I believed in everything that everybody told me
When you were very small, perhaps someone read to you the insipid story — the word insipid here means not worth reading to someone — of the Boy Who Cried Wolf. A very dull boy, you may remember, cried Wolf! when there was no wolf, and the gullible villagers ran to rescue him only to find the whole thing was a joke. Then he cried Wolf! when it wasn't a joke, and the villagers didn't come running, and the boy was eaten and the story, thank goodness, was over. The story's moral, of course, ought to be Never live somewhere where wolves are running around loose, but whoever read you the story probably told you that the moral was not to lie. This is an absurd moral, for you and I both know that sometimes not only is it good to lie, it is necessary to lie.
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