Rules and the Truth

By R.

Jelly came to see simultaneously that all of life with others is games and that the rules of all the games are mostly lies. Someone told her once that a rule cannot be followed privately. It had the ring of truth, seemed a new dispensation, appeared a better rule (about rules). Yet it was certainly a lie, or fairly certainly. Or probably. Plausibly. But she also felt a sort of conviction that the rules she ascertained in her own thinking were really bounds marked by her own language. The instants in which she felt real joy were mostly moments in which she broke those, so to speak. And these could never be properly shared. If absolute truth lived in the perfect correspondence of words to the world, then freedom must dwell in lies, in transcendent fictions. So she came to make the contours of her experience conform not to the truth but to its dissolution. She imagined piling untruth upon untruth sky high, so, like the Tower of Babel, she might climb up and up and up upon them so as to mount, finally, an assault on heaven and on god. Ghost Songs in the Rafters, Book II