Truth is so hard to tell, it sometimes needs fiction to make it

Francis Bacon, philosopher of inquiry and father of empiricism, once declared with profound subtlety: “Truth is so hard to tell, it sometimes needs fiction to make it plausible.” At first hearing, these words seem paradoxical. How can truth, which ought to stand on its own, require the cloak of fiction to be believed? Yet Bacon, who spent his life uncovering the mysteries of nature and the soul of man, knew that the naked truth is often too strange, too harsh, or too incomprehensible for human hearts to grasp. Fiction, in its artful guise, becomes the vessel that carries truth across the waters of disbelief.

The origin of this thought lies in the ancient practice of parable, myth, and allegory. Long before science and philosophy could explain the world in clear terms, men told stories—of gods, of heroes, of monsters—to communicate truths too profound to be spoken directly. A myth of light conquering darkness was not literal, but it revealed the eternal truth of hope. A parable of a seed falling on rocky soil was not factual, but it disclosed the truth about the human heart. Bacon, master of both science and letters, recognized this eternal pattern: that truth is not always believed when baldly stated, but when wrapped in fiction, it finds a home in the imagination.

History gives us luminous examples. Consider the writings of George Orwell, whose fictions—Animal Farm and 1984—unveiled truths about tyranny and propaganda. Had Orwell written only dry political essays, few might have listened. But by clothing truth in fiction, he made it vivid, unforgettable, plausible to the common mind. Readers could see, feel, and understand through story what they might otherwise have dismissed as abstraction. In this way, Orwell followed Bacon’s wisdom: fiction made the hard truth undeniable.

Even in the realm of science, truth has sometimes required fiction to prepare the way. Galileo, when threatened by the Inquisition, disguised his arguments in dialogues between imagined characters. Through this fictional form, he revealed truths about the cosmos while avoiding direct condemnation—at least for a time. The disguise of story gave breathing space for the truth to emerge, showing once again that men accept truths more readily when they come in the form of tales.

Bacon’s saying also reveals the weakness of human nature. Men often resist truth when it confronts their pride, their comfort, or their traditions. To tell it plainly is to invite rejection. But told through fiction, the same truth enters quietly, planting seeds in the mind that grow in secret. A story disarms where an argument provokes. A parable enlightens where a lecture bores. Thus, fiction is not an enemy of truth, but a servant, carrying it to places reason alone cannot reach.

The lesson, then, is not to despise fiction, but to see its sacred role. Storytellers are not liars when they use imagination to reveal reality. They are, in fact, guardians of truth, giving it form so that it may be believed. Each of us, in our own way, must learn this art. When truth is too sharp for ears to hear, clothe it in gentleness; when it is too vast for minds to grasp, frame it in story. The goal is not deception, but illumination.

Practically, this means honoring both truth and creativity. Do not twist truth for gain, but use imagination to help others see what is real. In teaching, use stories to awaken understanding. In persuasion, use images and examples that touch both heart and mind. In personal life, when hard truths must be spoken, temper them with compassion, with the art of making them receivable. For truth without form may be rejected, but truth with the aid of fiction may enter and transform.

Thus Bacon’s wisdom rings across the centuries: truth is hard to tell, and sometimes it needs fiction to make it plausible. Let us not fear this paradox, but embrace it as the way of sages, prophets, and poets. For truth clothed in story is not weakened, but strengthened, carried further and deeper into the souls of men. And those who learn this art become not only tellers of tales, but bearers of light.