Did I write about Good and Evil – yesterday’s topic – because it was easy or because it was urgent? To amaze or amuse? Did Cassandra consider the style of her diatribes? Did she hear in her castigations castanets?

We write what’s on our minds. But does the matter we’re muttering reflect our ambition or our conviction? Is the preacher telling his congregation what they want or need to hear? Both, presumably. But when am I speaking heartfully, when artfully; when play-acting, when in deadly earnest? Hamlet marvels of a visiting player, “What’s Hecuba to him that he should weep for her?”

I try to tell the truth – because I consider truth-telling attractive. I want to be perceived as a truth-teller and respected for my honesty. I also want to delight. Hurt or flirt? “Human kind cannot bear very much reality,” cautioned T.S. Eliot.

Commercial communication opts for cash over candor, box office over Bach’s office. That I do not write for money arms me against such flimflamming, but only somewhat. I crave the compensation of admiration and audience growth. I play the part of Cassandra – but are my lines fishing lines? “The last temptation is the greatest treason” – T.S. Eliot again – “To do the right thing for the wrong reason.”

We live in a lying age, whose cynicism I oppose. I oppose it because it gnaws my house down: if I cannot believe a word someone says, why bother listening? Do I oppose it also because I’m not one of its beneficiaries? When Socrates says, “I was really too honest a man to be a politician and live,” isn’t he boasting?

Motives are never pure, Goodness knows. The General Confession of my boyhood applied to everyone in the congregation – “We have erred and strayed like lost sheep; we have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts; we have offended against God’s holy laws” – even if only the good souls pronounced Amen. Goodness isn’t pure, it aspires in that direction, acknowledging the difficulty of the approach. “Dare to be true,” exhorted George Herbert, as good as any human ever, knowing truth entails risk.

Partly, my devotion to truth is sensual, emotional. I crave intimacy – and who can love a fraud? I hate being lied to, for it makes me feel foolish and alone. When folks “dare to be true” with me, I reciprocate their trust, and we can slow-dance.

I’m a flirt, I admit it, but isn’t any maker, in their way? Many the wannabe writers these days who bore me with their heart-to-hearts, as cocky as Socrates about their candor. The Internet encourages their effusions. Some might include me in this class. It’s up to you to decide if my candor’s pomposity. (Cockiness is why I recoil from Socrates, not from what he says but how he says it. Was any human ever so self-pleased!) I try to be the honest person I portray, though my humility, while not an act, is inconsistent.

Art of any kind is an attempt at intimacy, to break down the barriers between us: love my product, love me. You are here, I’m guessing, because we share a vibe, feel compatible. I try to talk about things we both might be thinking about, as candidly and convivially as I can. I dare to be true – without being disagreeable. Pope’s dictum holds (Alexander’s, not Leo’s, though I’m liking Leo a lot):

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedTrue art is nature to advantage dress’d,What oft was thought but ne’er so well express’d.