LITERARY REVIEW
“Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies,” are lyrics sang by Fleetwood Mac in 1987. And my, have people delivered. Donald Trump is said to have told a staggering 30,573 lies while in office. Boris Johnson, as we know, can be wholly economical with the truth. Being serially lied to can seriously damage relationships and friendships are often irreparable when the truth emerges.
Aja Raden, an American writer, however, sees lies as a completely normal part of life, something to be understood rather than condemned.
She says that human beings have evolved to tell lies, and that our children only start operating in the real world when they have mastered the ability to tell untruths. There’s no one who doesn’t lie occasionally.
The nub of her argument is that for someone to lie successfully, there needs to be someone else who swallows that lie hook, line and sinker. Think of the last piece of really juicy gossip you were told. It is unlikely you checked whether it was true or not before you started disseminating it yourself. You’ll understand the ripple effect this has and the damage that untruths can leave in its wake.
Over nine hugely entertaining chapters, Raden describes in detail outrageous stories of several classic cons, illustrating the mechanisms by which they all work. She uses both contemporary and historical examples.
At its core, is the question, ‘Why do people believe what they believe?’
We blindly trust certain facts: things we’re taught, things we can observe, and those things which we can work out for ourselves. Once we “know” these things, we never really question them again. It’s called an honesty bias.
Raden writes: “Without this tendency to trust, to assume, to simply believe, every human on earth would be born starting from scratch, unable to benefit from the knowledge of the collective.”
Yet it’s the “honesty bias” that allows us to be fooled by conmen, serially lying friends and unscrupulous U.S. presidents. Our strength, as so often is written, is also our weakness.
The author begins with what she calls the Big Lie, in which the untruth is so enormous that to disbelieve it actually threatens our sense of collective reality.
She cites the example of Gregor MacGregor, a broke Scottish aristocrat of the early 19th century who joined the Royal Navy in search of fame and fortune.
He became a mercenary in central America, where he claimed to have chanced upon the magical kingdom of Poyais, a land of plenty brimming with untapped natural resources.
Returning to London he sold shares in Poyais to the great and good, and persuaded seven boatloads of men, women and children to relocate there to make their fortunes.
When they arrived, they soon discovered Poyais did not exist, that there was just the Mosquito Coast of central America, short on untapped resources but swarming with mosquitoes.
Most of them perished through disease, but when a few survivors of the trip returned to tell their stories, MacGregor absconded to Paris, where he told the same Big Lie again – and sold more shares in something that did not exist.
Next up in the narration is the Shell Game, the street hustle whereby you must guess which of three shells on a table has a ball underneath it.
The ball has meanwhile been removed by sleight of hand so the answer is “none of them”, but by then you have already lost your stake you put down on the one you thought it might be. Raden explains that we don’t “see” everything we think we see; our brains will fill in the gaps.
This is how so much stage magic works, persuading you that you are seeing what you haven’t seen, and that you haven’t seen what you might well have seen but not processed.
In later chapters, she looks at the Guru Con, at the way Rasputin befuddled the House of Romanov in pre-revolutionary Russia, the pyramid schemes of Bernie Madoff and bitcoin; and the selling of snake oil as a patent medicine in the Wild West (which went on long after supplies of genuine snake oil had run out).
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