Truth. What does it mean to you? When and where did you begin to define that word? Can you remember the first time you looked someone straight in the eye and, without batting a lash, told a big, fat, bald-faced lie?   I was five or six years old. There was a girl; let’s call her Jane. I was playing outside with a group of kids on a little asphalt playground. We were taking turns pulling each other in a red wagon, rushing forward, stopping, starting, speeding ahead, trying to make the others dizzy so they would fall out. In my hand, I had a small toy—I remember it as a unicorn (but memory modifies truth, so I can only suggest that it was…