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 and
seemed 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.
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