Sa¢dī’s presentation of lying contrasts strikingly with theories that have prevailed in the study of ethics in colleges and universities around the world until relatively recently—namely, theories that became dominant after the European Enlightenment. Enlightenment philosophers have received such attention because they laid the groundwork for many values we deem “modern.” And their universality in higher education and in much of the world’s legal systems is no accident, for these theories themselves claim universality. Expressed simply, Enlightenment ethicists believed any rational, objective system could be applied to all. Such consistency led Immanuel Kant (d. 1804) to argue that lying to a potential murderer about the whereabouts of his potential victim would be morally wrong. After all, one does not tell the truth as a means to some other end but because truth telling is a logical conclusion following Kant’s “categorical imperative”: that is, it is absolutely binding and independent of other ends (as opposed to, for example, telling the truth so that others are impressed).3 Ultimately, the most basic of all categorical imperatives, underlying all the others, is that one’s actions must be such that one would want them applied universally: lying to a potential murderer for a desirable outcome takes advantage of that murderer’s sense of trust, an act that one cannot reasonably will for all. Hence, lying, even in this situation, is wrong, and truthfulness is a duty “however great the disadvantage.”4 Other philosophers saw Kant’s strange conclusion as indicating a larger flaw in his duty-based ethics, advocating instead a more careful consideration of the ends of our actions. For example, while John Stuart Mill (d. 1873) acknowledges that upholding honesty as a public virtue is in the best interests of all, he argues that exceptions should be made in certain cases, such as that of the would-be murderer just described.5 The method used to determine such exceptions is “weighing . . . conflicting utilities against one another”—that is, judging each act by its consequences. Mill’s focus on consequences lacks a categorical sense of duty, yet it nevertheless offers a formula that might be universally applied: anything that results in the most happiness is good.

Let us compare this, then, to Sa¢dī. Sa¢dī’s statement that a lie furthering “what is best is better than a truth that arouses sedition” might seem, at first glance, to promote a cost-benefit view of the world that resonates with Mill more than with Kant: a person should determine what might lead to the most favorable consequence for all and act accordingly, whether that means lying or telling the truth. In fact, however, the first vizier did not make such calculations. Lying, for him, was neither easy nor morally indifferent. Rather, he acted out of compassion and made an exception to his honest disposition. He understood why the prisoner—in such a state—would curse the king, like a “cornered cat jumps at a dog” in despair. If anything, the first vizier took account not of consequences but of the circumstances of the hapless prisoner. The second vizier, however, claiming to act out of a universal concern for never lying to one’s king, was motivated by vice. He seems to have acted out of a sycophantic impulse to curry favor with the king or perhaps (in one manuscript version of the story) a grudge he held toward the prisoner. The story does not offer absolutes. Instead, it tells us that sometimes one action might be “better” than another. Actions are not perfect but better or worse when compared with others.

The Circumstances of Our Actions

While it might be difficult—or even impossible—to label Sa¢dī’s ethics using post-Enlightenment theories, one thing is certain: one’s intentions and circumstances often matter more than moral universality. Intention here refers to the concept of niyyah, articulated in a saying of the Prophet Muĥammad ﷺ as the ultimate substance of every action; niyyah is that which can be described as “a heartfelt determination or firm resolve” to act, ideally, “for the sake of drawing near to God alone.”6 To take both intention and circumstance into account resonates with the sacred sources of Islamic ethics more generally. Indeed, Sa¢dī’s presentation of lying seems to be an expansion of a saying of the Prophet Muĥammad ﷺ: “The one who reconciles people by embellishing something good [that one has heard] or by saying something good [on behalf of someone else to promote reconciliation] is not a liar.”7 In this case, as in others, intention and situation affect the nature of the action.8 Whether in the study of Islamic law or in Islamic wisdom literature, context has often mattered greatly. Concepts such as daf¢ al-ĥaraj (“preventing undue hardship”) and al-¢urf (“custom”) have allowed legal scholars to bring a person’s or a people’s situation into consideration. In wisdom literature, the focus is even more squarely on such awareness about context or situatedness. Mere reflection on the human condition, furthermore, reveals the need to know the moral agent’s context. Somewhere between spirit and clay, between angel and animal, human beings find themselves perpetually pulled in contradicting directions, and even as they strive to be good, they are met at every turn with a challenge peculiar to their set of circumstances.

One might say that the conflict that arises when our individual challenges meet our unique life stories encapsulates what it means to be human. This might also explain why we delight in storytelling. Alasdair MacIntyre has argued that the human being is “essentially a story-telling animal.”9 Our actions become intelligible only in narrative.10 In fact, it is when life’s narrative becomes unintelligible to us that we lament that life has become “meaningless.”11 Storytelling has been, it seems, the most significant way we humans have communicated our norms, values, expectations, heroes, antiheroes, and villains. We have done so not because stories simplify things but because only narratives can represent the interwoven complexity of the individual situations of humans. Only narratives tell us how a person arrived at needing to make a decision. Only narratives tell us what character traits led to that decision. Only narratives give meaning to the outcome of that decision. This appreciation for perspective in ethical reasoning also appears in Sa¢dī’s writing.