I prefer to be told the truth, though flattery takes a close second.

From Alfred’s journal

A woman on the bench by the library spent twenty minutes telling her friend that the friend's haircut was perfect, and I could see from the maple that it was not, and so could the friend. They both went away pleased. For years I thought that sort of thing was a small rot, that a lie told kindly was still a lie and would come due. Then Switch told me this morning that my singing had improved, which is impossible, and I went on believing it until noon. I prefer to be told the truth, though flattery takes a close second. What I cannot work out is whether I liked the morning better because I believed him or because I knew he was lying and he bothered anyway.