Something of a “Wow!” reading experience.

We’d already noted Arthur Koestler’s “Darkness at Noon” was an explicit inspiration for George Orwell’s 1984. For Big Brother we had No.1. For Room 101 we had Cell 404. I just read Darkness in 3 sunny-afternoon sittings in the shade on a short vacation in the sun, as an escape from our cold, wet and windy UK winter.
I didn’t, hadn’t planned to, make any notes, so I don’t have any. I had a kindle copy where I’d just opened and read the front-matter, but noticed as we packed for the holiday that I’d just acquired a vintage classics paper-back copy from my mother’s “Russian” literature legacy. So that’s what I had with me.
Apart from “Wow!” just a few spoilers, I haven’t the notes for a full review or analysis relevant to my own agenda. With nothing like the real first hand experience of Orwell or Koestler – socialism, communism, totalitarianism, revolution – it is another “I could have written that” – in terms of political theory in practice, where all roads – about individual and collective human meaning, understanding and decision-making – lead to governance – as complex evolving systems – and to more or less imperfect forms of democracy.
As a Jewish native of Hungary (Budapest) living in Berlin in the early 1930’s you can see the attraction:
Koestler concluded that Liberals and moderate Democrats could not stand up against the rising Nazi tide and that the Communists were the only real counter-force.
An incredibly complex life. UK and US citizenships, soviet Russian, Ukrainian, Hungarian and international “Commintern” engagements, pre- and post-war Palestinian Jewry, political activist, journalist, spy(?):
Koestler’s most important books were the five completed before he was 40: his first memoirs and the trilogy of anti-totalitarian novels that included Darkness at Noon.
From a writerly perspective it’s Koestler’s Rubashov who gives us the first person perspective even though it’s not written in the first-person. There’s no convenient “Call me Ishmael” a la Melville, to indicate the writer had to have survived – been the sole survivor – to be able to tell the story. Is his execution real or imagined – extrapolated from two blows to the head? So we have the unreliable narrator again?
Another main writerly feature is the use of encoded prison “morse” tapping of messages with unseen characters, repetitive ticks to cement identity, and the cartoonish naming – Rip Van Winkle, Hare Lip – of those he does physically meet. Simple way to put his words in the mouths of recognisable characters to tell the story without the need for masses of character background building. Brilliant stuff. It’s probably all in War and Peace already, but that’s more than 10 times as long. Plenty of nods and references to the Russian greats – not least Dostoyevsky. It’s probably all in Crime and Punishment too – when is criminal rule-breaking justifiable? #NothingNewUnderTheSun
Contentwise, the anti-totalitarian agenda, formed of bitter experience is “in your face”. The internal party feuding and worse captured in two forms: that narrative in dialogue between him and fellow prison inmates, captors, interrogators and executioners; and the prison diary entries that effectively form his “confession” to critiquing the party totalitarian line – and the psychological battle “for the greater good” between ends and means that entails. The need for more than “logical conclusions”. Evolutionary “emergence” beyond the totality of rules applied, etc.
In fact I’m tempted to copy and paste the entire diary-entry sections below, pretty much all that needs to be said, by me or anyone else.
[In case it needs further saying, there is a great deal of ironic wit and full blown sarcasm in stating positions for and critical of the party line at any time, so interpreting a specific recommended policy position independent of the renegade mind-games context is non-trivial.]
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START QUOTES
Day 1 of Imprisonment …
[The cell door clanged shut behind Rubashov. He lingered for a few seconds leaning against the door and lit a cigarette. To his right was a camp bed with two tolerably clean blankets and a straw tick that looked freshly stuffed. The basin to his left was missing the plug, but the tap worked. The bucket next to that had just been disinfected and did not smell. The side walls were solid brick, so they didn’t resonate, but the heating and drainpipe exits were sealed with plaster and tapping there produced a passable tone. The heating pipe itself also seemed to conduct sound quite well. The window began at eye level and Rubashov could see down into the yard without having to hoist himself up by the bars. So far so good.]
From the Diary of N. S. Rubashov
Day 5 of Imprisonment …
Whoever proves right in the end must first be and do wrong. But it is only after the fact that we learn who was right to begin with. In the meantime we act on credit, in the hope of being absolved by history. They say that Number One always keeps a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince by his bedside. He’s right to do so: since then, nothing of note has been written about the ethics of statesmanship. We were the first to replace the nineteenth-century liberal ethos of ‘fair play’ with the revolutionary morals of the twentieth century. And we, too, were right to do so: the idea of a revolution following the rules of a tennis match is absurd. Politics can be fair when history pauses to catch its breath, but at critical turning points there is no other standard than the old proposition that the end justifies the means. We were the ones who introduced neo-Machiavellianism into this century; the others, the counter-revolutionary dictators, offered crude imitations. Our neo-Machiavellianism was on behalf of cosmopolitan reason – that was our greatness; theirs is in the name of a limited, nationalistic romanticism – that is their anachronism. Therefore in the end we will be absolved by history, and they will not … For the time being, though, we think and act on credit. And because we have jettisoned all the norms and conventions of tennis-court morality, our only guideline is logic. We live with the terrible necessity of carrying our thoughts and actions through to their conclusion. We are sailing without ballast, so that every turn of the wheel is a matter of life and death. Recently our leading agronomist, B., was shot along with thirty others because he favoured nitrogen-based fertilisers to those heavy in potassium. Number One is convinced that potassium is superior; therefore B. and the thirty others had to be liquidated as wreckers. Where agriculture is centralised by the state, the question of nitrogen or potassium carries enormous weight; it can decide the outcome of the next war. If Number One is correct, history will absolve him, and the execution of the thirty-one will have been a trivial matter. If he is wrong …
This is all that matters: who is objectively correct. The tennis-court moralists agonise over a completely different question: whether or not B. was subjectively acting in good faith when he recommended nitrogen. If he was not, then according to their moral code he may be shot, even if it later turns out that nitrogen was the correct choice. If he was acting in good faith, then he must be acquitted and allowed to continue advocating for nitrogen, even if it brings ruin to the country … Naturally this is absolute folly. (At least in periods where there’s no time for experimenting and urgent decisions are required; in periods of rest it is different.) For our part we were never concerned with the question of subjective sincerity. Whoever is wrong must pay; whoever is right will be absolved. That is the law of historical credit, and the law to which we adhered. History has taught us that it must be served more frequently with lies than with the truth, because its human material is by nature sluggish: before every new stage of development the people must first be led through the wilderness for forty years – driven on with threats and enticements, with false frights and feigned consolation, so that they do not stop to rest and entertain themselves with the worship of golden calves. We learned history more thoroughly than the others. What separates us from everyone else is our consistency. We know that history does not care about morality and that it lets crimes go unpunished, but every error has repercussions and exacts revenge unto the seventh generation. For that reason we focus all our efforts on eliminating mistakes before they take root. Never before in history was so much power over the future of mankind concentrated in so few minds as in our revolution. Every false idea we acted on became a crime against future generations. Therefore we had to punish false ideas the way we punish other crimes: with death. People considered us fanatics, because we were so consistent, because we carried our thoughts and actions to their logical conclusions. People compared us to the Inquisition, because like them we always felt the full burden of responsibility for a hereafter, a future that transcended the individual. Like the great inquisitors we attempted to root out evil not only by prosecuting deeds; we delved into the thoughts themselves. We refused to acknowledge any private sphere, not even in the innermost space within the skull. Our lives were constrained by our own logic, by the need to think things through to the end. Because our thinking was shackled to chains of cause and effect, our feelings were constantly short-circuited. As a result we now must burn one another at the stake. I have thought and acted as I had to. I was one of us: I have destroyed people who were close to me and given power to others whom I did not love; I took the place that history put before me; I have used up the credit that it extended; if I am right, I will have no cause for regret; if I am wrong, then I will pay. But how can we decide in the present who will be proven right in the future? We practise the prophet’s craft without his gift. We replace clairvoyance with logical deduction, but despite a common point of departure this has led to divergent results. The evidence was contradictory and in the end our justification was a question of faith – the axiomatic faith in the correctness of our own deductions. That is the crucial point. We have thrown all ballast overboard and are secured by a single anchor chain – the belief in ourselves. Geometry is the purest attainment of human reason, yet Euclid’s postulates cannot be proven. And whoever does not believe them will see everything he’s built come crashing down. Number One believes in himself: tough, sluggish, dark, unwavering. He has the thickest anchor chain of all of us. My own has become a little worse for wear in these last years: at the end of the day it is a question of physical constitution … The fact is: I no longer believe in my own infallibility. Therefore I am lost.
Day 16 of Imprisonment …
Vladimir Bogrov has fallen out of the swing. One hundred and fifty years ago, on the day the Bastille was stormed, the European swing once again lurched into motion after a long period of inertia, with a vigorous push away from tyranny towards what seemed an unstoppable climb into the blue sky of freedom. The ascent into the spheres of liberalism and democracy lasted a hundred years. But lo and behold, it gradually began to lose speed as it came closer to the apex, the turning point of its trajectory; then, after a brief stasis, it started moving backwards, in an increasingly rapid descent. And with the same vigour as before, it carried its passengers away from freedom and back to tyranny. Whoever kept staring at the sky instead instead of hanging onto the swing grew dizzy and tumbled out. Whoever wishes to avoid getting dizzy must try to grasp the laws of motion governing the swing. Because what we are facing is clearly a pendulum swing of history, from absolutism to democracy, from democracy to absolute dictatorship. The degree of individual freedom a nation is able to attain and retain depends on the degree of its political maturity. The pendulum swing described above suggests that the political maturity of the masses does not follow the same constantly rising curve of a maturing individual, but is subject to more complicated laws. The political maturity of the masses depends on their ability to discern their own interest, which presupposes a knowledge of the process of production and the distribution of goods. A nation’s ability to govern itself democratically is consequently determined by how well it understands the structure and functioning of the social body as a whole. However, every technical advance leads to a further complication of the economic framework, to new factors, new connections that the masses are at first unable to comprehend. And so every leap of technical progress brings with it a relative intellectual regression of the masses, a decline in their political maturity. At times it may take decades or even generations before the collective consciousness gradually catches up to the changed order and regains the capacity to govern itself that it had formerly possessed at a lower stage of civilisation. The political maturity of the masses can therefore not be measured in absolute numbers, but always only relatively: namely in relation to the developmental stage of any given civilisation. When the balance between mass consciousness and objective reality is achieved, then democracy will inevitably prevail, by either peaceful or violent means, until the next, nearly always volatile, leap of progress – for example, the invention of gunpowder or the mechanised loom – again places the masses in a condition of relative immaturity and makes possible or necessary the establishment of a new authoritarian regime. The process is best compared to a ship being lifted through a series of locks. At the beginning of each stage, the ship is at a relatively low level, from which it is slowly raised until it is even with the next lock – but this glorious stage is of short duration, as it now faces a new set of levels, which again can be attained only slowly and gradually. The sides of the chamber represent the objective state of technological advancement, the mastery of natural forces; the water level in the chamber symbolises the political maturity of the masses. Any attempt to measure this as an absolute height above sea level would be pointless; what is measured instead is the relative range of levels in each lock.
The invention of the steam engine brought a period of rapid objective progress, and as a consequence, a period of equally rapid subjective political regression. The industrial era is still historically young, the gap still very great between its enormously complicated economic structure and the intellectual awareness of the masses. It is therefore understandable that the relative political maturity of people in the first half of the twentieth century is less than it was two hundred years bc or at the conclusion of the feudal period. The historical mistake of socialist theory was to believe that mass consciousness rises at a constant and consistent rate. This explains its helplessness in the face of the recent pendulum swings of history, and the ideological self-emasculation of the people. We believed that aligning the worldview of the masses to the changed reality was a simple process, the course of which we measured in years, whereas history teaches that a measure of centuries would be more appropriate. Intellectually, the nations of Europe are still far from having digested the consequences of the invention of the steam engine. The capitalist system will perish before the masses have fully understood it. As far as the fatherland of the revolution is concerned, its masses are subjected to the same laws of thought as elsewhere. They have reached the next higher lock, but they are still at the lowest point in the new chamber. The new economic system is even more incomprehensible to them than the old one it replaced. The arduous and painful climb begins anew. It will probably take several generations before the people are able to mentally master what they themselves accomplished in the revolution. Until then a democratic form of government is not possible, and the measure of individual freedom that can be granted is less than in other countries. Until then our leadership is forced to rule in a vacuum. By classic liberal standards this is not a pleasant state of affairs. The terror, the falsehood and the general debasement that are so evident are merely the visible and inevitable expression of the causal connection described above. Woe to the fools and aesthetes who ask only the how but not the why. Woe, too, to the opposition in periods of relative immaturity such as this. In periods of political maturity it is the task and function of the opposition to appeal to the masses. In periods of relative immaturity only demagogues manage to invoke the ‘higher reason’ of the people. In such situations the opposition has only two ways open: either wresting power with a surprise strike, without being able to count on the support of the masses, or allowing itself to fall off the swing in silent despair – the way of ‘die in silence’. There is yet a third way, one that is no less consistent and that we have developed into a system: repudiating one’s own beliefs, when there is no real prospect of helping them gain ascendance. Because social utility is the only moral criterion we recognise, it is obviously more moral to publicly forswear one’s convictions, so as to remain active, than to carry on a futile quixotic struggle. Questions of subjective vanity; prejudices, such as exist elsewhere against certain forms of self-abasement; private feelings such as exhaustion, disgust and shame; temptations such as that of martyrdom and the yearning to become silent and lay one’s head to rest – must be pulled up by the roots.
POST NOTE
BUKHARIN’S LAST PLEA
[The following is a transcript from the final plea made in the trial of Nikolai Bukharin, a former Bolshevik leader and government minister, whom Koestler had met in the Soviet Union in 1932. His 1938 trial alongside other Soviet leaders accused them of a host of improbable crimes to which they ultimately pleaded guilty. The ambiguous phrasing of Bukharin’s final plea provided a major source of inspiration to Koestler in the writing of Darkness at Noon.]
Koestler, Arthur. Darkness at Noon (Vintage Classics) (pp. 271-273). Random House. Kindle Edition.
END QUOTES
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Conclusion: Not sure his canal locks analogy holds water, but it gets across the whole evolutionary staircase of the masses’ “cultural understanding” of how things – life, the universe and everything – work or are intended to work. For their own individual and the greater collective good – and those in governance positions of authority delegated / federated with the powers to enact decisions in real-time complex reality. The power structures and their guard rails in whatever system (of systems) of governance we espouse. Kuhn, Kondratiev and more. Nothing to do with lesser intellectual capabilities of “the plebs” vs an intellectual elite or any problematic motivations. We humans have always had them, just the scale and complexity of getting to grips with the whole requires evolutionary timescales and multiple levels and contexts of knowing. It couldn’t be any other way, but ubiquitous speed of light communications outstrip our the very possibility of the creative evolutionary “psychological games” needed. In fact they leave us prone to exploitation by degenerate populist games by those who circumstantially hold inordinate financial power – as we see now in the 21st century. #TheMemeticProblem #Dysmemics
“Let’s make 1984 fiction again!”
Also now obvious why his later Sleepwalkers focusses on the evolution of cultural understanding of those objective aspects of knowledge we call “science” – Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler et al. The subjective / psychological is expressly excluded or denigrated. #PartOfTheProblem
Coincidentally, ironically, Kuhn’s Scientific Revolutions is the only other book I have with me in hard copy 😉 Must already have had some of these thoughts in mind already on departure. Back soon.
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