The novel, as a literary form, has always been interested in interiority — in the interior life of characters, in the private feelings that public life cannot accommodate. This is not a minor preference. It is the defining characteristic of the form. The novel does something no other narrative art had done before it: it gives sustained access to a consciousness from the inside. The reader inhabits a perspective, lives briefly in another mind, and returns from the experience changed — if not in opinion, then in capacity for imagination.
It is for this reason that arguments about whether fiction can 'tell the truth' miss the point. The novel is not a vehicle for factual accuracy. It is a vehicle for the kind of truth that only emerges through the sustained inhabitation of a perspective you are not. When Tolstoy describes what it feels like to be Anna Karenina in her final hours, he is not reporting facts. He is transmitting an experience. Whether that experience corresponds to anything that happened does not determine whether it is true in the way that matters most.
The danger of this power is obvious. Novels can also transmit false experience — can make readers inhabit perspectives that distort, dehumanise, or mislead. The history of literature contains works that made virtuous what was cruel and sympathetic what was contemptible. The power of fiction to generate empathy is real. So is its power to generate its opposite.