Scientific truth and the art of lying
If 'reality' culture teaches us anything, it is that there is a very fine line between being privy to something and being part of it. When two people know that one of them is witnessing what the other is doing, there is a transformational influence on how both parties behave, think and feel. Never mind suspicions that TV reality shows might not be as authentic as they are billed - life itself is a performance.
This helps elucidate two breaches of faith that have recently hit the headlines: that of biomedical superstar Hwang Woo-suk when he withdrew a breakthrough stem-cell research paper; and that of current American redemption role-model James Frey who, it turns out, made up key parts of his bestselling miraculous-recovery chronicle A Million Little Pieces.
I don't mean that we are responsible for their lies, if that's what you want to call them. But our perceived expectations, and the 15 minutes of public attention that would-be superstars have to make a mark, don't favour sticklers.
My guess is that both men felt that what they published was as true as necessary in the context. How so? Well, Dr Hwang had already made his name in the field. He may have thought that even if the details couldn't be made to gel in time for publication, given a little longer they would have. His team by rights deserved the credit for the results - rather than some other research team that might swoop in and steal their glory.
Similarly, what does it matter if Frey never actually spent the few nights in prison he writes about so harrowingly in his book? That fake jail time was merely a device - as traditional as they come - to get a point over; a plausible situation in which to frame and sum up the spirit of his real suffering and redemption. A frankly fictional account would have robbed Frey, his publishers and his audience of the opportunity to attach a face to the angst.
We all stretch the truth and tell lies by omission. Just getting along with people involves both. At a deeper level, human memory, driven by emotional self-interest, goes to incredible lengths to provide evidence to back up whatever understanding of the world we have our hearts set on - however removed that may be from reality.
Even unambiguously contrary sensory input is magically made to conform and, to complete the circle of self-fulfillment, to confirm. You know the sort of thing. Your skinny sister finds evidence everywhere to support her view that fat people are undisciplined. Your overweight friend has a lifetime of experience to demonstrate the contrary (unless she's into self-flagellation, of course, but that's another psychological story). Add to this circumstances and a heavy dose of ambition, and it's not so difficult to understand Dr Hwang's and Frey's behaviour.
However, the former is set in the mighty scientific edifice of learning designed to reduce the distorting effects of the human mind on the physical world; the latter makes that distortion its subject. Dr Hwang wasn't sending us a message - whether inspirational or annoying - wrapped up in a meaningful story.
Or even if we choose to take the post-modern position and say he was, then his discourse - being a scientific one - had to stick to the rules. Those rules earn our respect because they support a tradition by which things like medicine can be revolutionised.
But there is another reason for our reverence. In an age marked by an everything-is-relative blurring of the line between truths and untruths, scientific research appeals to our emotional desire for something immutable, yet human, to grasp.
For both reasons, that makes Dr Hwang's breach of faith different to Frey's.
Jean Nicol looks at everyday issues from the point of view of a psychologist
