The statue of John Harvard bears no reference to veritas. Too bad. If it did, the Crimson Key tours could touch on the vital issue of the fourth lie.

The fourth lie--no secret--is that Harvard has little interest in truth. With the triumph of cultural relativism, veritas has become more of a quaint reminder of the past--an elegant decoration on coffee cups, stationery and diplomas--than a standard to which we aspire.

With the exception of certain ground rules, today's Harvard students and faculty are encouraged to seek their own individual truths. True, the marketplace of ideas has its winners and losers. But even the most unprofitable merchants won't be closing up shop for a while. (Will you, Professor Mansfield?) When is the last time President Rudenstine censured a faculty member or student for offensive speech? Anyone remember the Peninsula issue on homosexuality? Peninsula editors called their word the truth. Half a dozen tenured professors--including Harvard's minister, Peter J. Gomes--called the students liars.

Lying--or, more accurately, accusing the other side of lies, half-truths, distortion, etc.--is a critical rhetorical skill for any student. We're all skeptical of absolute truth, but that doesn't prevent anyone from asserting the correctness of his or her views (and the error in others'). Student journalists, for example, call for openness and honesty among administrators, faculty and other students. We think we're right in doing so. The administration, on the other hand, often sees The Crimson and other publications as vehicles for the distortion of their views. As a result, openness (when it comes to talking to reporters) is not necessarily considered a virtue.

On this subject, several campus controversies this fall have piqued my interest. More illuminating than the content of The Crimson's reporting is the extraordinary dynamic between reporters and administrators that has been thrust into full view.

Take, for example, a superb investigation by The Crimson's Joe Mathews concerning Harvard's acting chief of police. The acting chief, Lawrence Murphy, admitted that he has close ties to a bus company which has, every year in its six-year history, been awarded a lucrative University contract. This contract has no bidding process and its fate rests in the hands of one person--Murphy himself. Murphy has represented the company at conventions and carries its corporate American Express card.

Margaret H. Marshall, Harvard's vice-president and general counsel (and the police chief's boss), said the matter was not of concern to the University. She said she saw no conflict of interest in this arrangement.

Was Marshall lying, or maybe stretching the truth? I'd say so. (Regardless, her failure to act indicates a serious breach of responsibility.) Sissela Bok, the preeminent American philosopher and wife of Harvard's former president, explains incidents such as these in her book, Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life (1978). "The powerful," Bok writes, "tell lies believing they have a greater than ordinary understanding of what is at stake." By "powerful," Bok likely had in mind a nation's civic and military leaders. Still, her thoughts have a good deal of resonance in the web of Harvard's administration.

Especially lately. Last month, 50 former and present Expository Writing teachers testified in the pages of The Crimson that their department stifled internal dissent, served students poorly and, on a day-to-day basis, teetered on the brink of chaos. As his official response, Dean of Undergraduate Education Lawrence Buell wrote to reassure these teachers that he would ignore the student newspaper report in which their complaints were aired. "I wanted...to assure you," he wrote, "if assurance be needed, that its reportage has neither expressed nor influenced the views of University Hall on the subject [of Expos]."

The dean's criticisms of the Expos series highlight the divide which separates the press and the administration. Buell himself summed it up nicely: "I don't accept the model of the virtuous truth-seeking press confronting the hostile prevaricating establishment. To me, that's a one-sided model. It may hold in certain instances. On the other hand, it maybe the case that the benign establishment is trying to withstand the assaults of the overzealous bloodhound."

A strong argument could be made that Buell's letter was intended to ease tension and defuse a potentially explosive situation. One could also argue that he had a personal interest in de-emphasizing trouble in a department for which he is responsible.

Regardless of how you interpret the letter, however, it seems clear that Dean Buell isn't telling the full truth. If he honestly believes that outpourings of grief on the part of dozens of dedicated teachers deserves no consideration whatsoever, I've got some office space at a community college I'd like to sell him.

In the scuffle over Expos, I'm inclined to believe the bloodhound. That's not much of a surprise, coming from a former Crimson executive. Does Buell skirt the truth? My guess is yes. And, in a community deeply cynical about the press, he's got an easy punching bag in The Crimson.

To be fair, cynicism about the press has some legitimate roots. When a newspaper misspells a name, for example, or makes other common, inexcusable errors, our reactions are natural: "How can I rely on The Crimson for nuanced and accurate reporting when it can't spell my roommate's name right?"

In cases like these, I think of the teacher on The Simpsons who scolds one particularly pathetic pupil: "The children are right to laugh at you, Ralph." People are right to laugh at The Crimson--or be angry, or disgusted, depending on their mood. Still, in their indignation, people often dismiss the Harvard press as a nuisance, a hassle, an inconvenience. Since Harvard isn't the "real world," it's not so important to have a check on institutional power.