Illuminating Lies: What Deception Reveals
Leah Cates
“Absolute occurrence is irrelevant. A thing may happen and be a total lie; another thing may not happen and be truer than the truth,” declares author and Vietnam War veteran Tim O’Brien in his novel The Things They Carried (83). O’Brien provides a fictional account of his wartime experiences, openly admitting to his inclusion of fabricated anecdotes to vividly and (perhaps ironically) authentically depict his time in Vietnam. Across genres, including history, satire, and fiction, distortions of reality often promote a deeper understanding of a narrative and its key figures.
Author Jill Lepore’s article “Just the Facts, Ma’am,” legitimizes O’Brien’s technique, discussing fiction’s potential to “boast a kind of truth that even the best history books can never claim” (2-3). Lepore quotes novelist Daniel Defoe, who proposed that a novel is “a history of private life…It is a history-book…of what passes in a man’s own mind,” deeming his own works “true history” (15-16). Lepore states, “the novelist is the better historian—and especially better than the empirical historian—because he admits that he is partial, prejudiced, and ignorant, and because he has not forsaken passion” (18). Throughout his novel, O’Brien remains candid about his tendency to contrive narratives, stating “I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth” (179). In a chapter entitled “Good Form,” O’Brien asserts, “It’s time to be blunt. I’m forty-three years old, true, and I’m a writer now, and a long time ago I walked through Quang Ngai Province as a foot soldier. Almost everything else is invented” (179).
According to Lepore, “The difference between history and poetry, Aristotle argued, is that ‘the one tells what has happened, the other the kind of things that can happen. And in fact that is why the writing of poetry is a more philosophical activity, and one to be taken more seriously, than the writing of history’” (7-8). In his description of what characterizes a “true” war story, O’Brien relates a brief anecdote, wherein one soldier jumps atop a grenade to protect his comrades, but all of the soldiers still die (83). Before they perish, “one of the dead guys says, ‘The fuck you do that for?’ and the jumper says, ‘Story of my life, man,’ and the other guy starts to smile but he’s dead” (O’Brien 84). Immediately after he finishes the anecdote, O’Brien declares, “That’s a true story that never happened” (84). Despite the story’s never having occurred, O’Brien is conveying a “truth,” as he sees it, about soldiers’ loyalty to their fellow troop members and the casual, expectant manner in which many Vietnam troops faced death.
O’Brien’s fictitious characters and their imagined ordeals serve to illuminate truths about the soldier experience, not only during their time on the front lines, but also before and after their years in combat. The narrator (a fictionalized O’Brien) describes how, upon being drafted, he attempted an escape to Canada. He stayed at a dilapidated resort along the border for six days, during which time, he asserts, “I thought I’d gone off the psychic edge” (O’Brien 50). On O’Brien’s final day at the resort, the owner takes him on a boat ride to the Canadian shoreline “to stand as a kind of vigil as I chose a life for myself” (56). O’Brien recognizes that “Canada had become a pitiful fantasy,” and he asserts, “I felt a sudden swell of helplessness come over me, a drowning sensation, as if I had toppled overboard and was being swept away” (57). According to the narrator, “Chunks of my own history flashed by…My whole life seemed to spill into the river,” including not only memories from his childhood, but also images from his future, including his “unborn daughter” and “a slim young man I would one day kill with a hand grenade” (O’Brien 57). Although the real O’Brien did not flee to Canada, this chapter perhaps
serves to illuminate the extent of his dismay after receiving a draft notice, in addition to representing the other young American men who considered escaping during the Vietnam War. Lepore cites eighteenth-century novelist Samuel Richardson, who proves similar to O’Brien in his calculated fictionalization of history. Richardson claimed only to have edited the letters which formed his epistolary novel; in fact, he was the author. According to Lepore, “this was a lie, but not a hoax; Richardson wanted his novels to be read with ‘Historical Faith,’ since they contained, he believed, the truth of the possible, the truth of human nature” (13).
In his story, O’Brien invents soldier Rat Kiley, who “had a reputation for exaggeration and overstatement, a compulsion to rev up the facts” (89). Similar to Richardson, Kiley’s penchant for twisting truth “wasn’t a question of deceit. Just the opposite: he wanted to heat up the truth, to make it burn so hot that you would feel exactly what he felt” (O’Brien 89-90). Later on in the novel, O’Brien assures readers that his own unreliability is “not a game, it’s a form” before exemplifying how “story-truth” allows the reader to “feel what I felt” (179). O’Brien contrasts the vague “happening-truth” (“There were many bodies, real bodies with real faces, but I was young then and I was afraid to look. And now, 20 years later, I’m left with faceless responsibility and faceless guilt”) with the graphic “story-truth” (“He was a slim, dead, almost dainty young man of about twenty. He lay in the center of a red clay trail near the village of My Khe. His jaw was in his throat. His one eye was shut, the other eye was a star-shaped hole. I killed him”) (180).
Like O’Brien, Jeanette Winterson features a fictional account of war in her novel The Passion, set during the Napoleonic Wars. Henri, a French soldier fighting for Napoleon, declares, “Words like devastation, rape, slaughter, carnage, starvation are lock and key words to keep the pain at bay. Words about war that are easy on the eye. I’m telling you stories. Trust me” (Winterson 3). Henri’s “words” are akin to O’Brien’s “happening-truth,” which, according to O’Brien, does not effectively allow him to “make things present” (O’Brien 179-180). Also similar to O’Brien, Henri advises the readers to trust his stories, which perhaps reflect deeper truths about war, such as “Watching my comrades die was not the worst thing about that war, it was watching them live” (Winterson 86). Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day likewise features history through the lens of a narrator with a penchant for “telling you stories.” The novel centers around butler Stevens, who reflects on his time serving English nobleman Lord Darlington during WWII. Ishiguro’s novel, however, does not so much reveal history as it does the capacity of the narrator, and by extension all human beings, for self-deception. Stevens admits neither to the reader, nor to himself, that his words do not represent reality.
Stevens frequently returns to the subject of his Lordship’s role in international politics, asserting “What salacious nonsense it is to claim that Lord Darlington was anti-Semitic, or that he had close associations with organizations like the British Union of Fascists” (Ishiguro 137). Stevens assures himself that Darlington’s involvement in Germany after the first World War resulted from “a deep sense of moral duty” and a devotion to “releasing Germany from the cruelties of the Versailles treaty” (Ishiguro 61, 76). Stevens contends that his employer “was truly a good man at heart, a gentleman through and through” (Ishiguro 61). In addition, Stevens declares that Darlington is a product of the era, stating “You will hear these same persons talking as though Lord Darlington did something unusual in receiving hospitality from the Nazis. …Anyone who implies that Lord Darlington was liaising covertly with a known enemy is just conveniently forgetting the true climate of those times” (Ishiguro 137). These claims, however, actually serve to underscore that Darlington was indeed, as stated by journalist Reginald Cardinal, “the single most useful pawn Herr Hitler has had in this country for his propaganda tricks” (Ishiguro 224).
Furthermore, Stevens’s denial appears to be an attempt to suppress the guilt associated with devoting 35 years to serving Darlington (Ishiguro 126). On two occasions after Darlington’s death, Stevens blatantly lies to those who ask him whether he served Darlington (Ishiguro 120, 123). Stevens informs the reader, “it may be that you are under the impression that I am somehow embarrassed or ashamed of my association with his lordship, and it is this that lies behind such conduct. Then let it be clear that nothing could be further from the truth” (Ishiguro 125). Instead, Stevens considers his “white lies” “the simplest means of avoiding unpleasantness.” He states, “This does seem a very plausible explanation the more I think about it,” assuring the reader that “my chief satisfaction derives from what I achieved during those years, and I am today nothing but proud and grateful to have been given such a privilege” (Ishiguro 126).
Stevens’s assertion of pride in his life’s work also illuminates his suppressed shame. He defines a “great” butler as “one who can point to his years of service and say that he has applied his talents to serving a great gentleman—and through the latter, to serving humanity” (Ishiguro 117). According to Stevens, “great affairs will always be beyond the understanding of those such as you and I, and those of us who wish to make our mark must realize that we best do so by concentrating on what is within our realm; that is to say, by devoting our attention to providing the best possible service to those great gentlemen in whose hands the destiny of civilization truly lies” (Ishiguro 199). Stevens then declares, “A butler who is forever attempting to formulate his own ‘strong opinions’ on his employer’s affairs is bound to lack one quality essential in all good professionals: namely, loyalty…This is loyalty intelligently bestowed. What is there ‘undignified’ in this?” (Ishiguro 200-201). Stevens’s discussion of loyalty suggests the remorse he indeed experiences as a result of his blind acceptance of Darlington’s role in the Holocaust.
Lepore argues that, even when an author does not write through a fictional lens, “there is not and never can be such thing as true history” (17). Lepore discusses how, in the late twentieth century, literary theorists asserted “the constructedness, the fictionality, of all historical writing,” contending “The past is nothing more than the story we tell about it” (8). According to Lepore, “every historian has a point of view; every historian relies on what is unreliable—documents written by people who were not under oath and cannot be cross-examined” (17). This very unreliability might indeed make some historical writing illuminating and valuable. In Jamaica Kincaid’s essay “In History,*” she ponders the meaning of history, challenging the biased account of Christopher Columbus when he came to the New World. Kincaid reflects, “that it is new only to him, that it had a substantial existence, physical and spiritual, before he became aware of it, does not occur to him” (1). According to Kincaid, the “New” World featured in Columbus’s journal “was just like Seville, Spain; sometimes it was like Seville but only more so; sometimes it was more beautiful than Seville. Mostly it was ‘marvelous,’ and this word ‘marvelous’ is the word he uses again and again” (2). In fact, “The unexpected turned out to be the most ordinary things: people, the sky, the sun” (Kincaid 2).
Despite this, Columbus’s journal illuminates the nature of the time period and the author himself. According to Kincaid, when Columbus writes “marvelous,” “what the reader can feel, can hear, can see, is a great person whose small soul has been sundered by something unexpected” (2). Columbus’s amazement with the “New” World reflects the relative isolation of people hundreds of years before the advent of modern transportation. Later on, Kincaid quotes the journal of botanist Carl Linnaeus, as he examined for the first time various plant species. Linnaeus notes “Africa’s strangely shaped, not to say misshapen plants” and “the charming inhabitants [plants] of America and the rest of the New World” (Kincaid 5). In response, Kincaid states, “I feel like placing an asterisk somewhere in its text, and at the end of this official story place my own addition” (5). Although readers might not gain from the account historically significant botanical information, Linnaeus’s words illuminate his own bias.
Similar to biased narratives, satire also distorts the truth, though in this case employing intentional exaggerations to reflect the ultimate nature of people or politics. In his essay “The Dream of India,” author Eliot Weinberger catalogues a series of fantastical myths about India, for which “all of the imagery and some of the language are derived from works written in the five hundred years prior to 1492” (135). Weinberger’s calculated compilation and embellishment of these accounts illustrates both the significance of biased history and the power of satire. Many of the legends recounted by Weinberger defy science (for example, “There are headless men with eyes in their stomachs”), perhaps reflecting the wonderment with which ancient peoples viewed foreign lands (132). In addition, they reveal a preoccupation of their authors, and perhaps the societies from which those authors came, with magic (“There is a dragon called a basilisk, whose breath can pulverize a rock”), sensuality (“They do not cut any hair of the body, not even the hair of the genitals, for they believe that cutting the hair increases carnal desire and incites to lust;” “Everyone goes naked”), and nature (“They tell the future from the flight of birds;” “There are trees with leaves so big five or six men can stand in the shade of them”) (Weinberger 127, 128, 129, 133).
In satirist Jonathan Swift’s essay “A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Poor People in Ireland, from Being a Burden on Their Parents or Country, and for Making Them Beneficial to the Publick,” Swift reveals what he believed to be the apathetic and corrupt nature of British policies toward the Irish. He asserts, “a young healthy Child well Nursed is at a year Old, a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome Food, whether Stewed, Roasted, Baked, or
Boyled, and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a Fricasie, or Ragoust” (Swift 2). Swift suggests, “twenty thousand may be reserved for Breed, whereof only one fourth part to be Males, which is more than we allow to Sheep, black Cattle, or Swine, and my reason is, that these Children are seldom the Fruits of Marriage, a Circumstance not much regarded. …[T]he remaining hundred thousand may at a year Old be offered in Sale to the persons of Quality and Fortune” (2). Swift is not recounting actual government policy. Instead, he employs satire to emphasize the desperation of Irish citizens living in poverty (as he perceived it). In addition, Swift, “having been wearied out for many Years with [the government’s] offering vain, idle, visionary thoughts” underscores the incompetence which he considered characteristic of both British and Irish politicians (5).
Whether an explorer unwittingly revealing his provinciality or Stevens unintentionally incriminating both himself and Darlington, “stories” often illuminate their authors despite, or perhaps as a result of, what Lepore terms the “constructedness” of their writing (8). Beyond illuminating truths for the reader, narratives have the potential to transform their readers and authors. O’Brien reflects that, through “the magic of stories,” “I can look at things I never looked at” (180, 244). Had they critically examined their own narratives, perhaps Columbus, Linnaeus, Stevens, and their counterparts might have discovered themselves in a new light, furthering their self-understanding and as a consequence, their understanding of others.
Leah Cates ‘20, from Omaha, Nebraska, is interested in the Social Sciences, Humanities, and French, and she is still undecided as to her major. She enjoys writing for the Miscellany News and participating in Generations and French Club. Leah is considering a career in law.
Works Cited
Ishiguro, Kazuo. The Remains of the Day. New York: Vintage
International, 1988. Print. Kincaid, Jamaica. “In History.” 1997. Baltimore, MD: Project MUSE, 1997.
Accessed 9 November 2016. Web.
Lepore, Jill. “Just the Facts, Ma’am: Fake memoirs, factual fictions,
and the history of history.”
The New Yorker, 24 March 2008, http://www.newyorker.com.Accessed
9 November 2016. Web.
O’Brien, Tim. The Things They Carried. 1990. New York: Broadway
Books, 1998. Print.
Swift, Jonathan. “A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of
Poor People in Ireland, from Being a Burden on Their Parents or Country, and for Making Them Beneficial to the Publick.” 1729. Ed. Jack Lynch. Newark, NJ: Rutgers University, N.d. . Accessed 14 September 2016. Web.
Weinberger, Eliot. “The Dream of India.” 1984. Saint Paul, MN:
Graywolf Press, 2003. . Accessed 9 November 2016. Web.
Winterson, Jeanette. The Passion. New York: Grove Press, 1987. Print.