Does fiction, in fact, have anything whatever to do with truth? Is it possible that this complicated instrument, fiction, studies nothing but itself—its own processes?
"...let us imagine that we are hiding some Jews in our house in Germany during the Second World War. Early one morning some soldiers come to our door as part of a routine check and ask if we are housing any Jews. In response to this question we have three options:
- we regretfully say 'yes', acknowledging that we are held under a higher moral law which requires that we do not deceive
- we say 'no', judging that it is the lesser of two evils
- we say 'no' and feel happy we told the truth