by Gurmeet Mattu

Created on: September 19, 2008

All writers of fiction are nothing but liars, and that is an unimpeachable truth. As proof let us examine some of the characters and situations they have told us of and establish whether they are, in fact, truth or lies.

Beginning with the classics and an analysis of that charlatan William Shakespeare. There is not one word of truth in A Midsummer's Night's Dream. Oberon and Titania do not exist. The entire thing is a tissue of lies and how Willie could have expected his readers to believe it is incomprehensible. Some of his works, admittedly, verge towards some historical accuracy, but generally speaking the so-called Bard of Avon was nothing but an out and out fibber.

In more modern times there is Tarzan, a white man born in Africa and raised by great apes. Edgar Rice Burroughs claims this, but the truth is that white men born and bred in Africa tended to die of dengue fever, not swing through the trees on vines. Another falsehood.

Then there is Sherlock Holmes, the master detective. Pipe smoker, cocaine user and violinist. If he had existed he would have caught Jack the Ripper, but he didn't, so he couldn't. And there's no 221b Baker Street either. On that site is a bank and the tellers become very cross when asked what to do about a large hound on the moor.

The written word abounds with similar outrageous verisimilitude. There was no Flash Gordon and Ming was not Merciless. James Bond did not flirt with Miss Moneypenny. Hercule Poirot never solved a crossword puzzle, never mind a murder.
The only time Clark Kent ever flew it was on a Boeing and Spock was a baby doctor, not a pointy eared Vulcan. Hamlet never spoke to a skull, King Arthur never pulled a sword from a stone, Cinderella didn't have dainty feet and Mrs Robinson loathed younger men. There is no monolith on the moon, time didn't forget any land and nothing happened in a galaxy far far away. Count Dracula probably drank Beaujolais, not blood, and Dr Frankenstein did not create a monster, even if Mary Shelley was high when she said he did. If she'd sobered up and done some decent investigative journalism she'd have realised she was writing nonsense.

What was wrong with these people that they had to tell such lies? Was there something lacking in their lives, that they felt such a need to pervert the truth? Did their parents not teach them that it was wrong to tell lies? It is, after all, a Judaeo-Christian Commandment not to bear false witness, yet not only were these writers permitted to peddle their untruths, but were lauded for it. Arthur Conan Doyle was actually given a knighthood for telling lies!

Why could these flim-flam men not write about genuine characters and celebrate their achievements instead. Take Mahatma Gandhi for instance. A true flesh and blood man and an inspiration to us all, as one of the finest heavyweight boxers India has ever produced.

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