Lord Redesdale, a member of the English aristocracy, was stunned when his wife revealed that Tess of the d’Urbervilles was a work of fiction. He exclaimed, "What? Do you mean the damned sewer invented it?" This anecdote prompts reflection on the role of storytelling in modern society. The production of fictionalized accounts of our lives has become so commonplace that we barely register its significance. It is the defining feature of a civilization that it generates more stories than any other in history. Each night, millions of people across Britain tune in to watch actors bring common situations to life on screen.

Despite the pervasiveness of this phenomenon, we rarely stop to ask ourselves why we consume so many stories. What is it about this immersive experience that captivates us? The 20th century marked the democratization of art in various media such as television, film, radio, and newspapers. Fictional works could now speak to larger audiences than ever before, providing unique perspectives on the unprivileged and forgotten portions of society. Technological advancements did not hinder breakthroughs in subject matter, as seen in the works of critics like Hardy, Lawrence, and Brecht.

Despite the surge in the production of art and fiction, it is not uncommon to hear that these media have lost their relevance. Critics decry the death of the novel, poem, play, and movie with each new release. However, this truth is far from the actual state of these works. To be confronted by a surplus of options in any supermarket or cultural experience is not cause for throwing in the towel. Rather, it should be an opportunity to discover the wide range of options on offer.

The story of how painting came to play a significant role in the 20th century is truly inspiring, as exemplified by the reaction of Pablo Picasso when he heard the insult delivered by the Royal Academician, Alfred Munnings, upon his first encounter with Picasso’s work. Munnings had declared that Picasso could not paint a tree, to which Picasso replied, "He’s right. I can’t paint a tree. But I can paint the feeling you have when you look at a tree."

This superior ability to access our inner sentiments, the feeling that artists are somehow within us, knowing what we know but able to give it voice and form, has offered the artist a traditional claim of superiority over the "mere" documentarian. Music is often said to be the highest of arts because it is the closest to peace with its own irreducibility. It does not exist in relation to anything that can be adequately discussed or described, being experienced solely by the listener. Because it has no relation to verbal concepts or ideas, music is generally thought to be closest to the sublime.

However, when literature and the performing arts aim for the same level of acclaim as music or pure dance, claiming to be something more than photographic, they are forced to defend a second, contentious claim: that there exists a "higher truth" that can be attained only through lying. Thus the paradox of artistic expression is born – that by telling lies we reach the truth.

The end of the 19th century saw Oscar Wilde’s declaration that "the truth is never pure, and rarely simple," which foresaw much of the artistic mayhem that was to follow. When Sigmund Freud formalised the already-growing notion that we all have only irregular contact with our own selves, he gave artists a wonderfully irresponsible new field of play. Freud’s announcement that "the ego is not master in his own house" transformed the cultural world as much as it did the psychological. Not only were our characters unknowable, but our motives were too. Surrealism was born on the idea that we could not distinguish the face from the mask, and that dreams might be just as real as reality.

Towards the end of the century, however, there was a growing dissatisfaction with the artist’s facile escape clause that there is no single truth – only one’s own – and only at the moment, and not necessarily for long. Too many biographical dramas had falsified the facts of real-life figures, defended by their makers on the grounds that they expressed the "higher, poetic truth" of the matter – a phrase now often used to disguise inaccuracies.

One example of this occurred when a play of mine was performed in Holland, and my agent informed me that it had gone as well as it possibly could in that country. When I questioned him further, he told me that people in Holland never truly approve of plays because of their Puritan heritage, believing them to be nothing more than fiction – in other words, lies.

It was this anecdote that made me realize why the avant-garde has always been so well-received in that part of the world.

"Did the sewer invent it?" What a curious notion. In the late 20th century, a trend emerged with readers preferring biographies over fiction and television-watchers clamoring for "real" news over contrived drama. It suggests that the public’s tolerance for concoctions of lies and truth in their cocktail was shifting. Personally, I can only approach this complex subject by citing examples from my own familiarity.

One play that particularly stood out to me was Richard Norton-Taylor’s The Colour of Justice. It was a magnificent 1999 recreation of the Stephen Lawrence inquiry, comprised of Norton-Taylor’s own carefully-selected incidences and testimonies. His editing displayed the nuances and intricacies of British racism, all forms and gradations, with a clarity that television, documentary or newspaper could not match. Rather than be merely a reproach to the British theatre for its dwindling importance, it demonstrated the theatrical form’s profound depth and intensity.

It’s true, of course, that The Colour of Justice’s dialogue was "found." Norton-Taylor, like a sculptor with extant materials, didn’t need to waste time on the arduous work of crafting characters’ lines. In his perfect process of organization and choice, he did precisely what an artist does: he created. Similar to Picasso’s standards, Norton-Taylor went beyond painting a racist crime tribunal and conveyed the fury that one feels when they observe such a tribunal.

It was my exposure to that play that made me recognize how idle the assumption of "true" fact on television broadcasts can be. When I wrote Via Dolorosa, an account of my travel around Israel and the Palestinian territory in 1998, I felt that complex questions of religion and belief could only be properly addressed without conventional play-making tropes. As a foreigner with insufficient knowledge, I couldn’t write fiction that relied on traditional scenes. English actors brandishing machine guns, confronting each other at posts, donning yarmulkas, or pressing against the wire of refugee camps would introduce falsity that would taint the subject matter. So, I decided to act myself, such as a Dutch performance artist, to concentrate attention on the material. I believed that, in this case, if the audience could scrutinize the honesty of the witness, they could come to an informed conclusion.

The response to my work astounded me. People told me that despite watching countless documentaries, reading numerous articles, and purchasing numerous books, they’d never encountered the Middle East so vividly until they saw the play. Even with its unconventional form, it still followed traditional fiction measures, and nothing pleased me more than when a news journalist remarked, "One leaves with the conviction that one word can be worth a thousand pictures."

Due to my preference for this "going Dutch" approach, I’m frequently asked if I’m abandoning regular playwriting entirely. It’s annoying because not only is Via Dolorosa a play, but it misunderstands that form grows from the subject matter rather than being applied like paste. My goal in writing was to escape formula, not to create a novel one. I refused to follow old models, but I didn’t claim to establish a new one either. Although I stood alone on stage, unprotected by an actor’s technique, I was occasionally able to persuade the audience of my urgent sincerity which they found missing in my other plays.

I concur with the statement, but I would like to add that it is impossible to repeat any subversion in the same manner twice.

It is evident from my stance that I respect artists who strive to bring art closer to reality, drawing inspiration from elements external to them. As individuals, we turn to three disciplines to help us understand our existence: art, science, and religion. Given the limited time we have to acquire knowledge, I cannot fathom why any writer would prioritize opinion over curiosity or self-expression over enlightenment. How else will we convince the jaded audience that fiction transcends the mundane melodramas on television or the blandness of magazines? The constant bombardment of reality reinforces the importance of art, presenting an opportunity for creators to captivate and enthrall their audience.

Why tell stories? Simply put, if we do not, someone else will. We must tell stories because, as viewers, we need reminders that formulaic storytelling prevalent in today’s society does not reflect reality or our true selves. Conventional and substandard storytelling only dulls our senses, reducing our perception of the world. It is essential to restore our sense of wonder, given how much modern storytelling is an assault on our imagination. Science, for instance, continuously exposes us to new ideas, which could potentially lead to the erosion of the arts’ following. Artistic expression should not only be a gateway to knowledge but should inspire self-exploration and self-awareness.

I consider critics who dismiss contemporary works as dated fools and ignorant. From my observation and experience, it is challenging for artists to remain current in their craft. Many films and books offer little insight into life, instead reacting to other imitations of life that came before. Asking a writer about their influences implies that inspiration comes from other books rather than current events. Filmmakers like Mike Leigh, Pedro Almodovar, and Majid Majidi are among those who give storytelling a good name. They incorporate contemporary events into their works, producing pieces that reflect today’s world accurately.

During the Broadway run of Via Dolorosa, I noted how the play’s blend of fact and fiction sparked cultural commentary, particularly Ellen Brockman’s argument that the play was part of a broader trend toward realism in the arts. Brockman posited that given the saturation of reality in various mediums, the arts are conceding defeat, resorting to embellishing experiences unnecessarily. In my experience, I noticed that photographs of the Holocaust camps carried more emotional weight than paintings or sculptures inspired by the same events, which often detract from the subject matter. Brockman concludes that the modern audience desires authenticity, something I happen to agree with, as it is vital to connect and relate to the audience on a personal level.

Rather than following Brockman’s argument to abandon fiction in the face of reality’s ubiquity, our response should be to elevate fiction to new heights of originality and distinctiveness, showing that the greatest works of art are capable of matching the world’s infinite suggestiveness. We must recognize that the enemy of art is the belief in formulaic approaches, not the reality it seeks to represent.

David Hare’s insightful article on the importance of creativity and individuality in artistic endeavors appears in Arete magazine, which is available through a subscription of £21 for three issues (or £27 for overseas subscribers). To subscribe, please send a cheque to Arete magazine at 8 New College Lane, Oxford OX1 3BN.