The lie of the human is his tool, that within his organism which he most relies on as an animal to further his or her life cycle. Like all such tools, it both has a real changing effect on the world outside the valuer organism and is wrought by instinct, a priori things that never learned anything but simply were sharpened into effectiveness. This is the lie, much like a mosquito doesn't hunt animals but flies around in thirst or a snake can be tricked to jut venom into a cup. We love the lie, the smell of the world. Our instincts react and trigger algorithms, painting themselves a picture of themselves, painting our selves. The lie is powerful, and the closest thing to the fantasy of truth. The lie of truth is a lie of desperate need for clarity when surrounded by obvious mismatches with effect, yet it is part of that biosphere within which the clarity was avoided and avoids it to a degree, as well. Our power is the power to lie, to accept this is to slay Buddha and embrace life in one swoop.
Thoughts on a title for a book on post-philosophy: Beyond Truth