One
of the most intriguing developments in our current unpredictable
political climate has been the Left’s co-opting of George Orwell’s
dystopian novel 1984 as a dramatic warning of the dangers of the Trump administration. The book has surged to first place
on Amazon’s best-seller list, and a stage production is in the works. Michiko
Kakutani’s
recent New York Times article “Why ‘1984’ Is a 2017 Must-Read” highlights the kind of connections liberals are making between, say, Kellyanne
Conway’s appeal to “alternative facts” and “Newspeak
,” the reductive language of 1984 designed to “narrow the range of thought.”
I, for one, wholeheartedly endorse Kakutani’s suggestion that people take up and read
1984,
not only because any increase in substantive reading by ordinary
Americans is a good thing, but also because readers may discover there
something quite different from what they are being lead to expect,
something that they have great need to know.
1984 is not a
warning against populist despotism, troubling as that possibility may
be. It is a warning against socialism, whose inner dynamic always tends
towards totalitarianism.
Begin with a fact that virtually every recent piece on
1984
fails to mention: The governing philosophy of Oceania is “English
Socialism.” The ruler of Oceania, Big Brother, with his “heavy black
mustache,” looks unmistakably like Joseph Stalin; members of the Party
address one another as “Comrade”; and the non-party members of Oceania
are called “proles” (short for proletariat), an allusion that clearly
identifies the provenance of the ideas Orwell is criticizing. From its
opening lines,
1984 captures the grim atmosphere and grinding
poverty of socialism: “Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled in his breast in
an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass
doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl
of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled
cabbage and old rag mats.” The description could fit any city behind
the Iron Curtain.
1984 can fruitfully be read alongside two other warnings against socialist totalitarianism, F. A. Hayek’s
The Road to Serfdom (1944) and C. S. Lewis’s
The Abolition of Man (1943), which were published several years before
1984 (1949).
In
The Road to Serfdom, Hayek traces the logic that leads from
socialism to totalitarianism. Socialism seeks to overcome the greed,
waste, competitiveness, and inequality generated by the free market with
central economic planning by administrative and regulatory “experts.”
But whoever controls the means of life, Hayek observed, necessarily
controls the ends of life. Moreover, central planning, because it
requires minute and particular decisions by some centralized political
authority, is incompatible with the rule of law and limited government.
The concentration and exercise of power required by central planning
explains “Why the Worst Get on Top,” as one chapter puts it.
Oceania, with its Ministry of Truth, Ministry of Peace, and Ministry
of Love, with its constantly shifting quotas and rations of coffee, gin,
shoes, and cigarettes, where “nothing [is] illegal, since there [are]
no longer any laws” (but where one can still be “punished by death”),
where the rulers live in luxury while systematically depriving others of
basic needs, where all mediating institutions between the state and the
individual have been crowded out, eroded, or deliberately destroyed,
exemplifies the bureaucratic and despotic nightmare of centralized
planning. As the book describing the aims of Oceania’s Party states: “It
had long been recognized 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.”
Hayek shows why the central planning required by socialism ultimately
undermines its own ends. And indeed, the socialist Party in Oceania
only nominally pursues the original goals of socialism. This fact
perplexes the protagonist of
1984, Winston Smith: “
I understand HOW: I do not understand WHY,” he writes in his diary.
The deep roots of this “why” can be found in C. S. Lewis’s
The Abolition of Man.
There Lewis uncovers the philosophical roots of socialist
totalitarianism: Francis Bacon’s scientific project to conquer nature
for the relief of human suffering. That project entails a
reconceptualization of nature, from an intelligible order of formal and
final causes to mere matter in motion that must be “tortured” by human
technology to reveal its secrets. To assist this project, Bacon in his
New Atlantis invented a new form of literature, “science fiction,” in which he celebrated the complete scientific domination of nature.
But as Lewis’s argument suggests, the culmination of the Baconian project is not
New Atlantis but
1984. On
the one hand, Lewis points out that technology never simply increases
“mankind’s” power over nature. It always only increases the power of
some men over other men.
Moreover, nature as Bacon conceived of it excludes the possibility of a
“natural moral law” (what Lewis called the “Tao”) that might restrain
and guide “nature,” or raw appetite. Left unchecked, therefore, the
Baconian project of increasing man’s power over “nature” must eventually
result in the victory of “nature” over man.
This victory of “nature” over man does not consist in the denial of
this or that particular truth (for example, the size of the crowd at a
presidential inauguration), as troubling as that might be; it rests on
the denial of the possibility of truth. Confidence that truth exists is
the foundation for Winston’s hope that the Party will one day be
defeated. “
Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two makes four. If that is granted, all else follows,” he writes in his diary. The same point is made by John Paul II in
Centesimus Annus: “Totalitarianism arises out of a denial of truth in the objective sense.”
The concept of truth entails the possibility that the mind can
conform correctly (or incorrectly) to extra-mental reality, and
therefore that there is something in nature (and human nature) that can
resist domination and control. But as Immanuel Kant clearly saw (the
epigraph for his
First Critique is from Bacon), Baconian science
rests on the assumption that reality conforms to the mind, not the mind
to reality. This is not far from the claim that the mind
makes reality.
O’Brien, the novel’s voice of the socialist Party, denies that there
is any “objective reality” apart from the mind. “Reality exists in the
human mind, and nowhere else,” he tells Winston. “You must get rid of
those nineteenth-century ideas about the laws of nature. We make the
laws of nature.” O’Brien’s aim is to “cure” Winston of the “insane”
belief that there is any reality apart from his will. O’Brien makes
clear to Winston what this surrender will mean. “Never again will you be
capable of ordinary human feeling,” he tells Winston. “Everything will
be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or
friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or
integrity.” Is this the ultimate consequence of an educational system
predicated upon cultural relativism and the systematic denial that truth
exists?
There is one other source of hope for Winston: “
If there is hope it lies in the proles.”Unlike
the members of the Party, the proles are given almost complete freedom
to travel, buy, sell, trade, and otherwise spend their leisure. Winston
is attracted to a natural goodness he sees in the proles. He writes in
his diary about watching a violent war film that features the
dismemberment of small children by a bomb. The audience cheers, “
but a
woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a
fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of the
kids they didnt it aint right not in front of the kids it aint until the
police turned her out.”
Later, observing with “mystical reverence” a prole woman singing
outside his window as she hangs her laundry, he comments: “The birds
sang, the proles sang, the Party did not sing. . . . You were dead;
theirs [i.e., the proles’] was the future. But you could share in that
future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body, and
passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two makes four.” Winston’s
arrest occurs immediately after this episode.
But Orwell shows the reader the proles alone are not a real
alternative to totalitarianism, but a complement to it. Although the
Party does not directly control the proles, it rules them inwardly by
feeding them on a steady diet of mass-engineered sentimental music and
pornographic literature. This along with “films, football, beer, and,
above all, gambling filled the horizon of their minds.” Orwell
highlights the fact that the proles are also without a conception of
truth, because they lack the capacity for making the kind of universal
judgments that truth requires, and “being without general ideas, they
could only focus [their discontent] on petty specific grievances.” At
one point Winston attempts to learn from an old prole what life was like
before the revolution, but all he can get are particular descriptions:
“A sense of helplessness took hold of Winston. The old man’s memory was
nothing but a rubbish heap of details. One could question him all day
without getting any real information.” Expressive individualism, fed on
Hollywood pop culture, assists, rather than resists, totalitarianism.
In the end,
1984 is an unbelievably dark novel, but there are
moments of light, and those moments are instructive. What they show is
that the prospects for resistance to socialist totalitarianism rest in
fundamentally conservative sentiments and ideas. Those sentiments and
principles consist in the affirmation of transpolitical goods that set
firm limits to political authority. Two of these moments are worth
mentioning.
One day while surreptitiously exploring the shops in the prole part
of town, Winston comes across a heavy lump of glass with a pink piece of
sea coral in its center. He is immediately attracted to it, and
purchases it. “What appealed to him about it was not so much its beauty
as the air it seemed to possess of belonging to an age quite different
from the present one. . . . The thing was doubly attractive because of
its apparent uselessness, though he could guess that it must once have
been intended as a paperweight.” Orwell then adds: “It was a queer
thing, even a compromising thing, for a Party member to have in his
possession. Anything old, and for that matter anything beautiful, was
always vaguely suspect.”
In this moment Winston transcends the Baconian conception of nature
that surrounds him. The coral at the center of the glass ball
exemplifies nature, and the glass ball exemplifies culture. Coral is the
skeleton of a sea polyp, which — to quote Shakespeare on coral in
another place – “suffers a sea change / Into something rich and strange”
(
The Tempest I, ii, 399–400). Coral points to the ultimate
beneficence of nature, to its capacity to bring beauty even out of
death. The purpose of the glass ball, a work of art, is not to use up or
destroy the coral, but to preserve it and to present it for human
contemplation.
The paperweight is a symbolic education in limited government. It
reflects not Bacon’s godless nature, but “nature and Nature’s God,”
which point to goods like beauty and truth that transcend, and therefore
set limits to, politics. But in
1984 even the comfort of this
experience is fleeting. When Winston is later arrested, someone smashes
the paperweight on the hearthstone. “The fragment of coral, a tiny
crackle of pink like a sugar rosebud from a cake, rolled across the mat.
How small, thought Winston, how small it was!”
The other moment involves Winston’s romance with Julia. One of the
aims of the Party is to control and direct the sexual impulses of its
members through arranged marriages and organizations like the Junior
Anti-Sex League, of which Julia is a leader even as she covertly
despises it. When they first secretly meet in the country for a sexual
liaison, Winston asks Julia, “You like doing this? I don’t mean simply
me; I mean the thing itself?” Julia responds, “I adore it.” Orwell then
writes: “This was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the love
of one person, but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated
desire: That was the force that would tear the Party to
pieces. . . . Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It
was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act.”
In a very uncharacteristic misinterpretation, C. S. Lewis in
The Four Loves
took Orwell to task for this reductionistic depiction of sexual desire.
But in fact Orwell subtly acknowledges the poverty of this initial
opinion and gradually corrects it. The real danger of sexual desire for
totalitarianism, Orwell suggests, is not the sexual act itself (after
all, the proles have plenty of that) but the intrinsic tendency of
sexual desire towards the transpolitical good of a community of persons
rooted in exclusivity, permanence, and domesticity. Legal marriage being
made impossible by the Party, Winston and Julia secretly rent a room in
the prole section of town, where they dress up, dream, and enact the
private life of a married couple. And it is precisely through this
friendship that they decide to engage in a revolt against the Party,
knowing that it will eventually mean their death.
In conclusion, the person reading
1984 for insight into
America’s current political situation should ask a number of questions:
Which political party had a leading presidential candidate proudly
declare himself to be a socialist? Which party’s president consistently
sought to expand the regulatory administrative state, often by lawless
means? Which party dominates the institutions of higher learning, where
the possibility of truth has been consistently undermined by assumptions
of skepticism, scientism, and value relativism, and where utility has
replaced contemplation as the end of education? Which party controls
America’s public-school system, where these same ideas are consistently
promoted? Which party is most closely associated with Hollywood’s
celebration of sexual liberation and sentimentalism? Finally, which
party has sought to elevate the state over God by coercing private
individuals to violate their consciences?
In sum, if
1984 has a practical lesson, it is this: There is a
world of difference between a despotism dedicated to the expansion of
socialism through federal-government power and a despotism dedicated to
dismantling it. The former suffocates; the latter, though not without
its serious dangers, just might create room to breathe. Conservatives
must work to ensure that this breathing space becomes the occasion for
the revival of true conservative ideas, principles, and sentiments.
— Nathan Schlueter is a professor of philosophy and religion at Hillsdale College. His most recent book is Selfish Libertarians and Socialist Conservatives: The Foundations of the Libertarian–Conservative Debate, written with Nikolai Wenzel.