No More Learning

It
would be difficult for an Indian Nationalist to enjoy reading Kipling or for a Conservative
to see merit in Mayakovsky, and there is always a temptation to claim that any book
whose tendency one disagrees with must be a bad book from a literary point of view.
People of strongly nationalistic outlook often perform this sleight of hand without being
conscious of dishonesty.

In England, if one simply considers the number of people involved, it is probable that the
dominant form of nationalism is old-fashioned British jingoism. It is certain that this is
still widespread, and much more so than most observers would have believed a dozen
years ago. However, in this essay I am concerned chiefly with the reactions of the
intelligentsia, among whom jingoism and even patriotism of the old kind are almost dead,
though they now seem to be reviving among a minority. Among the intelligentsia, it
hardly needs saying that the dominant form of nationalism is Communism — using this
word in a very loose sense, to include not merely Communist Party members, but "fellow
travellers" and russophiles generally. A Communist, for my purpose here, is one who
looks upon the USSR as his Fatherland and feels it his duty t justify Russian policy and
advance Russian interests at all costs. Obviously such people abound in England today,
and their direct and indirect influence is very great. But many other forms of nationalism
also flourish, and it is by noticing the points of resemblance between different and even
seemingly opposed currents of thought that one can best get the matter into perspective.

Ten or twenty years ago, the form of nationalism most closely corresponding to
Communism today was political Catholicism. Its most outstanding exponent — though he
was perhaps an extreme case rather than a typical one — was G. K. Chesterton. Chesterton
was a writer of considerable talent who whose to suppress both his sensibilities and his
intellectual honesty in the cause of Roman Catholic propaganda. During the last twenty
years or so of his life, his entire output was in reality an endless repetition of the same
thing, under its laboured cleverness as simple and boring as "Great is Diana of the
Ephesians. " Every book that he wrote, every scrap of dialogue, had to demonstrate
beyond the possibility of mistake the superiority of the Catholic over the Protestan or the
pagan. But Chesterton was not content to think of this superiority as merely intellectual



or spiritual: it had to be translated into terms of national prestige and military power,
which entailed an ignorant idealisation of the Latin countries, especially France.
Chesterton had not lived long in France, and his picture of it — as a land of Catholic
peasants incessantly singing the Marseillaise over glasses of red wine — had about as
much relation to reality as Chu Chin Chow has to everyday life in Baghdad. And with
this went not only an enormous overstimation of French military power (both before and
after 1914-18 he maintained that France, by itself, was stronger than Germany), but a
silly and vulgar glorification of the actual process of war. Chesterton's battle poems, such
as "Lepanto" or "The Ballad of Saint Barbara", make "The Charge of the Light Brigade"
read like a pacifist tract: they are perhaps the most tawdry bits of bombast to be found in
our language. The interesting thing is that had the romantic rubbish which he habitually
wrote about France and the French army been written by somebody else about Britain
and the British army, he would have been the first to jeer. In home politics he was a Little
Englander, a true hater of jingoism and imperialism, and according to his lights a true
friend of democracy. Yet when he looked outwards into the international field, he could
forsake his principles without even noticing he was doing so. Thus, his almost mystical
belief in the virtues of democracy did not prevent him from admiring Mussolini.
Mussolini had destroyed the representative government and the freedom of the press for
which Chesterton had struggled so hard at home, but Mussolini was an Italian and had
made Italy strong, and that settled the matter. Nor did Chesterton ever find a word to say
about imperialsm and the conquest of coloured races when they were practised by Italians
or Frenchmen. His hold on reality, his literary taste, and even to some extent his moral
sense, were dislocated as soon as his nationalistic loyalties were involved.

Obviously there are considerable resemblances between political Catholicism, as
exemplified by Chesterton, and Communism. So there are between either of these and for
instance Scottish nationalism, Zionism, Antisemitism or Trotskyism. It would be an
oversimplification to say that all forms of nationalism are the same, even in their mental
atmosphere, but there are certain rules that hold good in all cases. The following are the
principal characteristics of nationalist thought:

OBSESSION. As nearly as possible, no nationalist ever thinks, talks, or writes about
anything except the superiority of his own power unit. It is difficult if not impossible for
any nationalist to conceal his allegiance. The smallest slur upon his own unit, or any
implied praise of a rival organization, fills him with uneasiness which he can relieve only
by making some sharp retort. If the chosen unit is an actual country, such as Ireland or
India, he will generally claim superiority for it not only in military power and political
virtue, but in art, literature, sport, structure of the language, the physical beauty of the
inhabitants, and perhaps even in climate, scenery and cooking. He will show great
sensitiveness about such things as the correct display of flags, relative size of headlines
and the order in which different countries are named. Nomenclature plays a very
important part in nationalist thought. Countries which have won their independence or
gone through a nationalist revolution usually change their names, and any country or
other unit round which strong feelings revolve is likely to have several names, each of
them carrying a different implication. The two sides of the Spanish Civil War had
between them nine or ten names expressing different degrees of love and hatred. Some of



these names (e. g. "Patriots" for Franco-supporters, or "Loyalists" for Government-
supporters) were frankly question-begging, and there was no single one of the which the
two rival factions could have agreed to use.

INSTABILITY The intensity with which they are held does not prevent nationalist
loyalties from being transferable. To begin with, as I have pointed out already, they can
be and often are fastened up on some foreign country. One quite commonly finds that
great national leaders, or the founders of nationalist movements, do not even belong to
the country they have glorified. Sometimes they are outright foreigners, or more often
they come from peripheral areas where nationality is doubtful. Examples are Stalin,
Hitler, Napoleon, de Valera, Disraeli, Poincare, Beaverbrook. The Pan-German
movement was in part the creation of an Englishman, Houston Chamberlain. For the past
fifty or a hundred years, transferred nationalism has been a common phenomenon among
literary intellectuals. With Lafcadio Hearne the transference was to Japan, with Carlyle
and many others of his time to Germany, and in our own age it is usually to Russia. But
the peculiarly interesting fact is that re-transference is also possible. A country or other
unit which has been worshipped for years may suddenly become detestable, ans some
other object of affection may take its place with almost no interval. In the first version of
H. G. Wells's Outline of History, and others of his writings about that time, one finds the
United States praised almost as extravagantly as Russia is praised by Communists today:
yet within a few years this uncritical admiration had turned into hostility. The bgoted
Communist who changes in a space of weeks, or even days, into an equally bigoted
Trotskyist is a common spectacle. In continental Europe Fascist movements were largely
recruited from among Communists, and the opposite process may well happen within the
next few years. What remains constant in the nationalist is his state of mind: the object of
his feelings is changeable, and may be imaginary.

But for an intellectual, transference has an important function which I have already
mentioned shortly in connection with Chesterton. It makes it possible for him to be much
more nationalistic — more vulgar, more silly, more malignant, more dishonest — that he
could ever be on behalf of his native country, or any unit of which he had real
knowledge. When one sees the slavish or boastful rubbish that is written about Stalin, the
Red Army, etc. by fairly intelligent and sensitive people, one realizes that this is only
possible because some kind of dislocation has taken place. In societies such as ours, it is
unusual for anyone describable as an intellectual to feel a very deep attachment to his
own country. Public opinion — that is , the section of public opinion of which he as an
intellectual is aware — will not allow him to do so. Most of the people surrounding him
are sceptical and disaffected, and he may adopt the same attitude from imitativeness or
sheer cowardice: in that case he will have abandoned the form of nationalism that lies
nearest to hand without getting any closer to a genuinely internationalist outlook. He still
feels the need for a Fatherland, and it is natural to look for one somewhere abroad.

Having found it, he can wallow unrestrainedly in exactly those emotions from which he
believes that he has emancipated himself. God, the King, the Empire, the Union Jack —
all the overthrown idols can reappear under different names, and because they are not
recognized for what they are they can be worshipped with a good conscience. Transferred



nationalism, like the use of scapegoats, is a way of attaining salvation without altering
one's conduct.

INDIFFERENCE TO REALITY. All nationalists have the power of not seeing
resemblances between similar sets of facts. A British Tory will defend self-determination
in Europe and oppose it in India with no feeling of inconsistency. Actions are held to be
good or bad, not on their own merits, but according to who does them, and there is almost
no kind of outrage — torture, the use of hostages, forced labour, mass deportations,
imprisonment without trial, forgery, assassination, the bombing of civilians — which does
not change its moral colour when it is committed by "our" side. The Liberal News
Chronicle published, as an example of shocking barbarity, photographs of Russians
hanged by the Germans, and then a year or two later published with warm approval
almost exactly similar photographs of Germans hanged by the Russians. It is the same
with historical events. History is thought of largely in nationalist terms, and such things
as the Inquisition, the tortures of the Star Chamber, the exploits of the English buccaneers
(Sir Francis Drake, for instance, who was given to sinking Spanish prisoners alive), the
Reign of Terror, the heroes of the Mutiny blowing hundreds of Indians from the guns, or
Cromwell's soldiers slashing Irishwomen's faces with razors, become morally neutral or
even meritorious when it is felt that they were done in the "right" cause. If one looks back
over the past quarter of a century, one finds that there was hardly a single year when
atrocity stories were not being reported from some part of the world; and yet in not one
single case were these atrocities — in Spain, Russia, China, Hungary, Mexico, Amritsar,
Smyrna — believed in and disapproved of by the English intelligentsia as a whole.
Whether such deeds were reprehensible, or even whether they happened, was always
decided according to political predilection.

The nationalist not only does not disapprove of atrocities committed by his own side, but
he has a remarkable capacity for not even hearing about them. For quite six years the
English admirers of Hitler contrived not to learn of the existence of Dachau and
Buchenwald. And those who are loudest in denouncing the German concentration camps
are often quite unaware, or only very dimly aware, that there are also concentration
camps in Russia. Huge events like the Ukraine famine of 1933, involving the deaths of
millions of people, have actually escaped the attention of the majority of English
russophiles. Many English people have heard almost nothing about the extermination of
German and Polish Jews during the present war. Their own antisemitism has caused this
vast crime to bounce off their consciousness. In nationalist thought there are facts which
are both true and untrue, known and unknown. A known fact may be so unbearable that it
is habitually pushed aside and not allowed to enter into logical processes, or on the other
hand it may enter into every calculation and yet never be admitted as a fact, even in one's
own mind.

Every nationalist is haunted by the belief that the past can be altered. He spends part of
his time in a fantasy world in which things happen as they should — in which, for
example, the Spanish Armada was a success or the Russian Revolution was crushed in
1918 — and he will transfer fragments of this world to the history books whenever
possible. Much of the propagandist writing of our time amounts to plain forgery. Material



facts are suppressed, dates altered, quotations removed from their context and doctored so
as to change their meaning. Events which it is felt ought not to have happened are left
unmentioned and ultimately denied. In 1927 Chiang Kai Shek boiled hundreds of
Communists alive, and yet within ten years he had become one of the heroes of the Left.
The re-alignment of world politics had brought him into the anti-Fascist camp, and so it
was felt that the boiling of the Communists "didn’t count", or perhaps had not happened.
The primary aim of progaganda is, of course, to influence contemporary opinion, but
those who rewrite history do probably believe with part of their minds that they are
actually thrusting facts into the past. When one considers the elaborate forgeries that have
been committed in order to show that Trotsky did not play a valuable part in the Russian
civil war, it is difficult to feel that the people responsible are merely lying. More probably
they feel that their own version was what happened in the sight of God, and that one is
justified in rearranging the records accordingly.

Indifference to objective truth is encouraged by the sealing-off of one part of the world
from another, which makes it harder and harder to discover what is actually happening.
There can often be a genuine doubt about the most enormous events. For example, it is
impossible to calculate within millions, perhaps even tens of millions, the number of
deaths caused by the present war. The calamities that are constantly being reported —
battles, massacres, famines, revolutions — tend to inspire in the average person a feeling
of unreality. One has no way of verifying the facts, one is not even fully certain that they
have happened, and one is always presented with totally different interpretations from
different sources. What were the rights and wrongs of the Warsaw rising of August 1944?
Is it true about the German gas ovens in Poland? Who was really to blame for the Bengal
famine? Probably the truth is discoverable, but the facts will be so dishonestly set forth in
almost any newspaper that the ordinaiy reader can be forgiven either for swallowing lies
or failing to form an opinion. The general uncertainty as to what is really happening
makes it easier to cling to lunatic beliefs. Since nothing is ever quite proved or disproved,
the most unmistakable fact can be impudently denied. Moreover, although endlessly
brooding on power, victory, defeat, revenge, the nationalist is often somewhat
uninterested in what happens in the real world. What he wants is to feel that his own unit
is getting the better of some other unit, and he can more easily do this by scoring off an
adversary than by examining the facts to see whether they support him. All nationalist
controversy is at the debating-society level. It is always entirely inconclusive, since each
contestant invariably believes himself to have won the victory. Some nationalists are not
far from schizophrenia, living quite happily amid dreams of power and conquest which
have no connection with the physical world.

I have examined as best as I can the mental habits which are common to all forms of
nationalism. The next thing is to classify those forms, but obviously this cannot be done
comprehensively. Nationalism is an enormous subject. The world is tormented by
innumerable delusions and hatreds which cut across one another in an extremely complex
way, and some of the most sinister of them have not yet impinged on the European
consciousness. In this essay I am concerned with nationalism as it occurs among the
English intelligentsia. In them, much more than in ordinary English people, it is unmixed
with patriotism and therefore can be studied pure. Below are listed the varieties of



nationalism now flourishing among English intellectuals, with such comments as seem to
be needed. It is convenient to use three headings, Positive, Transferred, and Negative,
though some varieties will fit into more than one category.

POSITIVE NATIONALISM

1. NEO-TORYISM. Exemplified by such people as Lord Elton, A. P. Herbert, G. M.
Young, Professor Pickthorn, by the literature of the Tory Reform Committee, and by such
magazines as the New English Review and the Nineteenth Century and After. The real
motive force of neo-Toryism, giving it its nationalistic character and differentiating it
from ordinary Conservatism, is the desire not to recognize that British power and
influence have declined. Even those who are realistic enough to see that Britain's military
position is not what it was, tend to claim that "English ideas" (usually left undefined)
must dominate the world. All neo-Tories are anti-Russian, but sometimes the main
emphasis is anti-American. The significant thing is that this school of thought seems to
be gaining ground among youngish intellectuals, sometimes ex-Communists, who have
passed throught the usual process of disillusionment and become disillusioned with that.
The anglophobe who suddenly becomes violently pro-British is a fairly common figure.
Writers who illustrate this tendency are F. A. Voigt, Malcolm Muggeridge, Evelyn
Waugh, Hugh Kingsmill, and a psychologically similar development can be observed in
T. S. Eliot, Wyndham Lewis, and various of their followers.

2. CELTIC NATIONALISM. Welsh, Irish and Scottish nationalism have points of
difference but are alike in their anti-English orientation. Members of all three movements
have opposed the war while continuing to describe themselves as pro-Russian, and the
lunatic fringe has even contrived to be simultaneously pro-Russian and pro-Nazi. But
Celtic nationalism is not the same thing as anglophobia. Its motive force is a belief in the
past and future greatness of the Celtic peoples, and it has a strong tinge of racialism. The
Celt is supposed to be spiritually superior to the Saxon — simpler, more creative, less
vulgar, less snobbish, etc. — but the usual power hunger is there under the surface. One
symptom of it is the delusion that Eire, Scotland or even Wales could preserve its
independence unaided and owes nothing to British protection. Among writers, good
examples of this school of thought are Hugh MacDiarmid and Sean O'Casey. No modern
Irish writer, even of the stature of Yeats or Joyce, is completely free from traces of
nationalism

3. ZIONISM. This has the unusual characteristics of a nationalist movement, but the
American variant of it seems to be more violent and malignant than the British. I classify
it under Direct and not Transferred nationalism because it flourishes almost exclusively
among the Jews themselves. In England, for several rather incongrous reasons, the
intelligentsia are mostly pro-Jew on the Palestine issue, but they do not feel strongly
about it. All English people of goodwill are also pro-Jew in the sense of disapproving of
Nazi persecution. But any actual nationalistic loyalty, or belief in the innate superiority of
Jews, is hardly to be foung among Gentiles.

TRANSFERRED NATIONALISM

1. COMMUNISM



2. POLITICAL CATHOLOCISM


3. COLOUR FEELING. The old-style contemptuous attitude towards "natives" has
been much weakened in England, and various pseudo-scientific theories emphasizing the
superiority of the white race have been abandoned. Among the intelligentsia, colour
feeling only occurs in the transposed form, that is, as a belief in the innate superiority of
the coloured races. This is now increasingly common among English intellectuals,
probably resulting more often from masochism and sexual frustration than from contact
with the Oriental and Negro nationalist movements. Even among those who do not feel
strongly on the colour question, snobbery and imitation have a powerful influence.
Almost any English intellectual would be scandalized by the claim that the white races
are superior to the coloured, whereas the opposite claim would seem to him
unexceptionable even if he disagreed with it. Nationalistic attachment to the coloured
races is usually mixed up with the belief that their sex lives are superior, and there is a
large underground mythology about the sexual prowess of Negroes.

4. CLASS FEELING. Among upper-class and middle-class intellectuals, only in the
transposed form — i. e. as a belief in the superiority of the proletariat. Here again, inside
the intelligentsia, the pressure of public opinion is overwhelming. Nationalistic loyalty
towards the proletariat, and most vicious theoretical hatred of the bourgeoise, can and
often do co-exist with ordinary snobbishness in everyday life.

5. PACIFISM The majority of pacifists either belong to obscure religious sects or are
simply humanitarians who object to the taking of life and prefer not to follow their
thoughts beyond that point. But there is a minority of intellectual pacifists whose real
though unadmitted motive appears to be hatred of western democracy and admiration of
totalitarianism. Pacifist propaganda usually boils down to saying that one side is as bad as
the other, but if one looks closely at the writings of younger intellectual pacifists, one
finds that they do not by any means express impartial disapproval but are directed almost
entirely against Britain and the United States. Moreover they do not as a rule condemn
violence as such, but only violence used in defense of western countries. The Russians,
unlike the British, are not blamed for defending themselves by warlike means, and indeed
all pacifist propaganda of this type avoids mention of Russia or China. It is not claimed,
again, that the Indians should abjure violence in their struggle against the British. Pacifist
literature abounds with equivocal remarks which, if they mean anything, appear to mean
that statesmen of the type of Hitler are preferable to those of the type of Churchill, and
that violence is perhaps excusable if it is violent enough. After the fall of France, the
French pacifists, faced by a real choice which their English colleagues have not had to
make, mostly went over to the Nazis, and in England there appears to have been some
small overlap of membership between the Peace Pledge Union and the Blackshirts.
Pacifist writers have written in praise of Carlyle, one of the intellectual fathers of
Fascism. All in all it is difficult not to feel that pacifism, as it appears among a section of
the intelligentsia, is secretly inspired by an admiration for power and successful cruelty.
The mistake was made of pinning this emotion to Hitler, but it could easily be
retransfered.



NEGATIVE NATIONALISM

1. ANGLOPHOBIA. Within the intelligentsia, a derisive and mildly hostile attitude
towards Britain is more or less compulsory, but it is an unfaked emotion in many cases.
During the war it was manifested in the defeatism of the intelligentsia, which persisted
long after it had become clear that the Axis powers could not win. Many people were
undisguisedly pleased when Singapore fell ore when the British were driven out of
Greece, and there was a remarkable unwillingness to believe in good news, e. g. el
Alamein, or the number of German planes shot down in the Battle of Britain. English
left-wing intellectuals did not, of course, actually want the Germans or Japanese to win
the war, but many of them could not help getting a certain kick out of seeing their own
country humiliated, and wanted to feel that the final victory would be due to Russia, or
perhaps America, and not to Britain. In foreign politics many intellectuals follow the
principle that any faction backed by Britain must be in the wrong. As a result,
"enlightened" opinion is quite largely a mirror-image of Conservative policy.
Anglophobia is always liable to reversal, hence that fairly common spectacle, the pacifist
of one war who is a bellicist in the next.

2. ANTISEMITISM There is little evidence about this at present, because the Nazi
persecutions have made it necessary for any thinking person to side with the Jews against
their oppressors. Anyone educated enough to have heard the word "antisemitism" claims
as a matter of course to be free of it, and anti-Jewish remarks are carefully eliminated
from all classes of literature. Actually antisemitism appears to be widespread, even
among intellectuals, and the general conspiracy of silence probably helps exacerbate it.
People of Left opinions are not immune to it, and their attitude is sometimes affected by
the fact that Trotskyists and Anarchists tend to be Jews. But antisemitism comes more
naturally to people of Conservative tendency, who suspect Jews of weakening national
morale and diluting the national culture.
Neo-Tories and political Catholics are always
liable to succumb to antisemitism, at least intermittently.

3. TROTSKYISM This word is used so loosely as to include Anarchists, democratic
Socialists and even Liberals. I use it here to mean a doctrinaire Marxist whose main
motive is hostility to the Stalin regime. Trotskyism can be better studied in obscure
pamphlets or in papers like the Socialist Appeal than in the works of Trotsky himself,
who was by no means a man of one idea. Although in some places, for instance in the
United States, Trotskyism is able to attract a fairly large number of adherents and develop
into an organized movement with a petty fuerher of its own, its inspiration is essentially
negative. The Trotskyist is against Stalin just as the Communist is for him, and, like the
majority of Communists, he wants not so much to alter the external world as to feel that
the battle for prestige is going in his own favour. In each case there is the same obsessive
fixation on a single subject, the same inability to form a genuinely rational opinion based
on probabilities. The fact that Trotskyists are everywhere a persecuted minority, and that
the accusation usually made against them, i. e. of collaborating with the fascists, is
obviously false, creates an impression that Trotskyism is intellectually and morally
superior to Communism; but it is doubtful whether there is much difference. The most
typical Trotskyists, in any case, are ex-Communists, and no one arrives at Trotskyism
except via one of the left-wing movements. No Communist, unless tethered to his party



by years of habit, is secure against a sudden lapse into Trotskyism. The opposite process
does not seem to happen equally often, though there is no clear reason why it should not.


In the classification I have attempted above, it will seem that I have often exaggerated,
oversimplified, made unwarranted assumptions and have left out of account the existence
of ordinarily decent motives. This was inevitable, because in this essay I am trying to
isolate and identify tendencies which exist in all our minds and pervert our thinking,
without necessarily occurring in a pure state or operating continuously. It is important at
this point to correct the over-simplified picture which I have been obliged to make. To
begin with, one has no right to assume that everyone, or even every intellectual, is
infected by nationalism. Secondly, nationalism can be intermittent and limited. An
intelligent man may half-succumb to a belief which he knows to be absurd, and he may
keep it out of his mind for long periods, only reverting to it in moments of anger or
sentimentality, or when he is certain that no important issues are involved. Thirdly, a
nationalistic creed may be adopted in good faith from non-nationalistic motives.

Fourthly, several kinds of nationalism, even kinds that cancel out, can co-exist in the
same person.

All the way through I have said, "the nationalist does this" or "the nationalist does that",
using for purposes of illustration the extreme, barely sane type of nationalist who has no
neutral areas in his mind and no interest in anything except the struggle for power.
Actually such people are fairly common, but they are not worth the powder and shot. In
real life Lord Elton, D. N. Pritt, Lady Houston, Ezra Pound, Lord Vanisttart, Father
Coughlin and all the rest of their dreary tribe have to be fought against, but their
intellectual deficiencies hardly need pointing out. Monomania is not interesting, and the
fact that no nationalist of the more bigoted kind can write a book which still seems worth
reading after a lapse of years has a certain deodorizing effect. But when one has admitted
that nationalism has not triumphed everywhere, that there are still peoples whose
judgements are not at the mercy of their desires, the fact does remain that the pressing
problems — India, Poland, Palestine, the Spanish civil war, the Moscow trials, the
American Negroes, the Russo-German Pact or what have you — cannot be, or at least
never are, discussed upon a reasonable level. The Eltons and Pritts and Coughlins, each
of them simply an enormous mouth bellowing the same lie over and over again, are
obviously extreme cases, but we deceive ourselves if we do not realize that we can all
resemble them in unguarded moments. Let a certain note be struck, let this or that corn be
trodden on — and it may be corn whose very existence has been unsuspected hitherto —
and the most fair-minded and sweet-tempered person may suddenly be transformed into a
vicious partisan, anxious only to "score" over his adversary and indifferent as to how
many lies he tells or how many logical errors he commits in doing so. When Lloyd
George, who was an opponent of the Boer War, announced in the House of Commons
that the British communiques, if one added them together, claimed the killing of more
Boers than the whole Boer nation contained, it is recorded that Arthur Balfour rose to his
feet and shouted "Cad! " Very few people are proof against lapses of this type. The Negro
snubbed by a white woman, the Englishman who hears England ignorantly criticized by
an American, the Catholic apologist reminded of the Spanish Armada, will all react in



much the same way. One prod to the nerve of nationalism, and the intellectual decencies
can vanish, the past can be altered, and the plainest facts can be denied.

If one harbours anywhere in one's mind a nationalistic loyalty or hatred, certain facts,
although in a sense known to be true, are inadmissible. Here are just a few examples. I
list below five types of nationalist, and against each I append a fact which it is impossible
for that type of nationalist to accept, even in his secret thoughts:

BRITISH TORY : Britian will come out of this war with reduced power and prestige.
COMMUNIST. If she had not been aided by Britain and America, Russia would have
been defeated by Germany.

IRISH NATIONALIST. Eire can only remain independent because of British protection.
TROTSKYIST. The Stalin regime is accepted by the Russian masses.

PACIFIST. Those who "abjure" violence can only do so because others are committing
violence on their behalf.

All of these facts are grossly obvious if one's emotions do not happen to be involved: but
to the kind of person named in each case they are also intolerable, and so they have to be
denied, and false theories constructed upon their denial. I come back to the astonishing
failure of military prediction in the present war. It is, I think, true to say that the
intelligentsia have been more wrong about the progress of the war than the common
people, and that they were more swayed by partisan feelings. The average intellectual of
the Left believed, for instance, that the war was lost in 1940, that the Germans were
bound to overrun Egypt in 1942, that the Japanese would never be driven out of the lands
they had conquered, and that the Anglo-American bombing offensive was making no
impression on Germany. He could believe these things because his hatred for the British
ruling class forbade him to admit that British plans could succeed. There is no limit to the
follies that can be swallowed if one is under the influence of feelings of this kind. I have
heard it confidently stated, for instance, that the American troops had been brought to
Europe not to fight the Germans but to crush an English revolution. One has to belong to
the intelligentsia to believe things like that: no ordinary man could be such a fool. When
Hitler invaded Russia, the officials of the MOI issued "as background" a warning that
Russia might be expected to collapse in six weeks. On the other hand the Communists
regarded every phase of the war as a Russian victory, even when the Russians were
driven back almost to the Caspian Sea and had lost several million prisoners. There is no
need to multiply instances. The point is that as soon as fear, hatred, jealousy and power
worship are involved, the sense of reality becomes unhinged. And, as I have pointed out
already, the sense of right and wrong becomes unhinged also. There is no crime,
absolutely none, that cannot be condoned when "our" side commits it. Even if one does
not deny that the crime has happened, even if one knows that it is exactly the same crime
as one has condemned in some other case, even if one admits in an intellectual sense that
it is unjustified — still one cannot feel that it is wrong. Loyalty is involved, and so pity
ceases to function.

The reason for the rise and spread of nationalism is far too big a question to be raised
here. It is enough to say that, in the forms in which it appears among English
intellectuals, it is a distorted reflection of the frightful battles actually happening in the



external world, and that its worst follies have been made possible by the breakdown of
patriotism and religious belief. If one follows up this train of thought, one is in danger of
being led into a species of Conservatism, or into political quietism. It can be plausibly
argued, for instance — it is even possibly true — that patriotism is an inocculation against
nationalism, that monarchy is a guard against dictatorship, and that organized religion is a
guard against superstition. Or again, it can be argued that no unbiased outlook is possible,
that all creeds and causes involve the same lies, follies, and barbarities; and this is often
advanced as a reason for keeping out of politics altogether. I do not accept this argument,
if only because in the modem world no one describable as an intellectual can keep out of
politics in the sense of not caring about them. I think one must engage in politics — using
the word in a wide sense — and that one must have preferences: that is, one must
recognize that some causes are objectively better than others, even if they are advanced
by equally bad means. As for the nationalistic loves and hatreds that I have spoken of,
they are part of the make-up of most of us, whether we like it or not. Whether it is
possible to get rid of them I do not know, but I do believe that it is possible to struggle
against them, and that this is essentially a moral effort. It is a question first of all of
discovering what one really is, what one's own feelings really are, and then of making
allowance for the inevitable bias. If you hate and fear Russia, if you are jealous of the
wealth and power of America, if you despise Jews, if you have a sentiment of inferiority
towards the British ruling class, you cannot get rid of those feelings simply by taking
thought. But you can at least recognize that you have them, and prevent them from
contaminating your mental processes. The emotional urges which are inescapable, and
are perhaps even necessary to political action, should be able to exist side by side with an
acceptance of reality. But this, I repeat, needs a moral effort, and contemporary English
literature, so far as it is alive at all to the major issues of our time, shows how few of us
are prepared to make it.


The Prevention of Literature

1946

About a year ago I attended a meeting of the P. E. N. Club, the occasion being the
tercentenary of Milton's Aeropagitica — a pamphlet, it may be remembered, in defense of
freedom of the press. Milton's famous phrase about the sin of "killing" a book was printed
on the leaflets advertising the meeting which had been circulated beforehand.

There were four speakers on the platform. One of them delivered a speech which did deal
with the freedom of the press, but only in relation to India; another said, hesitantly, and in
very general terms, that liberty was a good thing; a third delivered an attack on the laws
relating to obscenity in literature. The fourth devoted most of his speech to a defense of
the Russian purges. Of the speeches from the body of the hall, some reverted to the
question of obscenity and the laws that deal with it, others were simply eulogies of Soviet
Russia. Moral liberty — the liberty to discuss sex questions frankly in print — seemed to


be generally approved, but political liberty was not mentioned. Out of this concourse of
several hundred people, perhaps half of whom were directly connected with the writing
trade, there was not a single one who could point out that freedom of the press, if it
means anything at all, means the freedom to criticize and oppose. Significantly, no
speaker quoted from the pamphlet which was ostensibly being commemorated. Nor was
there any mention of the various books which have been "killed" in England and the
United States during the war. In its net effect the meeting was a demonstration in favor of
censorship.

There was nothing particularly surprising in this. In our age, the idea of intellectual
liberty is under attack from two directions. On the one side are its theoretical enemies, the
apologists of totalitarianism, and on the other its immediate, practical enemies, monopoly
and bureaucracy. Any writer or journalist who wants to retain his integrity finds himself
thwarted by the general drift of society rather than by active persecution. The sort of
things that are working against him are the concentration of the press in the hands of a
few rich men, the grip of monopoly on radio and the films, the unwillingness of the
public to spend money on books, making it necessary for nearly every writer to earn part
of his living by hackwork, the encroachment of official bodies like the M. O. I. and the
British Council, which help the writer to keep alive but also waste his time and dictate his
opinions, and the continuous war atmosphere of the past ten years, whose distorting
effects no one has been able to escape. Everything in our age conspires to turn the writer,
and every other kind of artist as well, into a minor official, working on themes handed
down from above and never telling what seems to him the whole of the truth. But in
struggling against this fate he gets no help from his own side; that is, there is no large
body of opinion which will assure him that he's in the right. In the past, at any rate
throughout the Protestant centuries, the idea of rebellion and the idea of intellectual
integrity were mixed up. A heretic — political, moral, religious, or aesthetic — was one
who refused to outrage his own conscience. His outlook was summed up in the words of
the Revivalist hymn:

Dare to be a Daniel
Dare to stand alone
Dare to have a purpose firm
Dare to make it known

To bring this hymn up to date one would have to add a "Don't" at the beginning of each
line. For it is the peculiarity of our age that the rebels against the existing order, at any
rate the most numerous and characteristic of them, are also rebelling against the idea of
individual integrity. "Daring to stand alone" is ideologically criminal as well as
practically dangerous. The independence of the writer and the artist is eaten away by
vague economic forces, and at the same time it is undermined by those who should be its
defenders. It is with the second process that I am concerned here.

Freedom of thought and of the press are usually attacked by arguments which are not
worth bothering about. Anyone who has experience of lecturing and debating knows
them off backwards. Here I am not trying to deal with the familiar claim that freedom is
an illusion, or with the claim that there is more freedom in totalitarian countries than in



democratic ones, but with the much more tenable and dangerous proposition that freedom
is undesirable and that intellectual honesty is a form of anti-social selfishness. Although
other aspects of the question are usually in the foreground, the controversy over freedom
of speech and of the press is at bottom a controversy of the desirability, or otherwise, of
telling lies. What is really at issue is the right to report contemporary events truthfully, or
as truthfully as is consistent with the ignorance, bias and self-deception from which every
observer necessarily suffers. In saying this I may seem to be saying that straightforward
"reportage" is the only branch of literature that matters: but I will try to show later that at
every literary level, and probably in every one of the arts, the same issue arises in more or
less subtilized forms. Meanwhile, it is necessary to strip away the irrelevancies in which
this controversy is usually wrapped up.

The enemies of intellectual liberty always try to present their case as a plea for discipline
versus individualism. The issue truth-versus-untruth is as far as possible kept in the
background. Although the point of emphasis may vary, the writer who refuses to sell his
opinions is always branded as a mere egoist. He is accused, that is, of either wanting to
shut himself up in an ivory tower, or of making an exhibitionist display of his own
personality, or of resisting the inevitable current of history in an attempt to cling to
unjustified privilege. The Catholic and the Communist are alike in assuming that an
opponent cannot be both honest and intelligent. Each of them tacitly claims that "the
truth" has already been revealed, and that the heretic, if he is not simply a fool, is secretly
aware of "the truth" and merely resists it out of selfish motives. In Communist literature
the attack on intellectual liberty is usually masked by oratory about "petty-bourgeois
individualism," "the illusions of nineteenth-century liberalism," etc. , and backed up by
words of abuse such as "romantic" and "sentimental," which, since they do not have any
agreed meaning, are difficult to answer. In this way the controversy is maneuvered away
from its real issue. One can accept, and most enlightened people would accept, the
Communist thesis that pure freedom will only exist in a classless society, and that one is
most nearly free when one is working to bring such a society about. But slipped in with
this is the quite unfounded claim that the Communist Party is itself aiming at the
establishment of the classless society, and that in the U. S. S. R. this aim is actually on the
way to being realized. If the first claim is allowed to entail the second, there is almost no
assault on common sense and common decency that cannot be justified. But meanwhile,
the real point has been dodged. Freedom of the intellect means the freedom to report what
one has seen, heard, and felt, and not to be obliged to fabricate imaginary facts and
feelings. The familiar tirades against "escapism" and "individualism," "romanticism," and
so forth, are merely a forensic device, the aim of which is to make the perversion of
history seem respectable.

Fifteen years ago, when one defended the freedom of the intellect, one had to defend it
against Conservatives, against Catholics, and to some extent — for they were not of great
importance in England — against Fascists. Today one has to defend it against
Communists and "fellow-travelers. " One ought not to exaggerate the direct influence of
the small English Communist Party, but there can be no question about the poisonous
effect of the Russian mythos on English intellectual life. Because of it known facts are
suppressed and distorted to such an extent as to make it doubtful whether a true history of



our times can ever be written. Let me give just one instance out of the hundreds that
could be cited. When Germany collapsed, it was found that very large numbers of Soviet
Russians — mostly, no doubt, from non-political motives — had changed sides and were
fighting for the Germans. Also, a small but not negligible portion of the Russian prisoners
and displaced persons refused to go back to the U. S. S. R. , and some of them, at least,
were repatriated against their will. These facts, known to many journalists on the spot,
went almost unmentioned in the British press, while at the same time Russophile
publicists in England continued to justify the purges and deportations of 1936-38 by
claiming that the U. S. S. R. "had no quislings. " The fog of lies and misinformation that
surrounds such subjects as the Ukraine famine, the Spanish civil war, Russian policy in
Poland, and so forth, is not due entirely to conscious dishonesty, but any writer or
journalist who is fully sympathetic for the U. S. S. R. — sympathetic, that is, in the way the
Russians themselves would want him to be — does have to acquiesce in deliberate
falsification on important issues. I have before me what must be a very rare pamphlet,
written by Maxim Litvinoff in 1918 and outlining the recent events in the Russian
Revolution. It makes no mention of Stalin, but gives high praise to Trotsky, and also to
Zinoviev, Kamenev, and others. What could be the attitude of even the most intellectually
scrupulous Communist towards such a pamphlet? At best, the obscurantist attitude of
saying that it is an undesirable document and better suppressed. And if for some reason it
were decided to issue a garbled version of the pamphlet, denigrating Trotsky and
inserting references to Stalin, no Communist who remained faithful to his party could
protest. Forgeries almost as gross as this have been committed in recent years. But the
significant thing is not that they happen, but that, even when they are known about, they
provoke no reaction from the left-wing intelligentsia as a whole. The argument that to tell
the truth would be "inopportune" or would "play into the hands of' somebody or other is
felt to be unanswerable, and few people are bothered by the prospect of the lies which
they condone getting out of the newspapers and into the history books.

The organized lying practiced by totalitarian states is not, as is sometimes claimed, a
temporary expedient of the same nature as military deception. It is something integral to
totalitarianism, something that would still continue even if concentration camps and
secret police forces had ceased to be necessary. Among intelligent Communists there is
an underground legend to the effect that although the Russian government is obliged now
to deal in lying propaganda, frame-up trials, and so forth, it is secretly recording the true
facts and will publish them at some future time. We can, I believe, be quite certain that
this is not the case, because the mentality implied by such an action is that of a liberal
historian who believes that the past cannot be altered and that a correct knowledge of
history is valuable as a matter of course. From the totalitarian point of view history is
something to be created rather than learned. A totalitarian state is in effect a theocracy,
and its ruling caste, in order to keep its position, has to be thought of as infallible. But
since, in practice, no one is infallible, it is frequently necessary to rearrange past events in
order to show that this or that mistake was not made, or that this or that imaginary
triumph actually happened. Then again, every major change in policy demands a
corresponding change of doctrine and a revelation of prominent historical figures. This
kind of thing happens everywhere, but is clearly likelier to lead to outright falsification in
societies where only one opinion is permissible at any given moment. Totalitarianism



demands, in fact, the continuous alteration of the past, and in the long run probably
demands a disbelief in the very existence of objective truth. The friends of totalitarianism
in this country usually tend to argue that since absolute truth is not attainable, a big lie is
no worse than a little lie. It is pointed out that all historical records are biased and
inaccurate, or on the other hand, that modern physics has proven that what seems to us
the real world is an illusion, so that to believe in the evidence of one's senses is simply
vulgar philistinism. A totalitarian society which succeeded in perpetuating itself would
probably set up a schizophrenic system of thought, in which the laws of common sense
held good in everyday life and in certain exact sciences, but could be disregarded by the
politician, the historian, and the sociologist. Already there are countless people who
would think it scandalous to falsify a scientific textbook, but would see nothing wrong in
falsifying an historical fact. It is at the point where literature and politics cross that
totalitarianism exerts its greatest pressure on the intellectual. The exact sciences are not,
at this date, menaced to anything like the same extent. This partly accounts for the fact
that in all countries it is easier for the scientists than for the writers to line up behind their
respective governments.

To keep the matter in perspective, let me repeat what I said at the beginning of this essay:
that in England the immediate enemies of truthfulness, and hence of freedom of thought,
are the press lords, the film magnates, and the bureaucrats, but that on a long view the
weakening of the desire for liberty among the intellectuals themselves is the most serious
symptom of all. It may seem that all this time I have been talking about the effects of
censorship, not on literature as a whole, but merely on one department of political
journalism. Granted that Soviet Russia constitutes a sort of forbidden area in the British
press, granted that issues like Poland, the Spanish civil war, the Russo-German pact, and
so forth, are debarred from serious discussion, and that if you possess information that
conflicts with the prevailing orthodoxy you are expected to either distort it or keep quiet
about it — granted all this, why should literature in the wider sense be affected? Is every
writer a politician, and is every book necessarily a work of straightforward "reportage"?
Even under the tightest dictatorship, cannot the individual writer remain free inside his
own mind and distill or disguise his unorthodox ideas in such a way that the authorities
will be too stupid to recognize them? And in any case, if the writer himself is in
agreement with the prevailing orthodoxy, why should it have a cramping effect on him?

Is not literature, or any of the arts, likeliest to flourish in societies in which there are no
major conflicts of opinion and no sharp distinction between the artist and his audience?
Does one have to assume that every writer is a rebel, or even that a writer as such is an
exceptional person?

Whenever one attempts to defend intellectual liberty against the claims of totalitarianism,
one meets with these arguments in one form or another. They are based on a complete
misunderstanding of what literature is, and how — one should perhaps say why — it
comes into being. They assume that a writer is either a mere entertainer or else a venal
hack who can switch from one line of propaganda to another as easily as an organ grinder
changing tunes. But after all, how is it that books ever come to be written? Above a quite
low level, literature is an attempt to influence the viewpoint of one's contemporaries by
recording experience. And so far as freedom of expression is concerned, there is not



much difference between a mere journalist and the most "unpolitical" imaginative writer.
The journalist is unfree, and is conscious of unfreedom, when he is forced to write lies or
suppress what seems to him important news; the imaginative writer is unfree when he has
to falsify his subjective feelings, which from his point of view are facts. He may distort
and caricature reality in order to make his meaning clearer, but he cannot misrepresent
the scenery of his own mind; he cannot say with any conviction that he likes what he
dislikes, or believes what he disbelieves. If he is forced to do so, the only result is that his
creative faculties will dry up. Nor can he solve the problem by keeping away from
controversial topics. There is no such thing as a genuinely non-political literature, and
least of all in an age like our own, when fears, hatreds, and loyalties of a directly political
kind are near to the surface of everyone's consciousness. Even a single taboo can have an
all-round crippling effect upon the mind, because there is always the danger that any
thought which is freely followed up may lead to the forbidden thought. It follows that the
atmosphere of totalitarianism is deadly to any kind of prose writer, though a poet, at any
rate a lyric poet, might possibly find it breathable. And in any totalitarian society that
survives for more than a couple of generations, it is probable that prose literature, of the
kind that has existed during the past four hundred years, must actually come to an end.