The Gap Inbetween

It was one of the last warm days of summer. My friend and I lay on the grass by one of the few lakes in Berlin that were not completely overrun. I finally wanted to read The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin, a long-overlooked American science fiction and fantasy author. Reading the preface gave me pause. She writes, in essence, about lying. She writes, in essence, about lying. More precisely, she describes writing as a quest – a form of world-building rooted in a lie that transforms into truth. ‘I talk about the gods, I am an atheist. But I am an artist too, and therefore a liar. Distrust everything I say. I am telling the truth. The only truth I can understand or express is, logically defined, a lie.’ Here, the lie is portrayed as a productive tool, one that seems to be essential for authors as it also possesses the power to shift perspectives and blur boundaries between reality and unreality, between past, future, and present, between here and there, you and me.

Barking dogs disturbed our quiet idyll, and fragments of theory came to mind, revolving around the porous dichotomy between truth and lie – like Nietzsche’s famous claim that truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions. One of the central claims of the Linguistic Turn was that people construct and alter reality with their words, however minimally. Charles Darwin, however controversial some of his theories may be, argued that mimicry, falsehoods, and tricks are necessary survival strategies within the living world drawing parallels with modern diplomacy. On a more commonplace level, there are everyday white lies or very loosely interpreted campaign promises.

Lies to Live (and Survive)

Although lies confront us at every interpersonal level, the phrase ‘you are a liar’ is less an observation than an insult in a Christian-influenced society that ostensibly agrees on honesty, truth, and authenticity as aspirational goals. These grand, ever-changing, and elusive buzzwords are intended to offer guidance and stability for collective coexistence and individual development. However, what counts as an accepted moral standard depends on time and place; examining it reveals prevailing power structures. This also applies to lying, but with one distinction: lies can be a means of survival. They can create ‘something else.’

To get to the bottom of this ‘something else’, it is essential to ask: who is permitted to lie, when, and for what reason? From what position of power is the lie told – is it a lie ‘from above’ or ‘from below,’ a hegemonic or marginalised lie? Is it a falsehood that allows a privileged person access to more power? Is the lying person facing discrimination under current conditions and thus trying to secure their existence, to preserve themselves? If someone falsifies a payslip to finally get a flat, or claims to identify as binary trans* to access testosterone, these are life-preserving or life-enhancing lies against the system, operating within the institutional network.

One strategy adjacent to lying that enjoys a somewhat better reputation is concealment, omission, leaving gaps. ‘One who remains silent when they ought to speak performs an action, and not the noblest one; however, not all vices are of the same kind. To withhold something is a lesser sin than to stubbornly deny or lie,’ writes the cultural sociologist Wolfgang Engler in his book Lüge als Prinzip: Aufrichtigkeit im Kapitalismus (in English: The Concept of Lying – Sincerity in Capitalism). For those lead a precarious existence in a hostile environment, concealing or withholding become survival strategies. Although less creative than the inventive lie, which brings forth new stories or forms of expression such as forgery, omission is also an active decision, one that through its passivity brings at least situational relief.

The Gaps Speak for Themselves

Examples are endless: when queerness remains unmentioned in family gatherings with conservative relatives; when an invisible disability is not discussed during a job interview, when a history of addiction is omitted at the first appointment with a new therapist.

It is well-understood that concealing ‘non-conforming’ or non-hegemonic aspects of personal identity in authoritarian regimes or ultra-religious communities is crucial. Yet the examples above show that even in less repressive contexts, these incidents are not isolated and individualised but are systemically induced acts of non-articulation. Here, silence reveals dimensions of insecurity and discrimination.

Thinkers such as Erving Goffman have long addressed this phenomenon. Goffman observes how identity is constructed in connection with social interactions and cultural processes. In his works, particularly in Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity and The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, he analyses how people withhold information to project a certain image while conforming to social norms. The motivation behind this mechanism is multifaceted; it can stem from shame, self-interest, or a desire for assimilation. For marginalised people especially, the question is not only what is concealed but how power structures compel people to keep parts of their identity and life story hidden.

This silence can be ambivalent. It may be interpreted as cowardice or self-denial, or as a form of self-protection in a moment of potentially harmful forced revelation; a survival strategy that allows a short reprieve from external forces. It is a setting of boundaries that prioritises the personal well-being and offers a degree of agency in moments of external threat. This concealment does not change the power structures; to some extent, these individuals even play along. But by concealing, they become actors, adapting the rules and resources of the systems that seek to oppress them, enabling survival within these systems. Here, ‘something else’ opens up – a moment of disquiet, transformation, subversion, and control. A space of possibility, in which a ‘different’ identity and narrative are created. A shift in perspective.

These gaps in communication are thus never mere voids. Instead, they contain an implicit truth, a kind of knowledge that only emerges through absence or omission. Just as postcolonial theorists read the gaps in colonial archives to expose the mechanisms of power, gaps in dialogue can also produce knowledge. As art historian Georges Didi-Huberman puts it, sometimes it is necessary to read through what is concealed to gain a deeper understanding of others, the environment, and oneself.

Silence, the gaps in our narratives, is not nothingness but can be understood as productive spaces of latent resistance. In them, distrust and trust, lies and truth, hurt and healing share an uneasy coexistence. This essay shows that lying and concealment are beyond a moral-philosophical assessment in the binary sense of ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Rather, these practices should be seen for what they often are: necessary strategies for marginalised people to survive in hostile environments.

‘Distrust everything I say,’ says Ursula K. Le Guin. I would add: ‘Trust everything I do not say.’