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A MOST PECULIAR LETTER
Aug. 18th, 2014 03:14 pmWeek 18: "Disinformation"
Dr. Charles Bergerac
Fantoches Centre Medican
18875 Rue de Fantaisie
Conte de Féesville, France
Dear Dr. Bergerac,
You are Europe’s foremost expert in rhinopsychology, and I desperately need your help. I have so many problems I hardly know where to begin, but they are making my life a living hell! I am a compulsive liar, so no one should trust anything I say, but when I tell a lie my nose grows. I know this sounds impossible, but I assure you it is true.
This has plagued me ever since I can remember, so I think I was born with it. The amount varies, depending on the size of the falsehood. For a fib or a white lie, my nose might increase only 5 mm, but if I tell an outright lie it can grow 25 mm or more. Fortunately, my nose returns to its original size after several minutes. This does not hurt, but the change is very noticeable and disturbing to others, especially if they know what it means.
I am not at all tall, and my voice is somewhat high-pitched. I also have only four fingers on each hand. My father has said I lost my two little fingers in a woodworking accident when I was only a child, but I remember that when I was tiny, he told me instead that “God forgot to attach them.” I know our family is naturally short, but I think there is more to all this than my father has been willing to reveal.
Even worse is the compulsive lying – it is very difficult for me to tell the truth, and the bigger the lie, the better! I do not know why I act this way, but I cannot control myself, even when the truth helps me far more than the lie. You can imagine what this does to my nose.
The lying started when I was quite young, shortly after my mother mysteriously disappeared. At the time, I thought she had been eaten by a wolf while wandering in a nearby forest, but my father said she had many strange ideas and left after she became convinced she was not my real mother. Father hated my lies, and punished me severely for them, but I could not seem to stop.
Father and I were alone then, but he had little time for me. He was busy with his furniture business, making costly pieces for wealthy clients. I was lonely as a child, since between my nose and my lies, it was difficult to make friends. Even the bullies at school avoided me – I told them I was contagious. I spent my childhood wishing I were someone else.
My life improved once I graduated from university. My father thought I should become a lawyer, but I went into business with Stromboli Produzione Prodotto. It was second-nature for me to extol the virtues of our dubious products. Still, I moved from job to job, and it was always my nose that was my downfall, never my performance. The more lies I told, the better my work, but my nose might as well have been a bouncing ball: little to big, big back to little, and everyone staring, always staring. The laughter from the other workers was the worst part of it, but I could not help myself. My pain was their amusement.
My romantic life, however, was spectacular. Seducing women turned my problems into strengths, because I could make women feel like princesses, at least for one night. The more I lied, the bigger my nose grew, and the more they wanted to see if the size of my manhood really was proportional to the size of my nose. As a medical man, you know the answer, and you also know whether it is possible to be too big, but some women need to find out for themselves. Thank heaven for curious women!
But this life left me feeling hollow and wooden, and I needed something more. About ten years ago, I became withdrawn, quit work, and turned to writing. When I wrote, no one could see my nose, so I could lie without restraint, and without the mockery of others. Readers loved my work, especially the history books, but my true love was writing children’s stories. You may not have heard of me, but my name is well-known among children.
After the death of my father a year ago, I started having new symptoms. The surface of my skin started becoming harder and coarser to the touch. My doctor said it was a skin disease, but I think he is mistaken. I used the lotion he gave me, but it did not work very well, so my skin has become worse.
I find that I have developed an unusual interest in certain clothes from my childhood: red shorts with suspenders, big blue bow ties, and conical yellow hats. My mother made me wear them every day until she disappeared, after which my father dressed me differently. Sometimes I look at those old clothes hanging in my closet, and I wonder what I would look like if I could wear them again. What would Mother think? Would it please her?
My mental state is worsening, so now I live almost like a hermit, alone in my apartment with a cricket for a pet. I keep him in a matchbox, which my housekeeper finds strange. I would get rid of him, but who else would I have for company? Sometimes I think I hear a faint voice, almost as if he is talking to me! Am I going mad?
I also feel like someone else is starting to control me, and I worry about what I might become . . . and what I might do.
I pray that you will believe me and can find some way to help me. I swear on my nose to tell you the truth; after all, you will be able to see when I lie. I beg you, Dr. Bergerac—please help me. I guarantee that you will never find another case quite like mine.
Sincerely,
Carlo Collodi
Picchiatello 1883
Bugiardo, Italy
Dr. Charles Bergerac
Fantoches Centre Medican
18875 Rue de Fantaisie
Conte de Féesville, France
Dear Dr. Bergerac,
You are Europe’s foremost expert in rhinopsychology, and I desperately need your help. I have so many problems I hardly know where to begin, but they are making my life a living hell! I am a compulsive liar, so no one should trust anything I say, but when I tell a lie my nose grows. I know this sounds impossible, but I assure you it is true.
This has plagued me ever since I can remember, so I think I was born with it. The amount varies, depending on the size of the falsehood. For a fib or a white lie, my nose might increase only 5 mm, but if I tell an outright lie it can grow 25 mm or more. Fortunately, my nose returns to its original size after several minutes. This does not hurt, but the change is very noticeable and disturbing to others, especially if they know what it means.
I am not at all tall, and my voice is somewhat high-pitched. I also have only four fingers on each hand. My father has said I lost my two little fingers in a woodworking accident when I was only a child, but I remember that when I was tiny, he told me instead that “God forgot to attach them.” I know our family is naturally short, but I think there is more to all this than my father has been willing to reveal.
Even worse is the compulsive lying – it is very difficult for me to tell the truth, and the bigger the lie, the better! I do not know why I act this way, but I cannot control myself, even when the truth helps me far more than the lie. You can imagine what this does to my nose.
The lying started when I was quite young, shortly after my mother mysteriously disappeared. At the time, I thought she had been eaten by a wolf while wandering in a nearby forest, but my father said she had many strange ideas and left after she became convinced she was not my real mother. Father hated my lies, and punished me severely for them, but I could not seem to stop.
Father and I were alone then, but he had little time for me. He was busy with his furniture business, making costly pieces for wealthy clients. I was lonely as a child, since between my nose and my lies, it was difficult to make friends. Even the bullies at school avoided me – I told them I was contagious. I spent my childhood wishing I were someone else.
My life improved once I graduated from university. My father thought I should become a lawyer, but I went into business with Stromboli Produzione Prodotto. It was second-nature for me to extol the virtues of our dubious products. Still, I moved from job to job, and it was always my nose that was my downfall, never my performance. The more lies I told, the better my work, but my nose might as well have been a bouncing ball: little to big, big back to little, and everyone staring, always staring. The laughter from the other workers was the worst part of it, but I could not help myself. My pain was their amusement.
My romantic life, however, was spectacular. Seducing women turned my problems into strengths, because I could make women feel like princesses, at least for one night. The more I lied, the bigger my nose grew, and the more they wanted to see if the size of my manhood really was proportional to the size of my nose. As a medical man, you know the answer, and you also know whether it is possible to be too big, but some women need to find out for themselves. Thank heaven for curious women!
But this life left me feeling hollow and wooden, and I needed something more. About ten years ago, I became withdrawn, quit work, and turned to writing. When I wrote, no one could see my nose, so I could lie without restraint, and without the mockery of others. Readers loved my work, especially the history books, but my true love was writing children’s stories. You may not have heard of me, but my name is well-known among children.
After the death of my father a year ago, I started having new symptoms. The surface of my skin started becoming harder and coarser to the touch. My doctor said it was a skin disease, but I think he is mistaken. I used the lotion he gave me, but it did not work very well, so my skin has become worse.
I find that I have developed an unusual interest in certain clothes from my childhood: red shorts with suspenders, big blue bow ties, and conical yellow hats. My mother made me wear them every day until she disappeared, after which my father dressed me differently. Sometimes I look at those old clothes hanging in my closet, and I wonder what I would look like if I could wear them again. What would Mother think? Would it please her?
My mental state is worsening, so now I live almost like a hermit, alone in my apartment with a cricket for a pet. I keep him in a matchbox, which my housekeeper finds strange. I would get rid of him, but who else would I have for company? Sometimes I think I hear a faint voice, almost as if he is talking to me! Am I going mad?
I also feel like someone else is starting to control me, and I worry about what I might become . . . and what I might do.
I pray that you will believe me and can find some way to help me. I swear on my nose to tell you the truth; after all, you will be able to see when I lie. I beg you, Dr. Bergerac—please help me. I guarantee that you will never find another case quite like mine.
Sincerely,
Carlo Collodi
Picchiatello 1883
Bugiardo, Italy
