Grandma’s Lie Soap by Robert Abernathy _To free Truth from its wrappings with the sparkling irony and engaging insight of a prophetic pen was the self-appointed task of Robert Abernathy in this remarkable story. He’s succeeded so well that we’ll never see a frail old woman hobbling down a country lane or a cake of homemade soap without bracing ourselves against the collapse of our world and the coming of the millennium._ =Grandma’s soap was a miracle of miracles under the stars. If you don’t believe it--just try lying to the flying saucer folk.= Of course you’ll believe this story. Everybody will. The funny thing is that it _could_ be a lie.... To make that point clearer: A little while ago I happened to be at a gathering of literary amateurs and critics, one of those sprawling aimless affairs where people mill around with drinks in their hands, congealing in little clusters to talk or listen to somebody talk. I listened. I heard a serious bespectacled, young man discourse not unintelligently on Proust, and I heard a plump gentleman make some safe, sound comments on Faulkner. Nobody disagreed with them. Nobody argued. Nobody even said, “But--” I can remember when arguments were the order of the day. After I’d had a little more of it than I could stand, I spoke up. “Say what you like about those scribblers,” I declared firmly, “none of them can hold a candle to Wolf.” “Thomas?” someone asked--not with the air of being about to contradict me, but merely as one sincerely, infuriatingly desiring instruction. “No, _Howling_,” I retorted with flamboyant irony. “Do you mean to say you never heard of Howling Wolf, the genius of the North Woods, the greatest author of all time? The one writer who grasped the human soul in all its depth, breadth, and angular momentum? Who painted Life in its true colors on a canvas vast as all Nature, with a non-union brush? Who sounded every note of emotional experience, and rang all the bells in belles lettres? Who--” I ran out of breath, paused, and added, “Of course, unfortunately all of Wolf’s mighty works were written in his native language, which happened to be Chinook Trade Jargon, and they’ve never been translated. So if you don’t know the Jargon....” At my age I should have known better. Naturally, every word I uttered was gospel but all I got back were earnest requests for more information about the great Wolf. To explain that I’d just been kidding--that I say such things experimentally and to keep in practice as one of the few remaining liars in a truthful world--would have been worse than useless. It would have been cruelty to talking animals.