The Primary Aim Of Modern Warfare - George Orwell
Tesla
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 cargoships. 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 semidivine leader, the
same economy existing by and for continuous warfare. It follows that the
three superstates 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.
Source: "1984" by George Orwell - Chapter III
Dänk 666
Orwell):
> ........................................................ 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.
George Orwell is a prophet, the greatest and wisest writer of all
time. The passage above describes the collective nature of leftism.
The danger of leftism is its collective nature: leftists do not think
for themselves, they simply chant slogans fed to them by their Party.
They cannot engage in reasoned debate with non-leftists, because that
would involve learning something about other ideas, which is
forbidden. All the leftist knows about non-leftist ideas is that they
are false gods, and therefore Nazi.
This collective mindset could be seen in the 2008 election, where it
was discovered that trying to argue with Obamatards was futile. Ask
them what they liked about Obama, and they would just bleat "O-baa-
ma!" Ask them what specific policies Obama would implement as
president and they bleated "O-baa-ma!" Tell them that you didn't
think Obama had enough experience or vision to be president, and they
called you a "Nazi." The whole thing strongly resembled a religious
cult, which also are collective by nature.
Bonnie
Orwell was not a *prophet*. He was however a *leftist*, and so your
rant does not even begin to make sense.
"Every line of serious work that I have written since 1936 has been
written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism and for
democratic socialism, as I understand it." - Why I Write, 1946
"I belong to the Left and must work inside it, much as I hate Russian
totalitarianism and its poisonous influence in this country." -
Letter to the Duchess of Atholl, 1945
B.