—John Keats, Otho the Great: A Tragedy in Five Acts, I.3.114 ad 114 All myth is an enriched pattern, a two-faced proposition, allowing its operator to say one thing and mean another, to lead a double life. Hence the notion found early in ancient thought that all poets are liars. And from the true lies of poetry trickled out a question. What really connects words and things? Not much, decided my husband and proceeded to use language in the way that Homer says the gods do. All human words are known to the gods but have for them entirely other meanings alongside our meanings. They flip the switch at will. My husband lied about everything. Money, meetings, mistresses, the birthplace of his parents, the store where he bought shirts, the spelling of his own name. He lied when it was not necessary to lie. He lied when it wasn't even convenient. He lied when he knew they knew he was lying. He lied when it broke their hearts. My heart. Her heart. I often wonder what happened to her. The first one. There is something pure-edged and burning about the first infidelity in a marriage. Taxis back and forth. Tears. Cracks in the wall where it gets hit. Lights on late at night. I cannot live without her. Her, this word that explodes. Lights still on in the morning.
		Excerpted from The Beauty of the Husband by Anne Carson. Copyright © 2001 by Anne Carson. Excerpted by permission of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.