu lying.

If what said is intended to do no harm, even if it is untrue, let’s acknowledge a lie with a wink and a nod.