Late in January I drove up to Catskill to interview Fawn Potash for this month's Portfolio (page 32). A gifted artist and photographer, Potash told me while we were discussing her recent work—photographs covered with layers of encaustic and oil—that the truth wasn't interesting to her, at least not in the tangible, photographic/journalistic sense. She was more interested in the "fictional truth," she said, a "kind of metaphoric understanding," the type a novelist would attempt through the use of plot, characterization, and imagery.
The contradiction did not register until later that day. While I sympathized with Potash's laying claim to the tools and justifications of the novelist in eschewing the representational pretense of "straight" photography—her spare, bewitching scenes do have a strong narrative element—those two heavily freighted words strung together, fictional truth, were the cause of some serious cognitive dissonance. The oxymoronic quality of fictional truth (like tight slacks, or plastic glasses) stuck in my craw, but it had less to do with Potash's description of her work than with the curious contexts I'm finding the word truth in these days.
(NB: I do not wish to spar with those who would defend the uses of fiction. As a lover of literature myself and a veteran of many a course on critical theory in my former, carefree life as an English major, I believe I know, on an almost intuitive level, fiction's unique ability to create vivid simulacra of life more revealing of human nature than the most diligently researched biography. For instance: If you want to get a glimpse into the workings of the adolescent female mind, read Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye. The same case can also be made for the power of fictional reality in painting, film, or any of the arts. No one would confuse the magical, icon-laden landscapes of outsider artist Corso de Palenzuela with pictorially accurate depictions of pre-revolutionary Cuba, for instance, but his fanciful compositions tell stories not available to nonfiction. [Sparrow offers an appreciation of De Palenzuela's work on page 103]. Syriana, a recent film based on the memoirs of former CIA agent Bob Baer [whom Lorna Tychostup interviews on page 20] is clearly labeled a fiction by its creators, even if it corresponds to what many believe to be true.)
The fictional truth that stuck in my craw, of course, was that of James Frey. For those who don't follow the media industry in the same breathless manner that I do, here's what happened to Frey:
In 1992, Frey checked into rehab in Minnesota for addiction to drugs and alcohol. At some point prior to this, Frey lost his first love in a train wreck, was a wanted man in three states, had a double root canal without anesthesia (any drug use being against treatment-program rules), fell in love with a doomed crack whore, spent three months in jail after hitting a police officer with his car while drunk driving, blew a .36 on a Breathalyzer, earning him the "County Record." In May 2003, Frey published a memoir of his he-drinks-to-conquer recovery drama, A Million Little Pieces. Last September, Oprah picked Pieces for her book club. Since its publication, the book has sold 3.5 million copies, and was only slightly outsold in 2005 by the latest installment in another coming-of-age story, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
The problem with Frey's memoir, however, is that it's a tissue of lies; aside from checking into rehab and selling tanker loads of books, Frey made it all up—his jail time, his root canal, etc. (Is this the first time someone's credibility has been brought into question by the fact that he didn't do jail time?) Once the truth was outed by the Smoking Gun website on January 8, things in the realm of fictional truth got very interesting. Frey went on "Larry King Live" to defend the inaccuracies in his memoir, labeling his memoir a "subjective retelling of events." Oprah phoned in to lend support to her embattled author. "The underlying message of redemption in James Frey's memoir still resonates with me," she said. "And I know it resonates with millions of other people who have read the book. That is real."
What gets lost here, however, is this truth. Memoirs are supposed to be true—any librarian will tell you that these types of books are found in the nonfiction section. Frey wrote an autobiographical novel; a storybook, not a fact book. But to Oprah (and a large number of her book club members, I assume), the fact that it's not true is seemingly beside the point. That the book has an emotional truth, albeit a fabricated one, is paramount, because emotional truth sells.
It works in politics as well as publishing. Another person who understands the value of emotional truth is our president, whose major rhetorical innovation is to use emotional truth as a stand-in for the real thing—think of the administration's arguments to wage war in Iraq: WMDs, freedom for Iraqis, security in the Middle East, safety from terror.
The administration is currently peddling its latest emotional truth: Eavesdropping without warrants on its own citizens is protecting us from terrorists. That domestic surveillance is most likely illegal is, like the truth in Frey's case, beside the point—if you can get people to believe in the emotional truth of your story, that's all that counts. And that's just what the administration is trying to do, according to the New York Times: "Whether the White House can succeed depends on its success in framing a complicated debate. Americans may be willing to support extraordinary measures—perhaps extralegal ones—if they are posed in the starkest terms of protecting the nation from another calamitous attack."
The government knows it must convince us of the emotional truth of its need to tap our phones. The narrative it's selling is simple: In order to be secure, we must give up a piece of our freedom. I don't know about you, but I'll stick with nonfiction.
One final oxymoron: warrantless wiretapping.
—Brian K. Mahoney