Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire

 

 Lies, such horrid actions, often lead to likewise horrid consequences. Even little ones, they add up, pile up, until you drown in all the the misconstructions of events, partial truths, and white lies. Lies eat up at your very core, as your conscience becomes worse than a nagging mother, and guilt consumes your thoughts to the point that not a moment of your life is spent at rest. This is what happens, it seems, to almost all parties in the Scarlet Letter. Hester, first of all, is weighed down by the secret of her old husband's presence, which leads to her ex-lover's doom. Her refusal to speak the name of her lover eventually is what seals the loss of his very soul.  By the same token, Dimmesdale is devoured by the sin that he never shared, and his complicity in the crime of adultery which is the root of his sickness. Even Chillingsworth loses himself amidst the new fiendish character he has adopted, as he lets himself be consumed by his obsession, his manipulations, and his pleasure in wringing the utmost suffering out of the poor minister.  Lies can brig no good to the lives of the ill-fated characters in Nathaniel Hawthorne's masterpiece of physiology, or to you, or to anyone. Lies are not only reflected outward, but also inward, so that the cost of a good appearance is internal rotting. Until the truth is expelled, paranoia and ill-will will hold happiness in their grip, so do as your mommy always told you, and don't let your pants catch on fire, or else risk your soul also bask in eternal hellish flame.