Everyone realizes that one can believe little of what people say

Rebecca West, the fierce critic and luminous essayist, once declared: “Everyone realizes that one can believe little of what people say about each other. But it is not so widely realized that even less can one trust what people say about themselves.” In this piercing truth she exposed the frailty of human speech, the endless disguises and self-deceptions that govern the words of men and women. We have long known that gossip about others is treacherous, twisted by envy or pride—but West reminds us that the greater danger lies within, in the stories we tell about ourselves, polished by vanity, softened by shame, or warped by self-delusion.

The origin of this thought lies in West’s lifelong study of politics, literature, and the human heart. She had seen how nations, like individuals, cloak their histories in flattering lies, rewriting failures into victories, disguising cruelty as necessity. So too with individuals: a man may boast of his virtues, but he forgets his vices; a woman may declare her innocence, but overlook the secret compromises of her heart. Self-testimony, West warns, is often the least trustworthy of all, for it is sharpened or softened by the inner need to preserve dignity.

The ancients themselves echoed this wisdom. The oracle at Delphi commanded: Know thyself—for to know oneself was the most difficult of all tasks. Socrates claimed wisdom only in knowing his own ignorance, a rare humility in a world where most men built flattering illusions about themselves. West’s words stand in this tradition, reminding us that self-knowledge is rare, and that what people say about themselves is often an armor against truth, not its revelation.

Consider the life of Richard Nixon. He presented himself to the world as a man of order, duty, and patriotism, yet in secret his actions betrayed insecurity, suspicion, and the lust for control. He deceived not only the public but himself, convincing his own mind that his actions were justified. The world believed little of what others said about him; the greater tragedy was how much he believed his own distortions. Here West’s truth is laid bare: self-deception is the deepest lie.

Yet this is not merely a warning about leaders and statesmen. Each of us faces the same temptation. Who among us has not told stories about ourselves that are not quite true? We downplay our selfishness, exaggerate our kindness, remember our triumphs while forgetting our failures. We invent narratives that make us more noble, more tragic, more justified than reality admits. And though these inventions comfort us, they also blind us, preventing the hard gaze of truth that alone brings freedom.

The lesson, then, is clear: be wary not only of the words of others but of your own. Do not trust too easily the stories you tell about yourself. Instead, seek truth through reflection, through the honest witness of your deeds, through the mirror of others who dare to speak plainly to you. For only when you strip away the lies of self-praise and self-pity can you begin to see your soul clearly. Self-deception is the most dangerous prison, for it locks the door from the inside.

Practical wisdom follows. When you speak of yourself, ask: is this truth or disguise? When you judge yourself, beware of both undue harshness and undue flattery. Keep companions who are unafraid to tell you the truth, and receive their words with humility. Write your life as though another would read it centuries hence, and strip away what you would not wish to admit—then you will know something closer to reality.

So let Rebecca West’s words echo through the ages: “One can believe little of what people say about each other… even less what they say about themselves.” Take heed, for the tongue is a master of deception, and the self is its most willing victim. Only in humility, reflection, and the courage to face oneself without illusion does truth emerge. And in truth, there is the beginning of wisdom, and the path toward a life not of self-deception, but of authenticity.