Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense

Samuel Butler, the sharp and often mischievous voice of the Victorian age, once declared: “Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to know how to lie well.” At first, these words may sound like a jest, a cynical paradox meant only to amuse. Yet within them lies a deep meditation on the nature of truth and falsehood, and on the strange cunning that men employ in the weaving of lies. For to speak truth requires no craft—it is the plain utterance of what is. But to construct a lie that endures, that persuades, that cloaks itself in the garments of truth, demands intelligence, calculation, and artifice.

The origin of this thought rests in Butler’s satirical vision of human society. He saw how men and women, fearful of honesty, often turned to deceit. He recognized that while a child may stumble upon the truth naturally, a lie demands invention: the careful choice of words, the weaving of consistency, the ability to anticipate suspicion. Thus he mocked mankind by saying that fools may be truthful, but it takes a clever man to deceive convincingly. His wit reveals both the danger and the absurdity of lies, showing us how much effort is wasted in maintaining what cannot endure.

History offers us vivid examples of this contrast. Consider Richard Nixon and the Watergate scandal. The truth of his involvement was plain and would, in time, have come forth. But he and his aides spun a web of lies, attempting to hide, deflect, and obscure. For a time, the deception required great skill—false statements, carefully managed appearances, and elaborate denials. Yet the truth, needing no effort, eventually surfaced. Nixon’s downfall proved Butler’s point: it requires sense to construct a convincing lie, but truth, though simple, prevails without artifice.

Butler’s words also remind us that truth is effortless. It flows like water from the spring, needing no rehearsal. Lies, however, are burdensome. They must be remembered, maintained, adjusted whenever questioned. One lie calls forth another, until the liar is entangled in his own creation. This is why Butler speaks with irony—why labor so hard for what will collapse, when truth requires none of this toil? His jest is, in truth, a warning: though it may take intelligence to lie well, such intelligence is squandered on a fragile foundation.

We may also recall the tale of the Trojan Horse. The Greeks, unable to conquer Troy by strength, resorted to cunning. Their lie, embodied in the hollow horse, was a masterpiece of deception. It required planning, foresight, and a deep understanding of human weakness. The Trojans, deceived, brought their doom within their walls. Here again is Butler’s wisdom: truth is simple, but a well-crafted lie is an act of ingenuity. Yet the lesson is not to glorify the lie, but to tremble at its power—for such brilliance, when turned against truth, can destroy cities.

The lesson for us is this: while it may take skill to lie convincingly, it takes wisdom to resist the temptation to lie at all. Lies may seem clever, but they enslave the liar to endless maintenance. Truth, though sometimes painful, is liberating; it needs no memory, no rehearsed consistency, no fear of exposure. The fool may stumble upon it, but the wise man embraces it as the only path that endures. Butler’s irony teaches us to value simplicity over cunning, honesty over artifice, endurance over temporary triumph.

Practically, this means living with integrity. Do not waste your intelligence in constructing masks; use it instead to deepen understanding and compassion. When tempted to lie, remember that every lie binds you to its upkeep. Choose instead the freedom of truth. Speak it plainly, walk in it boldly, and trust that though it may wound in the moment, it will heal in the end. For lies, however skillful, are castles of sand, while truth is bedrock.

Thus, Butler’s jest, though sharp, points us to eternal wisdom: any fool can tell the truth—and so we should, for in that foolishness lies wisdom. To lie well may demand sense, but it is a sense corrupted, turned against itself. Better to walk as a fool of truth than as a genius of lies. For the truth, unadorned, is the only companion that does not betray.