1984by George OrwellPart 2Chapter 9
Winston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was the
right word. It had come into his head spontaneously. His body seemed to
have not only the weakness of a jelly, but its translucency. He felt
that if he held up his hand he would be able to see the light through
it. All the blood and lymph had been drained out of him by an enormous
debauch of work, leaving only a frail structure of nerves, bones, and
skin. All sensations seemed to be magnified. His overalls fretted his
shoulders, the pavement tickled his feet, even the opening and closing
of a hand was an effort that made his joints creak.
He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So had everyone
else in the Ministry. Now it was all over, and he had literally nothing
to do, no Party work of any description, until tomorrow morning. He
could spend six hours in the hiding-place and another nine in his own
bed. Slowly, in mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a dingy street in
the direction of Mr Charrington's shop, keeping one eye open for the
patrols, but irrationally convinced that this afternoon there was no
danger of anyone interfering with him. The heavy brief-case that he was
carrying bumped against his knee at each step, sending a tingling
sensation up and down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book,
which he had now had in his possession for six days and had not yet
opened, nor even looked at.
On the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the speeches,
the shouting, the singing, the banners, the posters, the films, the
waxworks, the rolling of drums and squealing of trumpets, the tramp of
marching feet, the grinding of the caterpillars of tanks, the roar of
massed planes, the booming of guns -- after six days of this, when the
great orgasm was quivering to its climax and the general hatred of
Eurasia had boiled up into such delirium that if the crowd could have
got their hands on the 2,000 Eurasian war-criminals who were to be
publicly hanged on the last day of the proceedings, they would
unquestionably have torn them to pieces -- at just this moment it had
been announced that Oceania was not after all at war with Eurasia.
Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Eurasia was an ally.
There was, of course, no admission that any change had taken place.
Merely it became known, with extreme suddenness and everywhere at once,
that Eastasia and not Eurasia was the enemy. Winston was taking part in
a demonstration in one of the central London squares at the moment when
it happened. It was night, and the white faces and the scarlet banners
were luridly floodlit. The square was packed with several thousand
people, including a block of about a thousand schoolchildren in the
uniform of the Spies. On a scarlet-draped platform an orator of the
Inner Party, a small lean man with disproportionately long arms and a
large bald skull over which a few lank locks straggled, was haranguing
the crowd. A little Rumpelstiltskin figure, contorted with hatred, he
gripped the neck of the microphone with one hand while the other,
enormous at the end of a bony arm, clawed the air menacingly above his
head. His voice, made metallic by the amplifiers, boomed forth an
endless catalogue of atrocities, massacres, deportations, lootings,
rapings, torture of prisoners, bombing of civilians, lying propaganda,
unjust aggressions, broken treaties. It was almost impossible to listen
to him without being first convinced and then maddened. At every few
moments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the voice of the speaker
was drowned by a wild beast-like roaring that rose uncontrollably from
thousands of throats. The most savage yells of all came from the
schoolchildren. The speech had been proceeding for perhaps twenty
minutes when a messenger hurried on to the platform and a scrap of
paper was slipped into the speaker's hand. He unrolled and read it
without pausing in his speech. Nothing altered in his voice or manner,
or in the content of what he was saying, but suddenly the names were
different. Without words said, a wave of understanding rippled through
the crowd. Oceania was at war with Eastasia! The next moment there was
a tremendous commotion. The banners and posters with which the square
was decorated were all wrong! Quite half of them had the wrong faces on
them. It was sabotage! The agents of Goldstein had been at work! There
was a riotous interlude while posters were ripped from the walls,
banners torn to shreds and trampled underfoot. The Spies performed
prodigies of activity in clambering over the rooftops and cutting the
streamers that fluttered from the chimneys. But within two or three
minutes it was all over. The orator, still gripping the neck of the
microphone, his shoulders hunched forward, his free hand clawing at the
air, had gone straight on with his speech. One minute more, and the
feral roars of rage were again bursting from the crowd. The Hate
continued exactly as before, except that the target had been changed.
The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was that the
speaker had switched from one line to the other actually in
midsentence, not only without a pause, but without even breaking the
syntax. But at the moment he had other things to preoccupy him. It was
during the moment of disorder while the posters were being torn down
that a man whose face he did not see had tapped him on the shoulder and
said, 'Excuse me, I think you've dropped your brief-case.' He took the
brief-case abstractedly, without speaking. He knew that it would be
days before he had an opportunity to look inside it. The instant that
the demonstration was over he went straight to the Ministry of Truth,
though the time was now nearly twenty-three hours. The entire staff of
the Ministry had done likewise. The orders already issuing from the
telescreen, recalling them to their posts, were hardly necessary.
Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always been at war
with Eastasia. A large part of the political literature of five years
was now completely obsolete. Reports and records of all kinds,
newspapers, books, pamphlets, films, sound-tracks, photographs -- all
had to be rectified at lightning speed. Although no directive was ever
issued, it was known that the chiefs of the Department intended that
within one week no reference to the war with Eurasia, or the alliance
with Eastasia, should remain in existence anywhere. The work was
overwhelming, all the more so because the processes that it involved
could not be called by their true names. Everyone in the Records
Department worked eighteen hours in the twenty-four, with two
three-hour snatches of sleep. Mattresses were brought up from the
cellars and pitched all over the corridors: meals consisted of
sandwiches and Victory Coffee wheeled round on trolleys by attendants
from the canteen. Each time that Winston broke off for one of his
spells of sleep he tried to leave his desk clear of work, and each time
that he crawled back sticky-eyed and aching, it was to find that
another shower of paper cylinders had covered the desk like a
snowdrift, half burying the speakwrite and overflowing on to the floor,
so that the first job was always to stack them into a neat enough pile
to give him room to work. What was worst of all was that the work was
by no means purely mechanical. Often it was enough merely to substitute
one name for another, but any detailed report of events demanded care
and imagination. Even the geographical knowledge that one needed in
transferring the war from one part of the world to another was
considerable.
By the third day his eyes ached unbearably and his spectacles
needed wiping every few minutes. It was like struggling with some
crushing physical task, something which one had the right to refuse and
which one was nevertheless neurotically anxious to accomplish. In so
far as he had time to remember it, he was not troubled by the fact that
every word he murmured into the speakwrite, every stroke of his
ink-pencil, was a deliberate lie. He was as anxious as anyone else in
the Department that the forgery should be perfect. On the morning of
the sixth day the dribble of cylinders slowed down. For as much as half
an hour nothing came out of the tube; then one more cylinder, then
nothing. Everywhere at about the same time the work was easing off. A
deep and as it were secret sigh went through the Department. A mighty
deed, which could never be mentioned, had been achieved. It was now
impossible for any human being to prove by documentary evidence that
the war with Eurasia had ever happened. At twelve hundred it was
unexpectedly announced that all workers in the Ministry were free till
tomorrow morning. Winston, still carrying the brief-case containing the
book, which had remained between his feet while he worked and under his
body while he slept, went home, shaved himself, and almost fell asleep
in his bath, although the water was barely more than tepid.
With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he climbed the
stair above Mr Charrington's shop. He was tired, but not sleepy any
longer. He opened the window, lit the dirty little oilstove and put on
a pan of water for coffee. Julia would arrive presently: meanwhile
there was the book. He sat down in the sluttish armchair and undid the
straps of the brief-case.
A heavy black volume, amateurishly bound, with no name or title on
the cover. The print also looked slightly irregular. The pages were
worn at the edges, and fell apart, easily, as though the book had
passed through many hands. The inscription on the title-page ran:
. THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF
OLIGARCHICAL COLLECTIVISM
by
Emmanuel Goldstein
Winston began reading:
Chapter I
Ignorance is Strength
Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the
Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the
High, the Middle, and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways,
they have borne countless different names, and their relative numbers,
as well as their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to
age: but the essential structure of society has never altered. Even
after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same
pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always
return to equilibrium, however far it is pushed one way or the other.
The aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable...
.
Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact
that he was reading, in comfort and safety. He was alone: no
telescreen, no ear at the keyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over
his shoulder or cover the page with his hand. The sweet summer air
played against his cheek. From somewhere far away there floated the
faint shouts of children: in the room itself there was no sound except
the insect voice of the clock. He settled deeper into the arm-chair and
put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss, it was eternity. Suddenly,
as one sometimes does with a book of which one knows that one will
ultimately read and re-read every word, he opened it at a different
place and found himself at Chapter III. He went on reading:
. Chapter III
War is Peace
The splitting up of the world into three great super-states was an
event which could be and indeed was foreseen before the middle of the
twentieth century. With the absorption of Europe by Russia and of the
British Empire by the United States, two of the three existing powers,
Eurasia and Oceania, were already effectively in being. The third,
Eastasia, only emerged as a distinct unit after another decade of
confused fighting. The frontiers between the three super-states are in
some places arbitrary, and in others they fluctuate according to the
fortunes of war, but in general they follow geographical lines. Eurasia
comprises the whole of the northern part of the European and Asiatic
land-mass, from Portugal to the Bering Strait. Oceania comprises the
Americas, the Atlantic islands including the British Isles,
Australasia, and the southern portion of Africa. Eastasia, smaller than
the others and with a less definite western frontier, comprises China
and the countries to the south of it, the Japanese islands and a large
but fluctuating portion of Manchuria, Mongolia, and Tibet.
In one combination or another, these three super-states are
permanently at war, and have been so for the past twenty-five years.
War, however, is no longer the desperate, annihilating struggle that it
was in the early decades of the twentieth century. It is a warfare of
limited aims between combatants who are unable to destroy one another,
have no material cause for fighting and are not divided by any genuine
ideological difference. This is not to say that either the conduct of
war, or the prevailing attitude towards it, has become less
bloodthirsty or more chivalrous. On the contrary, war hysteria is
continuous and universal in all countries, and such acts as raping,
looting, the slaughter of children, the reduction of whole populations
to slavery, and reprisals against prisoners which extend even to
boiling and burying alive, are looked upon as normal, and, when they
are committed by one's own side and not by the enemy, meritorious. But
in a physical sense war involves very small numbers of people, mostly
highly-trained specialists, and causes comparatively few casualties.
The fighting, when there is any, takes place on the vague frontiers
whose whereabouts the average man can only guess at, or round the
Floating Fortresses which guard strategic spots on the sea lanes. In
the centres of civilization war means no more than a continuous
shortage of consumption goods, and the occasional crash of a rocket
bomb which may cause a few scores of deaths. War has in fact changed
its character. More exactly, the reasons for which war is waged have
changed in their order of importance. Motives which were already
present to some small extent in the great wars of the early twentieth
century have now become dominant and are consciously recognized and
acted upon.
To understand the nature of the present war -- for in spite of the
regrouping which occurs every few years, it is always the same war --
one must realize in the first place that it is impossible for it to be
decisive. None of the three super-states could be definitively
conquered even by the other two in combination. They are too evenly
matched, and their natural defences are too formidable. Eurasia is
protected by its vast land spaces. Oceania by the width of the Atlantic
and the Pacific, Eastasia by the fecundity and industriousness of its
inhabitants. Secondly, there is no longer, in a material sense,
anything to fight about. With the establishment of self-contained
economies, in which production and consumption are geared to one
another, the scramble for markets which was a main cause of previous
wars has come to an end, while the competition for raw materials is no
longer a matter of life and death. In any case each of the three
super-states is so vast that it can obtain almost all the materials
that it needs within its own boundaries. In so far as the war has a
direct economic purpose, it is a war for labour power. Between the
frontiers of the super-states, and not permanently in the possession of
any of them, there lies a rough quadrilateral with its corners at
Tangier, Brazzaville, Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing within it about
a fifth of the population of the earth. It is for the possession of
these thickly-populated regions, and of the northern ice-cap, that the
three powers are constantly struggling. In practice no one power ever
controls the whole of the disputed area. Portions of it are constantly
changing hands, and it is the chance of seizing this or that fragment
by a sudden stroke of treachery that dictates the endless changes of
alignment.
All of the disputed territories contain valuable minerals, and some
of them yield important vegetable products such as rubber which in
colder climates it is necessary to synthesize by comparatively
expensive methods. But above all they contain a bottomless reserve of
cheap labour. Whichever power controls equatorial Africa, or the
countries of the Middle East, or Southern India, or the Indonesian
Archipelago, disposes also of the bodies of scores or hundreds of
millions of ill-paid and hard-working coolies. The inhabitants of these
areas, reduced more or less openly to the status of slaves, pass
continually from conqueror to conqueror, and are expended like so much
coal or oil in the race to turn out more armaments, to capture more
territory, to control more labour power, to turn out more armaments, to
capture more territory, and so on indefinitely. It should be noted that
the fighting never really moves beyond the edges of the disputed areas.
The frontiers of Eurasia flow back and forth between the basin of the
Congo and the northern shore of the Mediterranean; the islands of the
Indian Ocean and the Pacific are constantly being captured and
recaptured by Oceania or by Eastasia; in Mongolia the dividing line
between Eurasia and Eastasia is never stable; round the Pole all three
powers lay claim to enormous territories which in fact are largely
unihabited and unexplored: but the balance of power always remains
roughly even, and the territory which forms the heartland of each
super-state always remains inviolate. Moreover, the labour of the
exploited peoples round the Equator is not really necessary to the
world's economy. They add nothing to the wealth of the world, since
whatever they produce is used for purposes of war, and the object of
waging a war is always to be in a better position in which to wage
another war. By their labour the slave populations allow the tempo of
continuous warfare to be speeded up. But if they did not exist, the
structure of world society, and the process by which it maintains
itself, would not be essentially different.
The primary aim of modern warfare (in accordance with the
principles of doublethink, this aim is simultaneously recognized and
not recognized by the directing brains of the Inner Party) is to use up
the products of the machine without raising the general standard of
living. Ever since the end of the nineteenth century, the problem of
what to do with the surplus of consumption goods has been latent in
industrial society. At present, when few human beings even have enough
to eat, this problem is obviously not urgent, and it might not have
become so, even if no artificial processes of destruction had been at
work. The world of today is a bare, hungry, dilapidated place compared
with the world that existed before 1914, and still more so if compared
with the imaginary future to which the people of that period looked
forward. In the early twentieth century, the vision of a future society
unbelievably rich, leisured, orderly, and efficient -- a glittering
antiseptic world of glass and steel and snow-white concrete -- was part
of the consciousness of nearly every literate person. Science and
technology were developing at a prodigious speed, and it seemed natural
to assume that they would go on developing. This failed to happen,
partly because of the impoverishment caused by a long series of wars
and revolutions, partly because scientific and technical progress
depended on the empirical habit of thought, which could not survive in
a strictly regimented society. As a whole the world is more primitive
today than it was fifty years ago. Certain backward areas have
advanced, and various devices, always in some way connected with
warfare and police espionage, have been developed, but experiment and
invention have largely stopped, and the ravages of the atomic war of
the nineteen-fifties have never been fully repaired. Nevertheless the
dangers inherent in the machine are still there. From the moment when
the machine first made its appearance it was clear to all thinking
people that the need for human drudgery, and therefore to a great
extent for human inequality, had disappeared. If the machine were used
deliberately for that end, hunger, overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and
disease could be eliminated within a few generations. And in fact,
without being used for any such purpose, but by a sort of automatic
process -- by producing wealth which it was sometimes impossible not to
distribute -- the machine did raise the living standards of the average
human being very greatly over a period of about fifty years at the end
of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries.
But it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth
threatened the destruction -- indeed, in some sense was the destruction
-- of a hierarchical society. In a world in which everyone worked short
hours, had enough to eat, lived in a house with a bathroom and a
refrigerator, and possessed a motor-car or even an aeroplane, the most
obvious and perhaps the most important form of inequality would already
have disappeared. If it once became general, wealth would confer no
distinction. It was possible, no doubt, to imagine a society in which
wealth, in the sense of personal possessions and luxuries, should be
evenly distributed, while power remained in the hands of a small
privileged caste. But in practice such a society could not long remain
stable. For if leisure and security were enjoyed by all alike, the
great mass of human beings who are normally stupefied by poverty would
become literate and would learn to think for themselves; and when once
they had done this, they would sooner or later realize that the
privileged minority had no function, and they would sweep it away. In
the long run, a hierarchical society was only possible on a basis of
poverty and ignorance. To return to the agricultural past, as some
thinkers about the beginning of the twentieth century dreamed of doing,
was not a practicable solution. It conflicted with the tendency towards
mechanization which had become quasi-instinctive throughout almost the
whole world, and moreover, any country which remained industrially
backward was helpless in a military sense and was bound to be
dominated, directly or indirectly, by its more advanced rivals.
Nor was it a satisfactory solution to keep the masses in poverty by
restricting the output of goods. This happened to a great extent during
the final phase of capitalism, roughly between 1920 and 1940. The
economy of many countries was allowed to stagnate, land went out of
cultivation, capital equipment was not added to, great blocks of the
population were prevented from working and kept half alive by State
charity. But this, too, entailed military weakness, and since the
privations it inflicted were obviously unnecessary, it made opposition
inevitable. The problem was how to keep the wheels of industry turning
without increasing the real wealth of the world. Goods must be
produced, but they must not be distributed. And in practice the only
way of achieving this was by continuous warfare.
The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human
lives, but of the products of human labour. War is a way of shattering
to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths
of the sea, materials which might otherwise be used to make the masses
too comfortable, and hence, in the long run, too intelligent. Even when
weapons of war are not actually destroyed, their manufacture is still a
convenient way of expending labour power without producing anything
that can be consumed. A Floating Fortress, for example, has locked up
in it the labour that would build several hundred cargo-ships.
Ultimately it is scrapped as obsolete, never having brought any
material benefit to anybody, and with further enormous labours another
Floating Fortress is built. In principle the war effort is always so
planned as to eat up any surplus that might exist after meeting the
bare needs of the population. In practice the needs of the population
are always underestimated, with the result that there is a chronic
shortage of half the necessities of life; but this is looked on as an
advantage. It is deliberate policy to keep even the favoured groups
somewhere near the brink of hardship, because a general state of
scarcity increases the importance of small privileges and thus
magnifies the distinction between one group and another. By the
standards of the early twentieth century, even a member of the Inner
Party lives an austere, laborious kind of life. Nevertheless, the few
luxuries that he does enjoy his large, well-appointed flat, the better
texture of his clothes, the better quality of his food and drink and
tobacco, his two or three servants, his private motor-car or helicopter
-- set him in a different world from a member of the Outer Party, and
the members of the Outer Party have a similar advantage in comparison
with the submerged masses whom we call 'the proles'. The social
atmosphere is that of a besieged city, where the possession of a lump
of horseflesh makes the difference between wealth and poverty. And at
the same time the consciousness of being at war, and therefore in
danger, makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste seem the
natural, unavoidable condition of survival.
War, it will be seen, accomplishes the necessary destruction, but
accomplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way. In principle it
would be quite simple to waste the surplus labour of the world by
building temples and pyramids, by digging holes and filling them up
again, or even by producing vast quantities of goods and then setting
fire to them. But this would provide only the economic and not the
emotional basis for a hierarchical society. What is concerned here is
not the morale of masses, whose attitude is unimportant so long as they
are kept steadily at work, but the morale of the Party itself. Even the
humblest Party member is expected to be competent, industrious, and
even intelligent within narrow limits, but it is also necessary that he
should be a credulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing moods are
fear, hatred, adulation, and orgiastic triumph. In other words it is
necessary that he should have the mentality appropriate to a state of
war. It does not matter whether the war is actually happening, and,
since no decisive victory is possible, it does not matter whether the
war is going well or badly. All that is needed is that a state of war
should exist. The splitting of the intelligence which the Party
requires of its members, and which is more easily achieved in an
atmosphere of war, is now almost universal, but the higher up the ranks
one goes, the more marked it becomes. It is precisely in the Inner
Party that war hysteria and hatred of the enemy are strongest. In his
capacity as an administrator, it is often necessary for a member of the
Inner Party to know that this or that item of war news is untruthful,
and he may often be aware that the entire war is spurious and is either
not happening or is being waged for purposes quite other than the
declared ones: but such knowledge is easily neutralized by the
technique of doublethink. Meanwhile no Inner Party member wavers for an
instant in his mystical belief that the war is real, and that it is
bound to end victoriously, with Oceania the undisputed master of the
entire world.
All members of the Inner Party believe in this coming conquest as
an article of faith. It is to be achieved either by gradually acquiring
more and more territory and so building up an overwhelming
preponderance of power, or by the discovery of some new and
unanswerable weapon. The search for new weapons continues unceasingly,
and is one of the very few remaining activities in which the inventive
or speculative type of mind can find any outlet. In Oceania at the
present day, Science, in the old sense, has almost ceased to exist. In
Newspeak there is no word for 'Science'. The empirical method of
thought, on which all the scientific achievements of the past were
founded, is opposed to the most fundamental principles of Ingsoc. And
even technological progress only happens when its products can in some
way be used for the diminution of human liberty. In all the useful arts
the world is either standing still or going backwards. The fields are
cultivated with horse-ploughs while books are written by machinery. But
in matters of vital importance -- meaning, in effect, war and police
espionage -- the empirical approach is still encouraged, or at least
tolerated. The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole surface
of the earth and to extinguish once and for all the possibility of
independent thought. There are therefore two great problems which the
Party is concerned to solve. One is how to discover, against his will,
what another human being is thinking, and the other is how to kill
several hundred million people in a few seconds without giving warning
beforehand. In so far as scientific research still continues, this is
its subject matter. The scientist of today is either a mixture of
psychologist and inquisitor, studying with real ordinary minuteness the
meaning of facial expressions, gestures, and tones of voice, and
testing the truth-producing effects of drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis,
and physical torture; or he is chemist, physicist, or biologist
concerned only with such branches of his special subject as are
relevant to the taking of life. In the vast laboratories of the
Ministry of Peace, and in the experimental stations hidden in the
Brazilian forests, or in the Australian desert, or on lost islands of
the Antarctic, the teams of experts are indefatigably at work. Some are
concerned simply with planning the logistics of future wars; others
devise larger and larger rocket bombs, more and more powerful
explosives, and more and more impenetrable armour-plating; others
search for new and deadlier gases, or for soluble poisons capable of
being produced in such quantities as to destroy the vegetation of whole
continents, or for breeds of disease germs immunized against all
possible antibodies; others strive to produce a vehicle that shall bore
its way under the soil like a submarine under the water, or an
aeroplane as independent of its base as a sailing-ship; others explore
even remoter possibilities such as focusing the sun's rays through
lenses suspended thousands of kilometres away in space, or producing
artificial earthquakes and tidal waves by tapping the heat at the
earth's centre.
But none of these projects ever comes anywhere near realization,
and none of the three super-states ever gains a significant lead on the
others. What is more remarkable is that all three powers already
possess, in the atomic bomb, a weapon far more powerful than any that
their present researches are likely to discover. Although the Party,
according to its habit, claims the invention for itself, atomic bombs
first appeared as early as the nineteen-forties, and were first used on
a large scale about ten years later. At that time some hundreds of
bombs were dropped on industrial centres, chiefly in European Russia,
Western Europe, and North America. The effect was to convince the
ruling groups of all countries that a few more atomic bombs would mean
the end of organized society, and hence of their own power. Thereafter,
although no formal agreement was ever made or hinted at, no more bombs
were dropped. All three powers merely continue to produce atomic bombs
and store them up against the decisive opportunity which they all
believe will come sooner or later. And meanwhile the art of war has
remained almost stationary for thirty or forty years. Helicopters are
more used than they were formerly, bombing planes have been largely
superseded by self-propelled projectiles, and the fragile movable
battleship has given way to the almost unsinkable Floating Fortress;
but otherwise there has been little development. The tank, the
submarine, the torpedo, the machine gun, even the rifle and the hand
grenade are still in use. And in spite of the endless slaughters
reported in the Press and on the telescreens, the desperate battles of
earlier wars, in which hundreds of thousands or even millions of men
were often killed in a few weeks, have never been repeated.
None of the three super-states ever attempts any manoeuvre which
involves the risk of serious defeat. When any large operation is
undertaken, it is usually a surprise attack against an ally. The
strategy that all three powers are following, or pretend to themselves
that they are following, is the same. The plan is, by a combination of
fighting, bargaining, and well-timed strokes of treachery, to acquire a
ring of bases completely encircling one or other of the rival states,
and then to sign a pact of friendship with that rival and remain on
peaceful terms for so many years as to lull suspicion to sleep. During
this time rockets loaded with atomic bombs can be assembled at all the
strategic spots; finally they will all be fired simultaneously, with
effects so devastating as to make retaliation impossible. It will then
be time to sign a pact of friendship with the remaining world-power, in
preparation for another attack. This scheme, it is hardly necessary to
say, is a mere daydream, impossible of realization. Moreover, no
fighting ever occurs except in the disputed areas round the Equator and
the Pole: no invasion of enemy territory is ever undertaken. This
explains the fact that in some places the frontiers between the
superstates are arbitrary. Eurasia, for example, could easily conquer
the British Isles, which are geographically part of Europe, or on the
other hand it would be possible for Oceania to push its frontiers to
the Rhine or even to the Vistula. But this would violate the principle,
followed on all sides though never formulated, of cultural integrity.
If Oceania were to conquer the areas that used once to be known as
France and Germany, it would be necessary either to exterminate the
inhabitants, a task of great physical difficulty, or to assimilate a
population of about a hundred million people, who, so far as technical
development goes, are roughly on the Oceanic level. The problem is the
same for all three super-states. It is absolutely necessary to their
structure that there should be no contact with foreigners, except, to a
limited extent, with war prisoners and coloured slaves. Even the
official ally of the moment is always regarded with the darkest
suspicion. War prisoners apart, the average citizen of Oceania never
sets eyes on a citizen of either Eurasia or Eastasia, and he is
forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If he were allowed
contact with foreigners he would discover that they are creatures
similar to himself and that most of what he has been told about them is
lies. The sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the fear,
hatred, and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might
evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides that however often
Persia, or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon may change hands, the main
frontiers must never be crossed by anything except bombs.
Under this lies a fact never mentioned aloud, but tacitly
understood and acted upon: namely, that the conditions of life in all
three super-states are very much the same. In Oceania the prevailing
philosophy is called Ingsoc, in Eurasia it is called Neo-Bolshevism,
and in Eastasia it is called by a Chinese name usually translated as
Death-Worship, but perhaps better rendered as Obliteration of the Self.
The citizen of Oceania is not allowed to know anything of the tenets of
the other two philosophies, but he is taught to execrate them as
barbarous outrages upon morality and common sense. Actually the three
philosophies are barely distinguishable, and the social systems which
they support are not distinguishable at all. Everywhere there is the
same pyramidal structure, the same worship of semi-divine leader, the
same economy existing by and for continuous warfare. It follows that
the three super-states not only cannot conquer one another, but would
gain no advantage by doing so. On the contrary, so long as they remain
in conflict they prop one another up, like three sheaves of corn. And,
as usual, the ruling groups of all three powers are simultaneously
aware and unaware of what they are doing. Their lives are dedicated to
world conquest, but they also know that it is necessary that the war
should continue everlastingly and without victory. Meanwhile the fact
that there is no danger of conquest makes possible the denial of
reality which is the special feature of Ingsoc and its rival systems of
thought. Here it is necessary to repeat what has been said earlier,
that by becoming continuous war has fundamentally changed its
character.
In past ages, a war, almost by definition, was something that
sooner or later came to an end, usually in unmistakable victory or
defeat. In the past, also, war was one of the main instruments by which
human societies were kept in touch with physical reality. All rulers in
all ages have tried to impose a false view of the world upon their
followers, but they could not afford to encourage any illusion that
tended to impair military efficiency. So long as defeat meant the loss
of independence, or some other result generally held to be undesirable,
the precautions against defeat had to be serious. Physical facts could
not be ignored. In philosophy, or religion, or ethics, or politics, two
and two might make five, but when one was designing a gun or an
aeroplane they had to make four. Inefficient nations were always
conquered sooner or later, and the struggle for efficiency was inimical
to illusions. Moreover, to be efficient it was necessary to be able to
learn from the past, which meant having a fairly accurate idea of what
had happened in the past. Newspapers and history books were, of course,
always coloured and biased, but falsification of the kind that is
practised today would have been impossible. War was a sure safeguard of
sanity, and so far as the ruling classes were concerned it was probably
the most important of all safeguards. While wars could be won or lost,
no ruling class could be completely irresponsible.
But when war becomes literally continuous, it also ceases to be
dangerous. When war is continuous there is no such thing as military
necessity. Technical progress can cease and the most palpable facts can
be denied or disregarded. As we have seen, researches that could be
called scientific are still carried out for the purposes of war, but
they are essentially a kind of daydreaming, and their failure to show
results is not important. Efficiency, even military efficiency, is no
longer needed. Nothing is efficient in Oceania except the Thought
Police. Since each of the three super-states is unconquerable, each is
in effect a separate universe within which almost any perversion of
thought can be safely practised. Reality only exerts its pressure
through the needs of everyday life -- the need to eat and drink, to get
shelter and clothing, to avoid swallowing poison or stepping out of
top-storey windows, and the like. Between life and death, and between
physical pleasure and physical pain, there is still a distinction, but
that is all. Cut off from contact with the outer world, and with the
past, the citizen of Oceania is like a man in interstellar space, who
has no way of knowing which direction is up and which is down. The
rulers of such a state are absolute, as the Pharaohs or the Caesars
could not be. They are obliged to prevent their followers from starving
to death in numbers large enough to be inconvenient, and they are
obliged to remain at the same low level of military technique as their
rivals; but once that minimum is achieved, they can twist reality into
whatever shape they choose.
The war, therefore, if we judge it by the standards of previous
wars, is merely an imposture. It is like the battles between certain
ruminant animals whose horns are set at such an angle that they are
incapable of hurting one another. But though it is unreal it is not
meaningless. It eats up the surplus of consumable goods, and it helps
to preserve the special mental atmosphere that a hierarchical society
needs. War, it will be seen, is now a purely internal affair. In the
past, the ruling groups of all countries, although they might recognize
their common interest and therefore limit the destructiveness of war,
did fight against one another, and the victor always plundered the
vanquished. In our own day they are not fighting against one another at
all. The war is waged by each ruling group against its own subjects,
and the object of the war is not to make or prevent conquests of
territory, but to keep the structure of society intact. The very word
'war', therefore, has become misleading. It would probably be accurate
to say that by becoming continuous war has ceased to exist. The
peculiar pressure that it exerted on human beings between the Neolithic
Age and the early twentieth century has disappeared and been replaced
by something quite different. The effect would be much the same if the
three super-states, instead of fighting one another, should agree to
live in perpetual peace, each inviolate within its own boundaries. For
in that case each would still be a self-contained universe, freed for
ever from the sobering influence of external danger. A peace that was
truly permanent would be the same as a permanent war. This -- although
the vast majority of Party members understand it only in a shallower
sense -- is the inner meaning of the Party slogan: War is Peace.
.
Winston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in remote distance
a rocket bomb thundered. The blissful feeling of being alone with the
forbidden book, in a room with no telescreen, had not worn off.
Solitude and safety were physical sensations, mixed up somehow with the
tiredness of his body, the softness of the chair, the touch of the
faint breeze from the window that played upon his cheek. The book
fascinated him, or more exactly it reassured him. In a sense it told
him nothing that was new, but that was part of the attraction. It said
what he would have said, if it had been possible for him to set his
scattered thoughts in order. It was the product of a mind similar to
his own, but enormously more powerful, more systematic, less
fear-ridden. The best books, he perceived, are those that tell you what
you know already. He had just turned back to Chapter I when he heard
Julia's footstep on the stair and started out of his chair to meet her.
She dumped her brown tool-bag on the floor and flung herself into his
arms. It was more than a week since they had seen one another.
'I've got the book,' he said as they disentangled themselves.
'Oh, you've got it? Good,' she said without much interest, and
almost immediately knelt down beside the oilstove to make the coffee.
They did not return to the subject until they had been in bed for
half an hour. The evening was just cool enough to make it worth while
to pull up the counterpane. From below came the familiar sound of
singing and the scrape of boots on the flagstones. The brawny red-armed
woman whom Winston had seen there on his first visit was almost a
fixture in the yard. There seemed to be no hour of daylight when she
was not marching to and fro between the washtub and the line,
alternately gagging herself with clothes pegs and breaking forth into
lusty song. Julia had settled down on her side andseemed to be already
on the point of falling asleep. He reached out for the book, which was
lying on the floor, and sat up against the bedhead.
'We must read it,' he said. 'You too. All members of the Brotherhood have to read it.'
'You read it,' she said with her eyes shut. 'Read it aloud. That's the best way. Then you can explain it to me as you go.'
The clock's hands said six, meaning eighteen. They had three or
four hours ahead of them. He propped the book against his knees and
began reading:
. Chapter I
Ignorance is Strength
Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the
Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the
High, the Middle, and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways,
they have borne countless different names, and their relative numbers,
as well as their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to
age: but the essential structure of society has never altered. Even
after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same
pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always
return to equilibnum, however far it is pushed one way or the other --
.
'Julia, are you awake?' said Winston.
'Yes, my love, I'm listening. Go on. It's marvellous.'
He continued reading:
. The aims of these three groups are entirely irreconcilable. The
aim of the High is to remain where they are. The aim of the Middle is
to change places with the High. The aim of the Low, when they have an
aim -- for it is an abiding characteristic of the Low that they are too
much crushed by drudgery to be more than intermittently conscious of
anything outside their daily lives -- is to abolish all distinctions
and create a society in which all men shall be equal. Thus throughout
history a struggle which is the same in its main outlines recurs over
and over again. For long periods the High seem to be securely in power,
but sooner or later there always comes a moment when they lose either
their belief in themselves or their capacity to govern efficiently, or
both. They are then overthrown by the Middle, who enlist the Low on
their side by pretending to them that they are fighting for liberty and
justice. As soon as they have reached their objective, the Middle
thrust the Low back into their old position of servitude, and
themselves become the High. Presently a new Middle group splits off
from one of the other groups, or from both of them, and the struggle
begins over again. Of the three groups, only the Low are never even
temporarily successful in achieving their aims. It would be an
exaggeration to say that throughout history there has been no progress
of a material kind. Even today, in a period of decline, the average
human being is physically better off than he was a few centuries ago.
But no advance in wealth, no softening of manners, no reform or
revolution has ever brought human equality a millimetre nearer. From
the point of view of the Low, no historic change has ever meant much
more than a change in the name of their masters.
By the late nineteenth century the recurrence of this pattern had
become obvious to many observers. There then rose schools of thinkers
who interpreted history as a cyclical process and claimed to show that
inequality was the unalterable law of human life. This doctrine, of
course, had always had its adherents, but in the manner in which it was
now put forward there was a significant change. In the past the need
for a hierarchical form of society had been the doctrine specifically
of the High. It had been preached by kings and aristocrats and by the
priests, lawyers, and the like who were parasitical upon them, and it
had generally been softened by promises of compensation in an imaginary
world beyond the grave. The Middle, so long as it was struggling for
power, had always made use of such terms as freedom, justice, and
fraternity. Now, however, the concept of human brotherhood began to be
assailed by people who were not yet in positions of command, but merely
hoped to be so before long. In the past the Middle had made revolutions
under the banner of equality, and then had established a fresh tyranny
as soon as the old one was overthrown. The new Middle groups in effect
proclaimed their tyranny beforehand. Socialism, a theory which appeared
in the early nineteenth century and was the last link in a chain of
thought stretching back to the slave rebellions of antiquity, was still
deeply infected by the Utopianism of past ages. But in each variant of
Socialism that appeared from about 1900 onwards the aim of establishing
liberty and equality was more and more openly abandoned. The new
movements which appeared in the middle years of the century, Ingsoc in
Oceania, Neo-Bolshevism in Eurasia, Death-Worship, as it is commonly
called, in Eastasia, had the conscious aim of perpetuating unfreedom
and inequality. These new movements, of course, grew out of the old
ones and tended to keep their names and pay lip-service to their
ideology. But the purpose of all of them was to arrest progress and
freeze history at a chosen moment. The familiar pendulum swing was to
happen once more, and then stop. As usual, the High were to be turned
out by the Middle, who would then become the High; but this time, by
conscious strategy, the High would be able to maintain their position
permanently.
The new doctrines arose partly because of the accumulation of
historical knowledge, and the growth of the historical sense, which had
hardly existed before the nineteenth century. The cyclical movement of
history was now intelligible, or appeared to be so; and if it was
intelligible, then it was alterable. But the principal, underlying
cause was that, as early as the beginning of the twentieth century,
human equality had become technically possible. It was still true that
men were not equal in their native talents and that functions had to be
specialized in ways that favoured some individuals against others; but
there was no longer any real need for class distinctions or for large
differences of wealth. In earlier ages, class distinctions had been not
only inevitable but desirable. Inequality was the price of
civilization. With the development of machine production, however, the
case was altered. Even if it was still necessary for human beings to do
different kinds of work, it was no longer necessary for them to live at
different social or economic levels. Therefore, from the point of view
of the new groups who were on the point of seizing power, human
equality was no longer an ideal to be striven after, but a danger to be
averted. In more primitive ages, when a just and peaceful society was
in fact not possible, it had been fairly easy to believe it. The idea
of an earthly paradise in which men should live together in a state of
brotherhood, without laws and without brute labour, had haunted the
human imagination for thousands of years. And this vision had had a
certain hold even on the groups who actually profited by each
historical change. The heirs of the French, English, and American
revolutions had partly believed in their own phrases about the rights
of man, freedom of speech, equality before the law, and the like, and
have even allowed their conduct to be influenced by them to some
extent. But by the fourth decade of the twentieth century all the main
currents of political thought were authoritarian. The earthly paradise
had been discredited at exactly the moment when it became realizable.
Every new political theory, by whatever name it called itself, led back
to hierarchy and regimentation. And in the general hardening of outlook
that set in round about 1930, practices which had been long abandoned,
in some cases for hundreds of years -- imprisonment without trial, the
use of war prisoners as slaves, public executions, torture to extract
confessions, the use of hostages, and the deportation of whole
populations -- not only became common again, but were tolerated and
even defended by people who considered themselves enlightened and
progressive.
It was only after a decade of national wars, civil wars,
revolutions, and counter-revolutions in all parts of the world that
Ingsoc and its rivals emerged as fully worked-out political theories.
But they had been foreshadowed by the various systems, generally called
totalitarian, which had appeared earlier in the century, and the main
outlines of the world which would emerge from the prevailing chaos had
long been obvious. What kind of people would control this world had
been equally obvious. The new aristocracy was made up for the most part
of bureaucrats, scientists, technicians, trade-union organizers,
publicity experts, sociologists, teachers, journalists, and
professional politicians. These people, whose origins lay in the
salaried middle class and the upper grades of the working class, had
been shaped and brought together by the barren world of monopoly
industry and centralized government. As compared with their opposite
numbers in past ages, they were less avaricious, less tempted by
luxury, hungrier for pure power, and, above all, more conscious of what
they were doing and more intent on crushing opposition. This last
difference was cardinal. By comparison with that existing today, all
the tyrannies of the past were half-hearted and inefficient. The ruling
groups were always infected to some extent by liberal ideas, and were
content to leave loose ends everywhere, to regard only the overt act
and to be uninterested in what their subjects were thinking. Even the
Catholic Church of the Middle Ages was tolerant by modern standards.
Part of the reason for this was that in the past no government had the
power to keep its citizens under constant surveillance. The invention
of print, however, made it easier to manipulate public opinion, and the
film and the radio carried the process further. With the development of
television, and the technical advance which made it possible to receive
and transmit simultaneously on the same instrument, private life came
to an end. Every citizen, or at least every citizen important enough to
be worth watching, could be kept for twenty-four hours a day under the
eyes of the police and in the sound of official propaganda, with all
other channels of communication closed. The possibility of enforcing
not only complete obedience to the will of the State, but complete
uniformity of opinion on all subjects, now existed for the first time.
After the revolutionary period of the fifties and sixties, society
regrouped itself, as always, into High, Middle, and Low. But the new
High group, unlike all its forerunners, did not act upon instinct but
knew what was needed to safeguard its position. It had long been
realized that the only secure basis for oligarchy is collectivism.
Wealth and privilege are most easily defended when they are possessed
jointly. The so-called 'abolition of private property' which took place
in the middle years of the century meant, in effect, the concentration
of property in far fewer hands than before: but with this difference,
that the new owners were a group instead of a mass of individuals.
Individually, no member of the Party owns anything, except petty
personal belongings. Collectively, the Party owns everything in
Oceania, because it controls everything, and disposes of the products
as it thinks fit. In the years following the Revolution it was able to
step into this commanding position almost unopposed, because the whole
process was represented as an act of collectivization. It had always
been assumed that if the capitalist class were expropriated, Socialism
must follow: and unquestionably the capitalists had been expropriated.
Factories, mines, land, houses, transport -- everything had been taken
away from them: and since these things were no longer private property,
it followed that they must be public property. Ingsoc, which grew out
of the earlier Socialist movement and inherited its phraseology, has in
fact carried out the main item in the Socialist programme; with the
result, foreseen and intended beforehand, that economic inequality has
been made permanent.
But the problems of perpetuating a hierarchical society go deeper
than this. There are only four ways in which a ruling group can fall
from power. Either it is conquered from without, or it governs so
inefficiently that the masses are stirred to revolt, or it allows a
strong and discontented Middle group to come into being, or it loses
its own self-confidence and willingness to govern. These causes do not
operate singly, and as a rule all four of them are present in some
degree. A ruling class which could guard against all of them would
remain in power permanently. Ultimately the determining factor is the
mental attitude of the ruling class itself.
After the middle of the present century, the first danger had in
reality disappeared. Each of the three powers which now divide the
world is in fact unconquerable, and could only become conquerable
through slow demographic changes which a government with wide powers
can easily avert. The second danger, also, is only a theoretical one.
The masses never revolt of their own accord, and they never revolt
merely because they are oppressed. Indeed, so long as they are not
permitted to have standards of comparison, they never even become aware
that they are oppressed. The recurrent economic crises of past times
were totally unnecessary and are not now permitted to happen, but other
and equally large dislocations can and do happen without having
political results, because there is no way in which discontent can
become articulate. As for the problem of overproduction, which has been
latent in our society since the development of machine technique, it is
solved by the device of continuous warfare (see Chapter III), which is
also useful in keying up public morale to the necessary pitch. From the
point of view of our present rulers, therefore, the only genuine
dangers are the splitting-off of a new group of able, under-employed,
power-hungry people, and the growth of liberalism and scepticism in
their own ranks. The problem, that is to say, is educational. It is a
problem of continuously moulding the consciousness both of the
directing group and of the larger executive group that lies immediately
below it. The consciousness of the masses needs only to be influenced
in a negative way.
Given this background, one could infer, if one did not know it
already, the general structure of Oceanic society. At the apex of the
pyramid comes Big Brother. Big Brother is infallible and all-powerful.
Every success, every achievement, every victory, every scientific
discovery, all knowledge, all wisdom, all happiness, all virtue, are
held to issue directly from his leadership and inspiration. Nobody has
ever seen Big Brother. He is a face on the hoardings, a voice on the
telescreen. We may be reasonably sure that he will never die, and there
is already considerable uncertainty as to when he was born. Big Brother
is the guise in which the Party chooses to exhibit itself to the world.
His function is to act as a focusing point for love, fear, and
reverence, emotions which are more easily felt towards an individual
than towards an organization. Below Big Brother comes the Inner Party,
its numbers limited to six millions, or something less than 2 per cent
of the population of Oceania. Below the Inner Party comes the Outer
Party, which, if the Inner Party is described as the brain of the
State, may be justly likened to the hands. Below that come the dumb
masses whom we habitually refer to as 'the proles', numbering perhaps
85 per cent of the population. In the terms of our earlier
classification, the proles are the Low: for the slave population of the
equatorial lands who pass constantly from conqueror to conqueror, are
not a permanent or necessary part of the structure.
In principle, membership of these three groups is not hereditary.
The child of Inner Party parents is in theory not born into the Inner
Party. Admission to either branch of the Party is by examination, taken
at the age of sixteen. Nor is there any racial discrimination, or any
marked domination of one province by another. Jews, Negroes, South
Americans of pure Indian blood are to be found in the highest ranks of
the Party, and the administrators of any area are always drawn from the
inhabitants of that area. In no part of Oceania do the inhabitants have
the feeling that they are a colonial population ruled from a distant
capital. Oceania has no capital, and its titular head is a person whose
whereabouts nobody knows. Except that English is its chief lingua
franca and Newspeak its official language, it is not centralized in any
way. Its rulers are not held together by blood-ties but by adherence to
a common doctrine. It is true that our society is stratified, and very
rigidly stratified, on what at first sight appear to be hereditary
lines. There is far less to-and-fro movement between the different
groups than happened under capitalism or even in the pre-industrial
age. Between the two branches of the Party there is a certain amount of
interchange, but only so much as will ensure that weaklings are
excluded from the Inner Party and that ambitious members of the Outer
Party are made harmless by allowing them to rise. Proletarians, in
practice, are not allowed to graduate into the Party. The most gifted
among them, who might possibly become nuclei of discontent, are simply
marked down by the Thought Police and eliminated. But this state of
affairs is not necessarily permanent, nor is it a matter of principle.
The Party is not a class in the old sense of the word. It does not aim
at transmitting power to its own children, as such; and if there were
no other way of keeping the ablest people at the top, it would be
perfectly prepared to recruit an entire new generation from the ranks
of the proletariat. In the crucial years, the fact that the Party was
not a hereditary body did a great deal to neutralize opposition. The
older kind of Socialist, who had been trained to fight against
something called 'class privilege' assumed that what is not hereditary
cannot be permanent. He did not see that the continuity of an oligarchy
need not be physical, nor did he pause to reflect that hereditary
aristocracies have always been shortlived, whereas adoptive
organizations such as the Catholic Church have sometimes lasted for
hundreds or thousands of years. The essence of oligarchical rule is not
father-to-son inheritance, but the persistence of a certain world-view
and a certain way of life, imposed by the dead upon the living. A
ruling group is a ruling group so long as it can nominate its
successors. The Party is not concerned with perpetuating its blood but
with perpetuating itself. Who wields power is not important, provided
that the hierarchical structure remains always the same.
All the beliefs, habits, tastes, emotions, mental attitudes that
characterize our time are really designed to sustain the mystique of
the Party and prevent the true nature of present-day society from being
perceived. Physical rebellion, or any preliminary move towards
rebellion, is at present not possible. From the proletarians nothing is
to be feared. Left to themselves, they will continue from generation to
generation and from century to century, working, breeding, and dying,
not only without any impulse to rebel, but without the power of
grasping that the world could be other than it is. They could only
become dangerous if the advance of industrial technique made it
necessary to educate them more highly; but, since military and
commercial rivalry are no longer important, the level of popular
education is actually declining. What opinions the masses hold, or do
not hold, is looked on as a matter of indifference. They can be granted
intellectual liberty because they have no intellect. In a Party member,
on the other hand, not even the smallest deviation of opinion on the
most unimportant subject can be tolerated.
A Party member lives from birth to death under the eye of the
Thought Police. Even when he is alone he can never be sure that he is
alone. Wherever he may be, asleep or awake, working or resting, in his
bath or in bed, he can be inspected without warning and without knowing
that he is being inspected. Nothing that he does is indifferent. His
friendships, his relaxations, his behaviour towards his wife and
children, the expression of his face when he is alone, the words he
mutters in sleep, even the characteristic movements of his body, are
all jealously scrutinized. Not only any actual misdemeanour, but any
eccentricity, however small, any change of habits, any nervous
mannerism that could possibly be the symptom of an inner struggle, is
certain to be detected. He has no freedom of choice in any direction
whatever. On the other hand his actions are not regulated by law or by
any clearly formulated code of behaviour. In Oceania there is no law.
Thoughts and actions which, when detected, mean certain death are not
formally forbidden, and the endless purges, arrests, tortures,
imprisonments, and vaporizations are not inflicted as punishment for
crimes which have actually been committed, but are merely the
wiping-out of persons who might perhaps commit a crime at some time in
the future. A Party member is required to have not only the right
opinions, but the right instincts. Many of the beliefs and attitudes
demanded of him are neve