What If Honesty Were Compulsory?

We are taught from childhood that honesty is the best policy.

It sounds like an excellent policy, particularly when we are recommending it to somebody else.

We expect children to tell us who broke the vase, students to admit that they did not do their homework, politicians to honour their promises and tradespeople to tell us whether an expensive repair is really necessary. Yet when honesty threatens to embarrass us, cost us money or hurt somebody’s feelings, we suddenly discover that every good policy requires exceptions.

We call some of these exceptions white lies. The expression makes them sound clean, harmless and almost virtuous. We are not lying, apparently. We are protecting feelings, preserving relationships or exercising diplomacy.

Perhaps we should imagine a world in which people were compelled to say not only the respectable answer, but also the untidy truth hiding behind it.

The car that enforced honesty

I once read a story based on an episode of The Twilight Zone titled “The Whole Truth.” In it, a dishonest used-car salesman, Harvey Hunnicut, unknowingly buys an old Model A with a most inconvenient property: whoever owns it is compelled to tell the truth.

For most people, this might have been an opportunity for moral improvement. For a used-car salesman whose livelihood depended upon describing every worn-out vehicle as a magnificent bargain, it was a commercial disaster.

He could no longer praise a doubtful engine, conceal a mechanical problem or assure a customer that an ageing car had belonged to a careful elderly driver who used it only to attend church. Every attempt at salesmanship became a warning not to buy.

The episode treated complete honesty not as a virtue but as a curse. The salesman did not try to become a better person. He tried to sell the car and transfer the truth to somebody else.

It was a wonderfully uncomfortable idea. We often say that we want honest salespeople, honest politicians and honest businesses. But if a supernatural car forced us to reveal every private thought, excuse and motive, how urgently would we try to pass its ownership to somebody else?

The teacher explains algebra

A student raises a hand and asks the question mathematics teachers have heard for generations.

“Why do we have to learn algebra? When will we ever use it?”

The approved answer is ready.

“Algebra may be useful in your future career. Even if you do not use it directly, it will develop your reasoning and problem-solving skills.”

There is truth in that answer. Algebra is useful in many careers, and mathematics can develop logical thought. But compulsory honesty might force the teacher to continue.

“Some of you will use it. Most of you will forget it shortly after the examination. It is in the curriculum, teaching it keeps me employed, and I see no reason why you should escape what I had to endure at your age.”

That answer would probably not appear in the school prospectus.

The politician makes a promise

Politicians also understand the value of carefully selected truth.

“Vote for me and I will deliver tax cuts, improve hospitals, increase school funding and create a more open and accountable government.”

The compulsory version might be less inspiring.

“I will say almost anything necessary to obtain your vote. Any promise that later becomes inconvenient will be reviewed in light of changed circumstances. If that explanation fails, I will blame the previous government, the opposition, the economy or an international crisis that nobody could possibly have anticipated.”

The politician might even add:

“Some of these promises have never been supported by my party, but they performed very well in the focus group.”

Strangely, election campaigns rarely use Circumstances May Change as a slogan, even though it may be the most reliable promise of all.

The parent remembers a perfect childhood

Parents become unexpectedly virtuous when describing their younger selves.

“When I was your age, I respected my parents, completed all my chores without being asked and spent nearly every spare minute studying.”

What complete honesty might reveal is:

“My mother sometimes had to lock me in my room to make me do my homework. I spent as much time as possible talking to friends on the telephone, watching television and playing music. I am relying on the fact that your grandparents are no longer here to correct my version.”

Memory does not always lie deliberately. It simply edits. It removes the laziness, arguments and foolish decisions, then presents the remaining highlights as a documentary.

By the time people have children of their own, they have often transformed themselves into the children their parents wished they had been.

The dentist follows a calling

Professional biographies encourage similar improvements.

“I always knew I wanted to become a dentist because I wanted to help people.”

Under compulsory honesty, one fictional dentist might say:

“Medicine was my first choice, but the medical school and I had different opinions about my marks. Dentistry offered science, regular working hours and the discovery that people will pay almost anything to make a toothache stop. It is not quite a licence to print money, but the drill helps.”

This does not mean dentists are dishonest or motivated only by money. Many undoubtedly chose the profession because they wanted to help people. But “I carefully compared the career prospects” never sounds as noble as “It was my lifelong calling.”

Apparently, respectable careers must begin with a childhood dream. Practical considerations are not permitted until after graduation.

The employee develops a Friday illness

Then there is the familiar telephone call to work.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well and I won’t be able to come in today.”

The honest translation may be:

“I am not medically unwell. I woke up, considered spending eight hours at work and developed an urgent desire not to go. By remarkable coincidence, my condition appeared on Friday and is expected to clear by Monday morning.”

The employer replies:

“That’s all right. Take care of yourself and concentrate on getting better.”

The employer’s private translation might be:

“You sounded perfectly healthy yesterday, and this is the third illness you have contracted immediately beside a weekend.”

But even this example is not as simple as it appears. The employee may not have a fever or a cough but may be mentally exhausted and genuinely in need of rest. Perhaps “I am sick” is the only explanation the workplace will accept. Telling the truth — “I cannot face another meeting that should have been an email” — might create the very illness the employee was trying to prevent.

Is that dishonesty, a white lie or self-preservation?

The compliment nobody requested

Some lies are offered as gifts.

“That outfit really suits you.”

What the speaker may mean is:

“I would never wear it myself, but you are obviously pleased with it, and I see no useful purpose in destroying your happiness.”

Or someone says:

“Have you lost weight? You look wonderful.”

The translation may be:

“I have no idea whether you have lost weight, but experience tells me that most people regard this as a compliment.”

Such lies seem harmless because the speaker gains nothing. The purpose is to make somebody else feel good. If a friend proudly displays a new outfit, must we really tell them that the pattern resembles curtains from a suburban lounge room in the 1970s?

Yet even a well-intended compliment can misfire. Weight loss might result from illness, anxiety or grief. “You look well” is probably safer. It may still contain a little diplomatic generosity, but at least it does not require an investigation involving bathroom scales.

Do as I say, not as I do

The difficulty with white lies becomes obvious when children observe adults using them.

A parent answers the telephone.

“I’m sorry, we can’t come to dinner tonight. I’m feeling unwell.”

The parent ends the call and returns cheerfully to watching television.

“You’re not sick,” the child says.

“I know.”

“Then why did you say you were?”

“I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.”

“But you lied.”

“It was only a white lie.”

“You said lying is wrong.”

“It is.”

“Except when you do it?”

“That is different.”

“Why?”

The parent searches for an explanation sufficiently complicated to prevent the child from recognising that none exists.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

This is the traditional adult translation of: I have been caught, and I would now like the questioning to stop.

“So I will be allowed to lie when I’m older?”

“No.”

“But you just did.”

At this point, the parent invokes one of civilisation’s oldest and least convincing principles:

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

Children are remarkably skilled at detecting hypocrisy, particularly when it belongs to their parents. Adults call it discretion, diplomacy or protecting somebody’s feelings. A child uses a much shorter word.

Perhaps growing up does not teach us to stop lying. It merely gives us a larger vocabulary with which to defend it.

The lies that keep society running

Once we begin translating polite language, examples appear everywhere.

The unsuccessful job applicant is told, “We will keep your details on file.” The truth may be, “We had virtually chosen somebody before you arrived.”

The real-estate agent describes a deteriorating house as having “enormous potential.” The truth is that almost everything needs replacing, and even the termites are considering moving out.

The waiter says, “An excellent choice.” Perhaps it is excellent. Perhaps it is simply the most expensive item the customer considered.

The shop assistant says, “That colour looks wonderful on you.” The unspoken addition may be, “And my shift finishes in ten minutes.”

The dinner guest says, “I couldn’t possibly eat another thing.” Complete honesty would add, “At least, not another serving of that.”

Civilisation might become impossible if every private thought were immediately made public. Marriages would shorten, friendships would disappear, political debates would become indistinguishable from bar-room arguments and very few people would be invited to dinner twice.

Is honesty really the best policy?

Perhaps the saying is incomplete. Honesty may be the best policy, but it was never intended to be the only policy. Kindness, tact, discretion and self-preservation also demand a place at the table.

The real distinction may lie in motive.

A lie told to obtain money, power or an unfair advantage is not made virtuous by calling it white. A lie told to spare somebody unnecessary pain may be an act of kindness. Between them lies a large grey area occupied by politicians, parents, employees, employers and the rest of us.

The problem is that white lies rarely arrive wearing white. Almost every lie can claim it was told for somebody else’s benefit. The politician protects public confidence. The employer protects the unsuccessful applicant’s feelings. The parent protects the dinner host. Somewhere between kindness and convenience, honesty begins quietly negotiating its surrender.

Perhaps the question is not simply, “Am I telling the truth?”

It is, “Am I withholding the truth to protect somebody else — or merely to protect myself?”

Honesty may still be the best policy. But if everyone were compelled to practise it without mercy, most of us would probably last until lunchtime before asking for the white lies to be switched back on.