The Theory And
Practice Of Oligarchical Collectivism
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.
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 millimeter 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, underemployed, power-hungry people, and the
growth of liberalism and skepticism in their own ranks. The problem,
that is to say, is educational. It is a problem of continuously
molding 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.
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.
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 short-lived, 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.
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.
His friendships, his relaxations, his behavior 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 misdemeanor, 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 behavior. 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 never plainly stated, and could not be stated without laying bare the contradictions inherent in Ingsoc.
If he is a person naturally orthodox (in
Newspeak a good thinker), he will in all circumstances know, without
taking thought, what is the true belief or the desirable emotion.
But in any case an elaborate mental training, undergone in childhood
and grouping itself round the Newspeak words crime-stop,
black-white, and doublethink, makes him unwilling and unable to
think too deeply on any subject whatever.
The first and simplest stage in the discipline, which can be taught even to young children, is called, in Newspeak, crime-stop. Crime-stop means the faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction.
Crime-stop, in short, means protective stupidity. But stupidity is not enough. On the contrary, orthodoxy in the full sense demands a control over one's own mental processes as complete as that of a contortionist over his body. Oceanic society rests ultimately on the belief that Big Brother is omnipotent and that the Party is infallible. But since in reality Big Brother is not omnipotent and the party is not infallible, there is need for an unwearying, moment-to-moment flexibility in the treatment of facts.
The keyword here is black-white. Like so
many Newspeak words, this word has two mutually contradictory
meanings. Applied to an opponent, it means the habit of impudently
claiming that black is white, in contradiction of the plain facts.
Applied to a Party member, it means a loyal willingness to say that
black is white when Party discipline demands this. But it means also
the ability to believe that black is white, and more, to know that
black is white, and to forget that one has ever believed the
contrary. This demands a continuous alteration of the past, made
possible by the system of thought which really embraces all the
rest, and which is known in Newspeak as doublethink.
But by far the more important reason for the readjustment of the past is the need to safeguard the infallibility of the Party. It is not merely that speeches, statistics, and records of every kind must be constantly brought up to date in order to show that the predictions of the Party were in all cases right. It is also that no change in doctrine or in political alignment can ever be admitted. For to change one's mind, or even one's policy, is a confession of weakness. If, for example, Eurasia or Eastasia (whichever it may be) is the enemy today, then that country must always have been the enemy.
And if the facts say otherwise then the
facts must be altered. Thus history is continuously rewritten. This
day-to-day falsification of the past, carried out by the Ministry
of Truth, is as necessary to the stability of the regime as the work
of repression and espionage carried out by the Ministry of Love.
For when it has been recreated in whatever shape is needed at the moment, then this new version is the past, and no different past can ever have existed. This holds good even when, as often happens, the same event has to be altered out of recognition several times in the course of a year. At all times the Party is in possession of absolute truth, and clearly the absolute can never have been different from what it is now. It will be seen that the control of the past depends above all on the training of memory.
To make sure that all written records agree with the orthodoxy of the moment is merely a mechanical act. But it is also necessary to remember that events happened in the desired manner. And if it is necessary to rearrange one's memories or to tamper with written records, then it is necessary to forget that one has done so. The trick of doing this can be learned like any other mental technique. It is learned by the majority of Party members, and certainly by all who are intelligent as well as orthodox.
In Oldspeak it is called, quite frankly,
'reality control'. In Newspeak it is called doublethink, though
doublethink comprises much else as well.
Doublethink lies at the very heart of Ingsoc, since the essential act of the Party is to use conscious deception while retaining the firmness of purpose that goes with complete honesty. To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies -- all this is indispensably necessary.
Even in using the word doublethink it is
necessary to exercise doublethink. For by using the word one admits
that one is tampering with reality; by a fresh act of doublethink
one erases this knowledge; and so on indefinitely, with the lie
always one leap ahead of the truth. Ultimately it is by means of
doublethink that the Party has been able -- and may, for all we
know, continue to be able for thousands of years -- to arrest the
course of history.
One clear illustration of this is the fact that war hysteria increases in intensity as one rises in the social scale. Those whose attitude towards the war is most nearly rational are the subject peoples of the disputed territories. To these people the war is simply a continuous calamity which sweeps to and fro over their bodies like a tidal wave. Which side is winning is a matter of complete indifference to them. They are aware that a change of over-lordship means simply that they will be doing the same work as before for new masters who treat them in the same manner as the old ones.
The slightly more favored workers whom we call 'the proles' are only intermittently conscious of the war. When it is necessary they can be prodded into frenzies of fear and hatred, but when left to themselves they are capable of forgetting for long periods that the war is happening. It is in the ranks of the Party, and above all of the Inner Party, that the true war enthusiasm is found. World-conquest is believed in most firmly by those who know it to be impossible. This peculiar linking-together of opposites -- knowledge with ignorance, cynicism with fanaticism-is one of the chief distinguishing marks of Oceanic society.
The official ideology abounds with contradictions even when there is no practical reason for them. Thus, the Party rejects and vilifies every principle for which the Socialist movement originally stood, and it chooses to do this in the name of Socialism. It preaches a contempt for the working class unexampled for centuries past, and it dresses its members in a uniform which was at one time peculiar to manual workers and was adopted for that reason. It systematically undermines the solidarity of the family, and it calls its leader by a name which is a direct appeal to the sentiment of family loyalty.
Even the names of the four Ministries by which we are governed exhibit a sort of impudence in their deliberate reversal of the facts.
These
contradictions are not accidental, nor do they result from ordinary
hypocrisy; they are deliberate exercises in doublethink. For it is
only by reconciling contradictions that power can be retained
indefinitely. In no other way could the ancient cycle be broken. If
human equality is to be for ever averted -- if the High, as we have
called them, are to keep their places permanently -- then the
prevailing mental condition must be controlled insanity.
This motive really consists...
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.
The Three Superstates
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 centers 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.
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.
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 uninhabited 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 labor 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 labor 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.
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.
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.
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.
A Floating Fortress, for example, has locked up in it the labor 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 labors 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 favored 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.
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.
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 airplane 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 kilometers away in space, or producing
artificial earthquakes and tidal waves by tapping the heat at the
earth's centre.
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 centers, 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.
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 colored 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.
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.
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 airplane 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 colored and biased, but falsification of the kind that is
practiced 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.
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 practiced. 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.
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.
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