Can Fiction Be True?

 

We all know that “Fiction” is a factually-false, made-up, imaginary story and “Non-fiction” is a fact-based narrative or exposition, personal/social/political expression, or opinion/persuasion.  Sometimes the boundaries get blurred, especially in the age of social media, as fictional “conspiracy theories” or other false reports get passed off as non-fiction fact, and, as in the case of autobiography, all parts may not be verifiable.  And, of course opinion/persuasion can be based on false belief or wishful thinking as much as, even more than, fact. And, of course, fiction can be based on actual history, geography, or lived experience.

 

Regardless, we generally associate fiction with that which is factually false and non-fiction with that which is factually true. 

 

Yet, we take fiction seriously, as art in the form of novels, short stories, screenplays, etc.  Why is this?  Is it just that we admire the imaginative play that goes into them, the ingenuity, the creativity, the compelling language?  That’s part of it, but my experience as a teacher of literature at all levels from high school to graduate studies and as a participant in various “book discussions” is that the primary focus of most people is on the content: the plot, characters, setting, and the overall message that different readers find.  And the value they typically find in these elements is that they are “true-to-life” and expressive of a meaningful message that strike readers as “true.”

 

Well, “true” in what sense?  Not factually true, but true in, what I would call, a symbolic sense.  Even what we call a fantasy fiction, that is, a story that is unrealistic, maybe even impossible in real life, can strike us as “true” if understood as allegorical, metaphorical, or symbolic of a general truth.  The film Star Wars (and all its sequels and prequels) is powerful because it depicts political/military conflict, good vs. evil, heroes and villains, family relationships, friendship, romance, and human experience in general in ways that strike us, not only as entertaining, but as “true” to human experience, if not factual, or even realistic. 

 

All this might seem obvious, and non-controversial, but, again in my experience, if the term “fiction” merges into “myth” and then into “religious myth,” it can suddenly raise hackles. It raises hackles among those who believe certain religious stories, even those that contradict the known laws of nature, are factually true.  And it raises hackles among religious non-believers who prefer to dismiss religious stories as false belief. 

 

A fundamentalist Christian who takes the Bible literally might object to having its contents referred to as “myth” because that implies “false belief.”  On the other hand, an atheist who also tends to take things literally might object to Biblical, or any religious, myth referred to as symbolically “true.”

 

At the risk of offending both extremes, I will suggest how the Christ story can be considered symbolically true, even if factually false. 

 

Most Christians probably consider it to be a unique story, but actually it follows the familiar pattern of a hero/quest myth found in almost all, if not all, cultures: (1) mysterious or miraculous origin, (2) hiding, (3) initiation and divine signs or special powers, (4) preparation, meditation, withdrawal, refusal, (5) trial and quest, (6) death and the scapegoat, (7) descent to underworld, (8) resurrection and rebirth, (9) ascension, apotheosis, atonement.  Not all hero myths contain every element, but all roughly follow the same outline. (See David Leeming's Mythology: The Voyage of the Hero, 2nd ed.)*

 

In the case of Jesus Christ, (1) he is born of a virgin, (2) he is born in a kind of “hidden” place, a manger, (3) he shows a maturity beyond his years during his conversation with religious teachers, (4) he spends  forty days and forty nights in the wilderness resisting the temptations of Satan and preparing for his “quest,” (5) he calls his disciples and undertakes his ministry performing miracles and spreading his message, (6) he is crucified and dies as a scapegoat for human sin, (7) he is buried in a tomb, (8) he rises from the dead, and (9) he ascends into heaven and is deified.

 

So, if we dismiss the story as factually and literally false, on what basis can we affirm its truth value?  For one thing, we can affirm that, regardless of time and place, some individuals seem to acquire special status.  These individuals perform outstanding acts or make noteworthy contributions to their communities.  In turn, their communities elevate them and attribute unusual qualities to them in recognition of their accomplishments.  Hero myths thus represent the enduring human truth that some individuals rise above the rest of us and that the rest of us confer upon them a distinctive standing.  Likewise, these myths embody the truth that, as humans, we seek role models, mentors, and heroes, who inspire and lead us toward our own higher life.

 

From a psychological perspective, we can also view these myths as representing the universal story of each individual’s life journey.  As we grow, we become conscious of ourselves as having a distinct identity.  We often think of ourselves as having a special calling or mission in life.  We may face threats to our survival; we look for signs of our “destiny” or our unique goals in life; we seek success in one form or another and we prepare ourselves to achieve it; we encounter obstacles and trials that must be overcome in our life’s “quest.”  Not all “heroes” are successful, and we may experience a failed quest, perhaps more than one.  Regardless of success or failure, we must face death, but we take comfort that we will live on after death, even if it is only in the form of the memories of the living or the legacy we leave behind.   Psychologically, our apotheosis is the mark we leave on the world.

 

Thus, the literally false myth embodies the symbolic truth of our sense of unique identity, our individual life journey, and our shared human experience of trial and quest, success or failure, suffering, death, and the hope, if not the conviction, that our life was significant.

 

Stripped of its religious meaning, the story of Jesus Christ is the same story that we each live, and that is perhaps one reason the story can resonate powerfully even for an atheist, assuming the atheist has not rejected imagination along with religion.

 

Thus, while myths and legends, religious and otherwise, may be factually false, they persist in popular imagination and in literary tradition because they embody enduring “truth” about human experience. 

 

Does this mean that conspiracy theories, rumors, superstition, and “fake news” can embody symbolic truth?  Well, they may well tell us something about the psychology of those who embrace them as factually true, whether it be our human desire to believe what we want to be true rather than what can be verified as true, our need to reinforce a particular world view that we have become emotionally invested in, our fear of being wrong, our anger at being challenged, wishful-thinking, or just our human tendency to follow the path of least resistance.  It takes effort to verify, to research, to evaluate the credibility of sources, to seek facts and evidence, to rely on logic and reason. 

 

Why would anyone believe that our government is secretly controlled by Satanists who deal in sex-trafficking?  Is it a form of socio/political paranoia?  Does it satisfy some need to explain the mysterious inner workings of a seemingly all-powerful government beyond our control? 

 

Just as there are atheists and other literal-minded materialists who reject imaginative truth, there are those with over-active imaginations who are easy prey for scams, superstition, hoaxes, fake news, and conspiracy theories.

 

There can be a dark side to the excess of imagination, as well as to the lack of imagination.  In each case the seeker of “truth” is missing something. The literal-minded materialist, by focusing on facts alone, is missing a much larger dimension of truth.  Those with over-active imaginations who can’t distinguish between fact and fiction are missing a sense of reality, both factual reality and that which symbolically represents reality. 

 

In any case, assuming one has one’s wits about them, yes, fiction can be true. 

 

*Based on Joseph Campbell's The Hero of a Thousand Faces

Nineteen Eighty-Four

This dystopian novel by George Orwell was first published in 1949. I read it in the 1960s and taught it to first-year college students in 1984. Last night I saw a dramatic performance adapted for the stage by Michael Gene Sullivan.

In the 60s, those of us who were active in the Vietnam War protests battled the barrage of government propaganda, disinformation, and misinformation regarding the origin of the war, the need for the war, and the progress of the war.  Orwell’s concepts of Newspeak, Doublethink, and even Thoughtcrime (Vietnam protesters were labeled unpatriotic and subversive for opposing the War) seemed to apply. FBI surveillance of Vietnam protesters seemed to mirror the watchful eye of Big Brother through the widespread use of government cameras to keep citizens in line with the Party.

When I taught the book in 1984, it seemed far-fetched.  And since then, we’ve grown accustomed to the prolific use of surveillance cameras by law enforcement and private citizens alike to deter crime. 

With the Trump presidency, Nineteen Eighty-Four has become relevant again. And the stage play was frankly terrifying, as the comparisons were unmistakable.  Instead of Newspeak and Doublethink, we have “fake news” and conspiracy theories, bolstered by doctored photos/videos and the deliberate spread of propaganda, not only by elected leaders and their staffs, but also by private citizens on social media, not to mention other countries. 

As in the original novel we now have blatant disregard for facts, science, rational thought, and the direct experience of our eyes and ears.  Trump and others publicly deny they said something that is right there on unedited video or audio transcript for all to see and read. 

In Nineteen Eighty-Four the Thought Police enforce conformity to the Party line with the use of torture.  In the stage version Winston Smith is subjected to increasing levels of electric shock until he finally agrees that two-plus-two is five and that he loves Big Brother.  That is scary enough.  What is particularly scary today is how many of our fellow citizens are willing participants in the campaigns of propaganda, misinformation, and disinformation to which we are all subjected.  Too many of us are uncritically willing to believe what we want to hear or think we know rather than to take the time and exercise the discipline it takes to at least come close to the truth.

Today the government and the Party do not need Thought Police and electric shock because they have partisan loyalists and sycophants whose eyes and ears are closed as they open their mouths to readily ingest toxic, false messages and then turn around and spew those messages out to their own followers on social media.

George Orwell envisioned a citizenry of helpless victims subjected to Big Brother’s totalitarian power; he did not envision a citizenry of willing participants fully cooperating in their own manipulation and delusion.

What I am grateful for in the scary times we live in is (1) an educational system that is hopefully teaching critical thinking and evaluation of sources for reliability, (2) freedom of the press that allows for competing points of view, even as some media outlets toe the Party line and help spread false information, and (3) freedom of speech that allows those who value facts, evidence, and reason to counter the propaganda, misinformation, and disinformation, even as it also enables the false narratives.  Unlike the fictional world of Nineteen Eighty-Four, we have the right and the power of dissent. 

So let us use that right and that power to educate others, as best we can, in reliable methods of research and responsible methods of determining truth; to analyze our own sources of information for reliability and discipline our own thinking to rely on facts, evidence, and reason; and to raise our voices to counter those who would misinform, mislead, and manipulate. 

 

 The stage for the play was a hall of mirrors.  You can see the reflection of the audience. Look in the mirror, America!

Wintering

Speaking of winter (see previous post) this 2016 novel by Peter Geye will make you feel it in your bones, even in August. Unlike Amy Lowell’s indoor winter world of human society, art, and civilization (see previous post), the winter of this novel takes place on what in Minnesota we call the North Shore (of Lake Superior), in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA), and in the fictional town of Gunflint, which Minnesotans will quickly recognize as Grand Marais.

Its central episode involves a canoe/camping trip into the BWCA that starts in October and finally ends in January.  In between a father and son battle the winter elements, get lost, struggle to survive, barely do survive a confrontation with their human enemy, and eventually find their way close enough to home to be rescued by passing snowmobilers.

That central episode is like a story within a story in a story that is really about stories as much as it is about a winter wilderness adventure.

The narrator is Berit Lovig, whose late-life lover, Harry, having lost his memory to the ravages of age, disappears one day into the wilderness and is never found.  The year is 1996.  Harry’s son, Gus, brings Berit the bad tidings and begins reminiscing about the family history.  Berit recounts, not only her own memories from the time she came to Gunflint from Duluth in 1936, but also the ones that Gus shares with her, including that wilderness adventure with his father in 1963 when Gus was just eighteen. 

Between the two of them, Berit weaves a tapestry of alternating stories, flashbacks, and memories that follow similar patterns of journeying out, getting lost, experiencing a turning point or moment of truth, then finding one’s way, and eventually arriving home, though, of course, there are those that experience a moment of lies, never do find their way, and are never found, marked only by traces left behind, sometimes in physical form, like the cenotaph erected in honor of Harry, sometimes in someone’s fading memory, sometimes in a story that may or may not bear any resemblance to truth.  Disappearance, it seems, is as much a part of the story as being found.

History and memory, fact and fiction, truth and lies, knowledge and false belief are the themes that tie these stories together.  Harry has lost his memory; Gus is a high school history teacher.  Berit recounts her memories and the local folklore while at the same time turning the building where she had lived and worked with Harry’s estranged mother into a museum of local history.  She discovers some letters written by Gus’s great-grandmother to her parents in Norway but never mailed.  The letters are historical “records,” but they contain the lie that she had married and borne a son, though everyone “knows” that Harry’s father was a “misbegotten” child of rape in a logging camp.   Harry had witnessed a murder, but it is reported as a tragic accident.  Harry’s rival and enemy, Charlie, whose own life was based on lies and deceit, disappears in the wilderness and is never found, but Gus knows where Charlie’s “cenotaph,” a pile of bones, can be found. 

The word “wilderness” means “place of wild beasts,” and Harry and Gus encounter a few in their wilderness adventure, along with bitter cold, blizzards, huge snow drifts, rushing water, fog, and ice.  But men can also be beasts that prey on one another, and they can be found in town as well as in the wilds.  Similarly, the domesticated life in town can be a wilderness of stories, some of which pass as history and in which one can get lost in lies and may or may not ever find one’s way to the truth.  Such is the challenge of both ordinary people and professional historians.

Wintering is also a coming of age story for Gus, as he pits himself against the elements and ends up saving both himself and his father.  For Berit it’s the story of her adopted family, the Eides.  Rebecca, who had abandoned her husband and son early on and remained estranged, had hired Berit, at age 16, from Duluth, to live with her and work in the local “apothecary,” the original lighthouse keeper’s quarters, which Berit later turns into a museum.  Rebecca’s son, Harry, also age 16, witnesses his father, Odd, disappear, never to be found, when the ice floe he’s fishing from breaks loose and floats away..  He takes refuge in the apothecary, which also doubles as the town post office, and meets Berit for the first time.  It means little to him, but she falls in love, and waits, until after Harry’s divorce, when he shows up at Berit’s door with a bouquet of butterworts, her moment of truth, or, as she calls it, fate. Berit never has children, but, clearly, she is like a surrogate mother to Gus.  Thus the novel is a family saga and a story of late life, “winter” romance, as well as a coming of age and a journey into the “heart of darkness” to be found in the wilderness as well as in the human heart and mind.

What is the significance of these stories, some true, some false in the world of the novel, all fictional in the world of the reader?  Can “truth” be false?  Can recorded history include that which is false and leave out so much that it is hardly the “whole truth”?  Can fiction be true?  Can stories, which may be factually false, convey a symbolic or metaphorical truth?  I have argued so repeatedly in this blog.

The stories in Wintering embody age-old universal myths of trial and quest, initiation, the fall from innocence, death and rebirth (being lost and found), journeys outward, journeys to the self, homecoming, romance, good and evil, crime and punishment, love and hate, truth and falsehood, discovery, and disappearance.  We all experience these stories in our own ways and we can thus reenact our own stories as we read these “fictions.”

Historically, Berit’s memories, stories, and artifacts represent the immigrant experience in North America, the leaving of home and family, the journeying out, the encounter with an alien world that can be both sweet and sour, the struggle to survive, the building of a new life, the making of a family legacy, and the creation of a new identity.

Even when these stories are based on lies, they give meaning to our human experience, which is why we love to tell them, to hear them, to read and write them.

"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

As with “Rip Van Winkle” (see previous post), popular adaptations of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” often leave out the alternative explanations and the Postscript, which foreground the issue of fidelity in fiction. 

In the typical gothic romance the forces of irrational evil threaten the protagonist, who is either killed, driven insane, or barely allowed to escape.   Ichabod Crane’s fate is left ambiguous.

There were those who said that Ichabod Crane “had been carried away by the Galloping Hessian” or “spirited away by supernatural means.”  But “an old farmer, who had been down to New York…brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was alive, that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and…and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress.”  Brom Bones, we are told, “was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.”

Popular versions of the tale often present Ichabod sympathetically as the innocent victim of the headless horseman (or sometimes of Brom Bones), but in the original he is a superstitious believer in witchcraft and a fortune hunter who shows more interest in Katrina Van Tassel’s wealth than either her character or person.  From the perspective of the urbane and rationalistic Irving, the story could represent the healthy (and manly?) world of Enlightenment reason (Brom Bones) overcoming the outdated world of Puritan supernaturalism (Ichabod Crane).

Irving’s “enlightened” world view does not seem to apply to gender.  Not only is Brom presented as more muscular and masculine than the cadaverous Crane (note the imagery of their names), but Ichabod is comically associated with “the old country wives,” with whom he likes to share stories of ghosts, goblins, and witchcraft.  And Katrina’s main function in the story is to be beautiful and rich.

As the bookish schoolmaster, Crane plays the role of nerd to Brom’s star athlete and Katrina’s prom queen.

For all the stereotyping, though, the tale raises serious questions about the nature of truth, the relationship between fact and fiction, and the function of storytelling.   Is truth to be found in supernaturalism, folklore, and oral traditions of myth and legend or in observable evidence and rational thought?  If there is truth to be found in the former, is it factual truth or symbolic?  The gothic romance may be factually impossible, but truthful in its symbolic representation of human fear, especially of the unknown, and the psychology of terror.  Irving’s version of the gothic tale seems to suggest that fear itself is the greatest enemy of the gullible. 

In his Postscript Irving seems to mock even the notion of symbolic truth to be found in romance.  The “story-teller” is asked what is “the moral of the story” and “what it went to prove.”  He responds with a nonsensical syllogism, as if to poke fun at the notion of a story having any point other than idle entertainment.  His interlocutor, who utterly misses the joke,  goes on  to opine “that he thought the story a little on  the extravagant—there were one or two points on which he had his doubts,” as if the story was to be taken as factual.  “’Faith, sir,’ replied the storyteller, ‘as to that matter, I don’t believe one half of it myself.’”  Thus Irving satirizes not only the seriousness of romance, but also those who confuse fact with fiction.

As with “Rip Van Winkle,” many of Irving’s readers, like the interlocutor in the Postscript, utterly miss the joke and read “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” as a tale of terror rather than a mock romance.

At the same time, though the “story-teller” in the Postscript seems to dismiss the notion of any seriousness to be found in an entertaining tale, Irving’s story, read a certain way, seems to mock, not only romance, but the whole supernatural world-view, in favor of enlightened, scientific rationalism.

What Irving seems to miss is the possibility of “truth” being larger than mere “fact” and the value of romance, myth, legend, and fable as embodiments of larger truths about human experience, not just pointless tales for nothing more than idle entertainment.

Just as “Rip Van Winkle,” despite Irving’s mockery, conveys a universal story of human transformation, the loss of self, and its rediscovery, so “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” imparts a sense of universal karma, as Ichabod becomes the victim of his own irrational fears.  Unless you think he really was spirited away by the headless horseman, in which case the story expresses a timeless fear—our human fear of the unknown, a fear that even the sophisticated, urbane, and wholly rational Washington Irving probably experienced from time to time.