The Politics of Consumption, Part I
In a large, fortified building on the outskirts of one of their
most prestigious cities, the three most important personages of
Oceania would come together and make their decisions. Yes, that's
right, three. It was a rather dull building, or so it would appear
from the outside, the color of concrete and the occasional darkened
window. As far as anyone could tell it was a single complex, although
it was huge, massive, and sprawled chaotically across the cement lot
on which it was perched. The entire place was surrounded by menacing
electrified fencing and there were gateposts manned by creatures that
appeared to be human, although it was difficult to say for sure. They
all wore thick dark clothing and helmets and sunglasses and did not
speak unless it was to roughly bark an order. The consumers of
Oceania were hardly permitted a glimpse of this building, although
occasionally they saw pictures of it in the news, and always in the
far distance.
Inside the bowels of this building, buried far below the
ground-level and protected by the most recent advancements in
computer, mechanical, and material science, there was a large empty
chamber. Empty? Well, almost. At its very center there was a simple
metallic table, round, and three chairs parked unceremoniously about
it. The chairs were all plainly similar, very sturdy, and probably of
the same material as the table. There was light, too, that came from
illuminated panes on the ceiling, and there were large air vents
craftily disgused here and there in the walls.
No one was allowed in the room except the three men who used it.
Very few people even knew it existed. But it did. Deep down in the
earth so as to afford the greatest protection from air or biological
attack, this was where the Gang of Three would meet - sometimes daily
- to hammer out the policies by which Oceania, its government and its
daily life, would be driven.
It had, of course, always been like this. In countries and
nations and states all across the world, since as long as there have
been buildings to house them, there were like rooms with a like table
and chairs. The number of the players in the Gang had not been and
was not always the same, but if they were present their particular
characters and natures were more or less similar. There was the
Politican, the Holy Man, and - a more or less recent addition - there
was the Capitalist.
The Politician was the oldest of the three, having his roots in
the days when people had not yet found it necessary to dwell in
large, permanent settlements, but none the less found it practical
and natural to choose leaders to decide for themselves on the most
important military and organizational matters. But once the building
had been built and the room with its table and chairs put in place,
he found it convenient to bring in the Holy Man and let him in on the
secret. The Politician was a lopsided man. He had a lean, smallish
body and was usually dressed in the most conservative garb of the
day. The most curious thing about him was that his head was so large
in comparison with the rest of his body. This was a natural and
somewhat convenient development for the Politician, his head being
the part of his body he devoted the most attention to. The strands of
his greasy hair were always neatly and primly tucked into place, and
the large surface area of his face provided the ideal setting for the
constant smile that perturbed it. The Politician was almost always
smiling, and if you ask me he looked absurd doing it, if only because
he rarely stopped. But the people seemed to be very much attached to
that perverse smile, and would remonstrate him if ever it went away,
so that with time the Politician learned to extend it to virtually
the lobes of his ears and to use various aids and devices to enhance
its effect.
Now, as I said before, the Politician found it expedient to
invite the Holy Man into his chamber for consultation. For the Holy
Man was found to be extremely useful in the Politician's dealings
with the people, as they were called in those days, and the
Politician had found that the protection of the building's walls
provided ample opportunity for stockpiling the various articles of
leisure and pleasure which a person can enjoy, both physical and
spiritual. So from a very early time the Holy Man was more than happy
to support the position of the Politician, and the two were quite
happy with themselves and their room with the table and chairs. The
Holy Man was a bit more aged than the Politician, grey haired and
silvery, a fact which lent him the appearance of wisdom, and a bit
more stocky, too. Sometimes he had a beard and sometimes he was wont
to shave, and his body had the usual proportions, but his dress was a
bit too ornamental for my taste, and bulky and needlessly expensive
at that. Long, heavy robes that others often had to help him around
in, following after him in a train holding the ends of his garmets.
He was wont to wear various hats, too, of the most unusual shapes and
sizes, some of which didn't fit his head too well and so slid down
over his eyes if he moved suddenly. The people feared the Politician,
but in general they trusted the Holy Man, which is why the Politician
courted his friendship.
Now, together for a long time the Politician and the Holy Man
arranged the affairs of their countries and states. At times, for
some reason or another, the people grew restless and would clamor, or
the Gang of Two (as it was then called) of some other land would
assault their interests, and the building would be stormed and the
Politician and the Holy man would be put to the test. Sometimes they
were done away with, sometimes one would find himself with a new
partner, and sometimes they did not allow the room to be penetrated
and were able to repulse the attack, but in the end it was always a
Politician and it was always a Holy Man who met in the room in the
building, the room with the table and the chairs, and it was always
they who were making the decisions that so much affected the lives of
the people. It is true that at times they were at odds with each
other. Such discord tended to arise later on in their relationship,
and there was even a time when the Holy Man was no mere support for
the Politician, but when he actually had the Politician subdued in
the folds of his magnificent robe, so to speak, and had the final say
on matters. The people found after a time they did not like this
situation, however, for the Holy Man was noted to be rather
excitable, and even if the people trusted him he was grumpy and not
very dynamic as a person. They found the scope of his imagination
limited and his mind resistant to human persuasion, and so after a
time and with great effort they were able to restore the Politician
to his dominant place at the table.
Later on came the Capitalist. He was never really invited. In
fact, no one is quite sure how he even got there. At first he found
his way beyond the fences and the gates and wandered around a bit
outside, talking privately and quickly to anyone he could meet coming
out, and later on he was even seen inside the building. The
Capitalist was not a very good talker, like the Politician, nor was
he in any way attractive, and he did not really believe in anything
in particular and so could not inspire respect in those he met, but
he did have one import thing: capital, and that means Money. The
Capitalist had lots and lots of Money, and because of it he was able
to acquire all the luxurious items and articles of enjoyment that the
Politician and the Holy Man had already had at their disposal inside
the building for years on end. So when the Politician and the Holy
Man met the Capitalist in the darkened hallways, they were
disappointed to see that their displays of ostentation - which they
considered a special treat reserved for only their closest intimates
- had no effect on the Capitalist, who snorted with contempt and bit
scornfully into a hotdog.
The Capitalist was a man who dressed entirely in black and white.
He wore an old-fashioned, black suit with a black bowtie and an
off-white, buttondown shirt that was almost always rumpled and
splattered with the remains of his latest meal. His shoes, too, were
a shiny, almost unreal looking shade of night, and his pants - which
should have been neatly pressed - were creased from abuse and neglect
and showed alarming signs of structural weakness. On the top of his
wide, balding head there was a black bowler hat, like they used to
wear long ago when photography was only recently no longer a
technology to wonder at. Invariably, the hat was too small for his
head. A few strands of sickly looking, brownish-grey hair protruded
from under it, amazed and desperately thankful to see the light of
day. These were, in fact, the only signs of humanity to be seen about
him, aside from the pasty white skin of his bloated face and his
pudgy hands which couldn't quite close properly, and his beady eyes,
constantly blinking and flicking quickly and incessantly from this
point to that, in search of more wealth or his next meal. The coat
that he wore was made of a dark velvety material and had a long tail
that came just to his ankles. The tail actually consisted of two
parts, two long extensions of material that descended from the nape
of his back and tapered off by his heels. Yes, he was a man dressed
in black and white and yes, silver buttons - and did I forget to
mention the thick gold chains that hung from his neck? No, those were
not black or white, of course not, and the Capitalist was often to be
seen fingering them. In those days he had on at least three of four
gold chains, some thicker than others, and at least one large golden
ring on the index finger of each hand. He believed the presence of
the rings made it more impressive when he pointed at something he
wanted. The Capitalist was often to be seen eating. In fact, if he
wasn't fingering his chains he was either smoking a cigar or holding
a bag of french fries drenched in mayonaise, or fried chicken, or a
greasy hamburger, or all three in some wonderful orgy of delight that
only could have appealed to this man, such as he was. The Capitalist
was to be seen licking his fingers, or wiping his hands on his pants.
He wasn't too keen on hygiene, he loathed bathing, and many a person
who shook his hand came away a bit disconcerted about what they
imagined they felt on his fingers. But few people ever said anything
to him about it; he was usually in a position where he had something
that they wanted, and they didn't want to jeopardize their already
fragile position as supplicants. It would have to be considered the
height of diplomacy to have said that the Capitalist was fat, or even
that he was an insult to the beauty of the human body. His stomach
was like a fifty-pound bag of cement that hung suspended from breasts
as large as an amply endowed woman's, if an elderly one. Several
chins protruded from the mass of gold under his face, trying
desperately to escape their imprisonment between one of his necks and
his jaw. When he walked it was slowly and anyway he appeared more to
wobble than stroll along like any other descent human being. He never
went up stairs and always took the elevator, even if it was far out
of the way and only to go down a single floor. The Capitalist was
always sweating, that is true, and his pockets were stuffed with
handkerchiefs which, between puffs from his cigar or while he was
chewing, he was constantly in search of to wipe the drips of
urine-smelling liquid off his brow. All in all, the Capitalist was a
thoroughly disgusting man, plagued with bad breath and rotting teeth,
and people who didn't know him or had no interest in what he had to
offer (in those days, there were still some of those around), if they
happened to see him on the street, would quickly hurry by, or if they
had children with them, they would shield their innocent eyes and
with a sharp intake of breath turn back the way they had come.
Now, even if many people tried to get as quickly away from the
Capitalist as possible when they saw him coming, he somehow managed
to make his arrival at the building behind the gates and the guards
more and more welcome. Once the Politician came close enough to
listen to what he had to say, he would come more often. You see, the
Politician had much wealth stored up in that building, but the
Capitalist made it plain and clear right from the beginning that no
matter how much wealth a person had, it was never enough and could
always be amply augmented. The Capitalist was willing to help with
this eternal problem. And after a time, the Politician was only more
than happy to cooperate with what the Capitalist had in mind. For the
Capitalist knew what his negotiating position was, although he was
always very careful never to state it outright. He needed the
Politician to pass laws that were favorable to his enterprises, and
that would enable him to hoard more and more wealth in his own
private accounts, so that he could by more estates, more boys and
more women, more rings, more gold chains, more cars, more influence -
more of everything, in fact, that Money can buy, which even in those
days was pretty much everything. The Capitalist, too, needed the
Politician because the Politician controlled the police and the army,
and the people, especially when they did not want to cooperate with
the Capitalist, often had be coerced by this means.
The Holy Man, on the other hand, was - much to the surprise of
the Capitalist - not so quickly to be won over. In fact, he put up
quite a resistance to the spreading influence of the Capitalist both
inside and outside the building with the gates and the guards. Late
at night the Politician and the Holy Man could be heard to be arguing
violently, and one or the other would inevitably storm away in a
rage. Other people weren't entirely sure what was going on, but they
were vaguely aware of a disconcerting feeling that the long standing
alliance between the Holy Man and the Politician - the alliance which
had led humanity pretty much since they had emerged from the wild and
built themselves cities which had to be defended - was under the most
severe strain, a most dangerous strain indeed. Alone in their room
with the table and the chairs, the Politician frankly told the Holy
Man that even the gods couldn't stop the steady march of progress,
that they could either profit by the change and move forward along
with everyone else or instead be left behind in the dusty bins they
call temples, entirely overlooked and forgotten. There are all sorts
of elaborations that could be made on the point, which I will shortly
explore with you, but what it all boiled down to is that even though
in the past the Holy Man was known to confuse his own exploitation of
the people with the necessities of duty, if someone else were to
exploit them he could come up with tens of pretty sounding arguments
as to why it was a terrible thing.
Where to begin? Perhaps I ought first to tell you about what it
was like for the people before the Captalist hauled them into the
cities and installed them in cattle stalls and set task masters over
them. I have neglected to tell you about the people before, telling
you instead about their masters, because I didn't expect that you
will believe me, and I imagine you still won't. You will think me
overly romantic or simply full of shit, which is understandable
considering how far estranged the workers of today are from their
nature and the Universe that fostered it. But, yes, the people once
existed as such. They were not machines, they were animals, raised by
the earth and with senses and reason and instincts that were
especially attuned to the various groanings and murmurings of the
world around them, so that even if they couldn't explain it they were
envigorated by it. Yes, and the people were once the fertile
springboard from which the privileged minority drew its numbers, the
same privileged minority whose interests the Politician used to
serve, and like him the Holy Man, too.
At any rate - and whether you believe me or not - before the
Capitalist lured the people into his stench-ridden lair, the people
lived as peasants and tradesmen in the country or in smaller, more
manageable towns that were easily escaped. Their lives in those days
were by no means pleasant. They lived in huts and crumbling houses,
with cracks in the walls and holes in the roofs and in constant fear
of reprisals from soldiers. Long hours they worked with their bare
hands, it is true, but it was useful work, work the fruit of which
they could understand and respect. Some were fishermen who went out
in boats at dawn and returned after nightfall. Still others moulded
metal into useful tools like horseshoes and, of course, swords and
the like. But most of them were simple peasants, and worked the
farms, raising vegetables and cattle and poultry and weaving cloth.
The animals they raised and killed, but they did not raise them
simply in order to kill them, for some small use after which they
would throw the vast remainder of the body to collect flies somewhere
unseen. No, that would be cruel indeed. In those days the people
honored the beasts, some of which could perform useful work, and
which even after death could satisfy a variety of wants, so that
almost nothing was left to waste.
In those days, the lives of the people were intimately tied to
the seasons. In the spring they planted, in the summer they performed
other useful work (or marched to war), in the fall they reaped their
harvest, and in the winter they slept. They had their festivals, too.
Not empty, meaningless repetitions, no, these had actual meaning and
relevance to their lives, and they would not have wanted to do
without them. For as I said before the lives of the people were
synchronized with the manifold and subtle forces of the earth. The
people knew when the sun would rise and when it would set, and they
could point out how the stars appeared to move in the sky. Everyone
had seen a sheep giving birth, a pair of ragged dogs mating, and
cocks fighting each other to the death. Even if these behaviors were
not their own, the people at the same time felt something familiar in
their proximity. They could name the various kinds of trees that grew
around them and identify the birds that lived in them and what sounds
they made and what their habits were. Never did it cease to amaze
them how beautiful the world was, how delicate, that it fit together
so neatly and succinctly that it was often hard to perceive the
individual parts. And their lives being so influenced by the weather
and the other natural forces, it was much easier for them to envision
and accept the gods that the Holy Man cajolled them so emphatically
to placate. It was so much so, in fact, that aside from the usual
harrassment they expected from their masters, they were able to
subsist on their own. For, when one's work is so mingled with the
stuff of life, with the food that they ate and the clothes that they
wore and the bricks that made up their dwellings, and united by a
certain spirit of brotherhood, the spite and wrath of the master
could not prevent them from exercising a certain amount of personal
freedom. And although the conditions of this kind of life were most
often cruel, despite the fact that floods or drought would
occasionally descend upon them without warning, it was a cycle that
they could accept, because it seemed natural.
Later on, of course, the Capitalist built large, smelly factories
for them in great, sprawling, cavernous places unfriendly to the
light of the sun, and all that changed. The people were lured there
in part by promises of a better life, duly encouraged by the
Politician, but also - it must be admitted - in part because they
could not bear any longer the heavy web of often needlessly
repressive social rules spun for them over the centuries by the Holy
Man. Yes, on the one hand they were choked by them and yearned to
divest themselves of their own personal prisons, and yet on the other
they identified a certain amount of pride with these rules, and
believed somehow that they had contributed to whatever success their
particular country had ever had. So the people thought to find some
refuge in the anonymity of the city. Instead they found that they had
exchanged their drafty huts for unsanitary rooms in huge, poorly
constructed complexes with dank air laden with fearful diseases.
Granted, they had been cold in their own huts on the farm, but at
least the light of the day had shown in through the cracks, and no
one profited by the death of their children. Here, in the city, there
were no trees and no sunrise or sunset, but there was instead this
infernal buzzing. When it buzzed they had to be in the factory, and
when it buzzed they were allowed a few moments' rest, and when it
buzzed again they could stumble home, weary, exhausted, for the few
hours permitted them. The thing was, it always buzzed at the same
times every day, relentlessly, unchanging. And the factories, too,
were always there, squatting like fat tempermental people that can't
stand up on their own anymore, and every day they had to report to
the same posts where they were forced to perform the same, few tasks
which involved the same, laborious movements. Time dragged on. The
monotony broke down their spirit in a very subtle but dangerous way.
Imagination died. And what was worse, whereas in the country each had
known his tasks and had been merely responsible for carrying them out
in the way he thought best, the Capitalist had clear ideas about
exactly how one should perform the various tasks he had defined for
them, and did not allow anyone's individual personality to interfere
with his notions. No, tens and tens of shallow souls walked up and
down the aisles just to supervise the people, shouting at them,
humiliating them, and making sure that every scrap of work was
squeezed out of them as was humanly possible without actually killing
them. For, as all managers knew, a dead worker was not useful for
procuring wealth. These men were called "managers" and
performed very little useful work, and yet at the same time they
thought very highly of themselves.
Now, there was a more important difference between their former
manner of life and this new one. As I said before, nature disappeared
as the predominant force in their lives. The fortunes of this new,
more modern kind of life were governed by a mysterious and far more
fickle thing. This thing was innocently called the "business
cycle" by those whom it favored. And although the people did not
at first understand what this thing was, they could very well
perceive that it was far harsher, far more arbitrary, and served no
useful part of a far greater whole. But if they weren't able to
understand it exactly, they were very well able to observe that this
business cycle was a man-made phenomenon, one that benefited the
Capitalist and his cronies, and that was perhaps the most unbearable
part of it all. When the wheat crop had suddenly failed or their
fields been covered in locusts, or when an unexpected storm smashed
up their fishing boats in the harbor, they might have been angry, but
they had accepted the event as part of the natural order of things.
No so this business cycle.
The business cycle was the result of the fact that the Capitalist
lent his Money to those who were not satisfied to be merely persons,
but who wanted to be important persons. Such entrepeneurs, as they
were called, would use the Money to set up their own enterprises,
which would usually require the employment of the people to perform
the work that actually needed to be done while the entrepreneurs were
at dinner parties. Now the people simply wanted to live and enjoy
their lives, as they always have tried to do, even if they had little
such desire to be important. Work is a single element of a person's
existence, one of several, and even an important one. It gives a
human a sense of worth and responsibility. But it was fairly obvious
that these entrepreneurs were not interested in any of that. All they
were interested in was paying the Capitalist back as quickly as
possible and puffing themselves up like peacocks. As far as the
people could tell, seeming important usually meant laughing when one
didn't really think something was funny, or otherwise demeaning
oneself in order to obtain something that other people would be
jealous of. Now, unfortunately for everyone involved, the
Capitalist's mood was very succeptible to change. There were times
when he would just throw his Money in the air for whomever could
catch it, and then all of a sudden he would decide that he had gone
too far, and all at once he would call in his loans. When the
Capitalist did such a thing, the entrepreneurs found themselves in a
terrible position, and were often forced to mangle their enterprises
or even close down outright. For the people that meant no work, and
because they were no longer in the country, it also meant no food.
The Holy Man saw this, too, and he was distressed. He was
distressed because the Capitalist was willing and capable of selling
anything, and no moral scruple or human consideration was sufficient
enough to prevent him from making use of every last avenue of
exploitation that he could, however small and insignificant the
profit was in comparison to the human loss suffered. The Holy Man
could also see that the more the Capitalist succeeded in reaping
profits, the greater was his influence with the Politician. The Holy
Man was a man of ideas and elegant justifications. The Capitalist,
however, now had an answer for every argument and remonstration, no
matter how carefully prepared, and would toss it in the face of the
Holy Man and draw the Politician to some private corner where he
would further poison their relationship. And, of course, this answer
was Money.
The meetings of the Gang of Two became more and more strained.
They hardly sat, the Holy Man standing like an defeated avatar in the
corner, watching the movements of the Politician as he paced
awkwardly and intensely around the table, plotting his next move,
grinning madly. Every once in a while his face would twitch, usually
if he was referring to his own share of the cut. Outside the people
groaned and grew more resentful, and inside the Politician made more
and more frequently meetings with the Capitalist from which the Holy
Man was excluded.
"We have known each other for a long time." The Holy
Man had spoken up suddenly, and a bit sentimentally it must be
admitted.
The Politician looked up as if startled from some reverie that
was bubbling inaudibly on his lips. He did not cease his pacing.
"What? A long time?" He snorted. "Too long."
The Holy Man felt a bit like an aging lover thrown aside. He
sighed and cast his eyes for a moment to the floor, running over in
his mind all the thoughts and emotions he had been feeling since the
day the Capitalist first drew the Politician away from him. "It's
not right and you know it."
The Politician seemed to be annoyed that the Holy Man was talking
so much. "You're interrupting my calculations," he spat
bitterly, scarcely pausing in his fevered step. He was still smiling.
He shook his head wildly. "Times change," he reported,
looking the Holy Man for a moment in the eye. "Anyway, nothing
is ever about right and wrong. You should know."
In those days, the chamber was not exactly empty. There were
uncreative but colorful paintings on the walls and a few fake plants
in the corners with stiff, overly green leaves that never sagged. On
the table itself there lay a few scattered leaflets and writing
quills, and every once in a while one of them had been known to call
for a typewriter. There was even a carpet in the room then, a rust
colored carpet with a simple criss-cross pattern, concocted in one of
the Capitalist's factories.
"We've been set against each other before, neither of us can
deny that." The voice of the Holy Man was strangely calm, even
musical. "It's been worse than this." He laughed then,
probably at some small and distant memory. "But this is
different." The tone in his voice toughened. "The people
are losing sight of God."
Now the Politician stopped. He was standing at the other end of
the table. For a moment he looked the Holy Man squarely in the face,
a hard look, an uncomfortable look. Finally, he smiled again, and
before a word came out of his mouth, the Holy Man knew it would be
frothing with sarcasm. "God is dying, and with it you, too.
You're antiquated and you're not needed anymore. A stepping stone is
what it was, nothing more. Something to help people get by when they
didn't have enough to be who they wanted. A rationalization of social
dependence. 'Do unto others as you would have done unto you.' Bah! We
have something better now. The people sense it. The people know it.
They know who their master is, and it's not that " - a vague,
frustrated gesture somewhere beyond the ceiling - "implacable
ghost you've been threatening us with ever since time immemorial!
They don't care anymore if it doesn't rain, you imbicile. They care
if they are out of a job."
The Holy Man's reponse was swift. "Their jobs aren't very
fulfiling now, are they?"
"Fulfilling," repeated the Politician distantly, his
eyes unfocused. "Fulfilling." He seemed, in fact, to be
trying out the word for the first time. And suddenly, stabbing the
air in front of him with a threatening finger, the smile was
swallowed, the face clenched in a terrible rage, and all the blood
rushed to the convulsing muscles, and the Politician hissed, "Let
me tell you about fulfilling! Long ago you had me on my knees
slobering over that ridiculous robe of yours, carrying it for you,
trailing along behind you like a dog! And not just in the privacy of
this room, but you paraded it before the people! Fulfilling, was it?
Oh, I remember, I remember it well, and now, finally, you're the one
who'll be crawling on the rostra in front of me, and it will be my
foot on your back. And I'll be damned if I don't go and pick up an
axe. Oh yes, you just wait and see." The Politician's eyes
bugged dangerously out of his head. "Just wait and see."
The Holy Man, for his part, felt strengthened when he saw the
Politician talking like that. It wasn't really he, he thought to
himself. He was sick. Yes, sick, he's caught a disease, something has
taken control of him.
But the Politician wasn't finished yet. He had resumed his
pacing. He was talking to the carpet. His voice was calm again, the
smile had reappeared, and that sudden change, that sudden contrast,
did more to disturb the Holy Man than anything the Politician had
said yet. "You're being replaced," he murmured. It was as
if he were under a spell, and the words he spoke were those of
another. "Soon the Capitalist will be in here with me. He'll be
a much more reasonable fellow than you've ever been. I know what he's
about. You, you raise the silliest objections to the most important
of matters! I don't know how I've got along with you even this far.
Honestly, I don't."
When the Holy Man left the room with the table and the chairs
(and the other things that were as yet still present), he was
pensive. He strolled slowly but determinedly through the shadowy
passageways and the twisting hallways of the building with the gates
and the guards, his fingertips pressed tightly together in front of
his chest, head to the floor. People fluttered about on either side,
taking trouble not to tread on his beautifully embroidered robes.
There seemed to be no particular order or sense to their comings and
goings, but no matter. All the Holy Man saw were shoes, large, dark
shoes appended to large, dark trousers, and he saw shadows. He was
thinking.
He was thinking about the people. Not because he loved them, no,
although he liked to think that he did. He was thinking about them
because he knew they were already taking steps to defend themselves,
as creatures will do when they feel themelves to be under attack.
Even without his support, even without his encouragement, the people
had realized one very important point: if trinkets and gadgets
weren't being produced, or not being produced faster than they were
the year before, the Capitalist was reduced to temper tantrums and
tears. So, with that in mind, they were banding together and forming
loosely knit organizations called unions. For they knew that
individually they could not stand up to the alliance of the
Capitalist and the Politician, but with greater numbers they reckoned
themselves a force that had to be taken seriously.
And take them seriously they did. For when the people weren't
working and the Capitalist was sulking, the Politician wasn't getting
any richer. Anyway, internal discord in a country is a state of
affairs much feared by the Politician, because anything could happen,
suddenly, as if on a whim. The fact made the Politician grouchy,
because it meant he had to pay attention to what was going on and
expend a great effort merely to keep from losing what he was already
enjoying. So, on that note, the Politician, in fulfillment of his
part of the alliance, struck back at the people and their unions as
hard as he could. For he understood that if the unions could be
broken, the will of the people would be broken, and they would start
obeying the Capitalist without question like they used to in days
gone by, and the Capitalist himself wouldn't be hanging around the
building with the gates and the guards so often, pestering everyone
with his disgusting habits and his woes.
It was this exchange that the Holy Man was now pondering. For
although at first he believed that the people could not stand up to
such weapons, he saw that their determination made them formidable.
He wondered how much better they would fare if he tried to help them.
Naturally he could not openly come to their aid. His position was
weak enough as it was. But there were other ways of making himself
useful to their cause, other avenues of...
A dark shadow blocked his path. It did not move. Instinctually,
the Holy Man halted. A cloak of annoyance descended over him as he
lifted his head and was greeted by the gruesome sight of the
Capitalist, standing in the middle of the corridor, gnawing on a huge
turkey bone. And hadn't he got fatter? If it were possible, it would
seem that he had. Trails of grease flowed out of the corners of his
mouth and disappeared among his chins and his gold chains. His girth
bridged the breadth of the corridor almost completely, leaving barely
enough room on either side for those who had to pass to squeeze by.
The Capitalist seemed unaware that he was an obstruction, and the
Holy Man, in a moment of rare intuition, realized that most certainly
he was aware of it.
The Capitalist was sneering at the Holy Man. He was not a happy
man. "How's God today?" he bellowed far too loudly for the
confines of the dim, carpeted hallway. The large belly encased in the
rumpled, black tuxedo heaved.
The Holy Man shuddered. The Capitalist licked his fingers and
somehow twisted his face into a most remarkable and certainly
uncomfortable expression of loathing and contempt.
The Holy Man - with a mind for his expensive clothing and his
fancy hat - decided it was best to turn around and pick another way.
Without a word, he turned on his heels and began to retrace his
steps. He found, though, that he was unable to focus his thoughts,
and couldn't keep the image of the Capitalist whom he knew was
standing behind him, leering at him, the cruel, cold face of a viper,
out of his head.
"Hey!" shouted the Capitalist. "I've a message for
you!"
The Holy Man, despite himself, halted. Why didn't he just
continue? But he turned his head to the side. He waited.
The Capitalist sucked for a long moment on his turkey bone before
he finally belched. "Tell God that if he doesn't come clean on
his obligations, I'm going to have to foreclose on heaven." And
at that, the Capitalist exploded with a vile, obese sounding
laughter, as if it were too much for his crippled body. Out of the
corner of his eye, the Holy Man saw him double over. Between the
wheezing and the gurgling and the grunting the Capitalist could be
heard repeating the words, as if to the others who had gathered on
the far side of him, not really daring to try and pass. He seemed to
be quite pleased with his witicism, and I'm sure that later on he
repeated it to the Politician. Who, we can be sure, chuckled along
with him out of a keen sense of his own interest.
For quite some time the Politician's army of police and soldiers
fought the people, who in turn elected leaders for themselves. These
weren't the kind of sham elections that kept the Politician in power,
no, these were the real thing, and the persons who were elected after
serving for a time in their capacity were often content to retire
into the background and let someone else with a fresher mind continue
in his place. The battle raged for years and years, for the people
proved willing to suffer greatly for the little gain that they
envisioned for themselves. The Holy Man offered what clandestine
support he could to the people, mostly in the form of words and
encouragement and occassionally even a place of hiding in their times
of most dire need. And every so often the Politician would catch the
Holy Man in the act, as it were, and they were argue, but there
really wasn't much the Politician could do as long as the Holy Man
would never open declare himself for the people.
But even so, it seemed that slowly but surely the Politician and
the Capitalist were managing to gain the upper hand, and the
exhaustion and desperation of the people were growing unbearable. It
was then, at the last minute, before it seemed that the people would
be doomed to exploitation forever, that a strange thing happened in a
land far away. No one could have predicted the event, nor that its
consequences would have such reach and such magnitude. In the end,
the Politician and the Capitalist were forced to back down because of
it. This is what happened.
Back in those days, the world was divided into far more regions
and nations than it is today. Our familiar Gang or Two, for example,
with the Capitalist trying to pull them into orbit, was not the Gang
of Two of Oceania, because Oceania didn't exist yet. They were the
Gang of Two of the leading nation in the region, the nation that
eventually adopted National Capitalism and conquered the surrounding
countries. They called the result a free trade zone, but what it
really was, was an empire based on economics. This was the foundation
of Oceania, and it was a region that was dominated by our familiar
Gang and exclusively served its interests. But I am getting ahead of
myself. Far away across the oceans, then, in what was later to become
Eurasia, there were also a multitude of nations, each with its own
culture and language and way of life. In one of these countries -
What? Excuse me? Yes, yes, I know, you don't believe me, what I'm
saying sounds ridiculous, but I beg of you, humor me for a while.
After all, this is only a story.
As I was saying, one of the countries in that region was a
particularly large but landlocked nation that for centuries had
lagged behind the other states in Eurasia both technologically and
politically. It, too, was led by a Gang of Two, but the biggest
difference between that Gang of Two and our familiar Gang of Two is
that there was no Capitalist anywhere to be seen near their building
with its gates and guards. The Politician and the Holy Man still
ruled together in harmony from the seat of their room with its table
and chairs.
In fact, they hadn't been outside in quite a long time. They had
tired of the world outside and its problems and miseries, and were
loathe to leave the confines of the little paradise of comfort and
luxury they had created for themselves inside. Outside the people
still worked the land, but they hardly had food for themselves and
their lives were stolen from them quite pitifully by the agents of
their Politician. The agents of their Holy Man rebuffed them when
they complained, and carried away whatever had been left to the
people by the Politician for his own use. Their lot truly was
despicable, especially when they heard the stories of what the
Politician and the Holy Man were eating inside the building where
they weren't allowed to approach. In the past it had been the lot of
the people the world over to suffer this fate, and they had been
content, but now there were whispers and rumors of a better life not
very far away, and the people of this nation grew jealous.
Well, I'm sure you can guess what happened. Well, perhaps you
can't, at that. An amazing thing, of course, and a dangerous one,
too: the people rose up out of anger and stormed the building and
murdered everyone they could find in it. They even managed to locate
the inner sanctum with the table and the chairs, and in it the
trembling Gang of Two. These, too, they murdered without pity and
without a public display. In their place they set a single and lonely
character. This was the Communist, of course, and he was a man - more
so, even than the Holy Man had been - who acted out of a firm belief
in the way things should be, without any regard to the way they
actually were. The Communist was a gruff man with a beard who never
smiled and who dressed in grey. It was always winter in his country.
As a result, he was usually to be seen in a long, thick, grey
overcoat lined with furs. The frown on his face was stern and
permanent. For the Communist was a man consumed by anger, and that
was, of course, the greatest contributor to his downfall. Because
once a human being begins to act out of a hatred, even if the reasons
are legitimate and worthy of the cause, the worst that can befall him
is that he succeed in his endeavor. For once he obtained power, the
Communist showed himself capable of the greatest cruelty. He did not
allow individuals to develop as they naturally would, but refused to
allow them to be individuals altogether. But he was no barbarian, no.
That was plain to see in his methods. Cruel they were, yes, and cold,
but they also embodied a certain understanding of the human mind and
how it best could be manipulated. The Capitalist, for his part, was
able to learn a lot just watching him. But for all his severity, the
Communist did make some attempt to care for his people, or tried to
as best he could while still maintaining his rage and his privileged
position in a society that precluded privilege. He educated them and
ensured that they all had proper recourse to medicines and the other
necessities of life, such as warmth and food and clothing. For the
Communist maintained that even if the people were put on this earth
to serve his regime, at least there was a social contract that
required something in return on his part.
Perhaps you can imagine the reaction of the Politician and the
Holy Man in our own, familiar land. When the news of the happening
had first been brought to them, they hadn't thought much of it, but
later on there was a rather serious downturn in the business cycle,
worse than had ever been seen before, and the people became more
sensitive than ever to their exploitation and the other half of the
social contract that the Capitalist seemed to be neglecting. For the
Capitalist believed that the people were put on this earth to serve
in his regime and that was all there was to it.
Inside their little chamber buried far inside their building with
their gates and their guards, the Gang of Two sat conferring. The
Holy Man in all his refinery sat with his legs on the table and his
chair pushed back, and the Politician was trying to support his huge,
heavy head and its greasy hair and its weighty smile with two hands
and the arms attached to them, finding support like a seldom lover on
the tabletop. He seemed glum, the Holy Man pensive.
"If they came in here, we could lose all our stuff,"
complained the Politician.
"Forget about our stuff. That we can always take back. But
they would take God away from the people because they want to be the
only authority in their lives," the Holy Man told him.
"Actually, we would lose all our stuff for sure." The
Politician bit petulantly at one of his huge, flapping lips. "And
then they would take us into some basement and shoot us and hang our
uniforms in a museum."
"I think we can both agree this evil must be eradicated.
There's no doubt about that."
The Politician snorted and pushed back a prodigal lock of hair
that wouldn't keep out of his overly handsome face. "This is all
your fault," he snapped, his eyes rolled to the top of his
sockets. "Your promised the people that they could have their
own lives." Another snort. "Provided they kept buying God's
favor."
The Holy Man clicked his tongue distastefully and went on. "We've
sent messengers and he won't respond, and if you listen to what he
has to say when he's not haranguing the people or throwing a temper
tantrum, it all adds up pretty bad for us. Don't you agree?"
"Do you think he allows the people any hair-care products in
his country?"
The Holy Man smiled knowingly. "Don't get your hopes up. If
he comes here, you're not going to get to make a deal with him."
The Politician sat up suddenly and stared angrily at the Holy
Man. "Well, then, I hope you have a plan because the people
outside are pretty taken up by this people's power nonsense. What
arrogance, to think that they could just sweep us aside and get along
better than they had before! If we don't watch out, they'll just
invite this Communist fellow -"
"Shut up. You're making me nervous. All we have to do is
keep our heads."
"Fine. You stay busy keeping your head. I just got mine
exactly the way I want it so now I'd like to turn my attention to
other things, like my survival."
"Our survival."
"Yes, yes, whatever."
"Well, I think we have no other choice."
The Politician's mouth almost slid off his face. "Choice?"
"Who owns the newspapers?"
The Politician was silent.
"Who is the one with the flashy car and the young girlfriend
that the people hate to admire?"
The Politician snickered.
"Who do the people think gives them choice?"
The Politician smiled.
Now it was the Holy Man's turn to smile. "Exactly. And when
we are done using him, we will cast him aside like the sack of
garbage that he is and life will go on as it always has."
At that the Politician lifted an eyebrow. "As it always has,
eh?" He sounded doubtful.
"Yes, friend. As it has for thousands and thousands of
years, and still thousands more on top of that!"
The Politician shrugged. "Whatever you say." His
expression sank into a vague, troubled thought. The Holy Man played
with the tassles that hung from his robe and pondered how he would
play his hand. Suddenly, a gleam of malice alighted in the
Politician's eye, and looking up he addressed the Holy Man, warmly,
as if he were imparting some much sought-after advice. "You
realize what that means, of course?"
But, of course, the Holy Man knew quite well what that meant. He
scowled, but said nothing. It was a situation he would have to live
with.
The Politician snickered and nodded his head. After a moment, he
began to whistle.
It was not many days later that the Capitalist made his
triumphant entry. He had to turn sideways to squeeze through the
already ample doorway, but in a matter of moments he was within the
confines of the inner sanctum with the table and the chairs where no
one aside from the Holy Man and the Politician had been allowed since
anyone could remember (and that was quite a long time indeed). The
Politician had come to greet him at the door, smiling impishly, but
the Holy Man remained seated at the far end, his legs stretched out
comfortably and resting on the surface of the table. His hands were
folded in his lap. He was watching.
The Capitalist was alternately taking bites out of a hotdog
smeared with sauerkraut and mustard and wiping his hands on his
great, black pants. As he lurched around the room, the great grin
spreading across his face threatened to grow wider. The Politician
trotted next to him during his brief tour of inspection, chattering
frivolously away, jealous of the genuineness of the smile, but he was
largely ignored. Every once in a while, the Capitalist would smack
his great, heaving belly with his free hand and belch his
satisfaction. He had no questions. He had no comments. He had no
sense of taste, so we couldn't really expect an opinion from him
about anything that had nothing to do with Money. I imagine he was
just so enthralled, so amazed, to be standing in that room with them
then that he wasn't able to adequately order his thoughts. He did say
one thing, however, and that was merely under his breath and to no
one in particular, and that was: "We'll have to do something
about all this decoration, won't we?" At a certain point, he
arrived close to where the Holy Man was sitting, stretched out at the
far end of the table, and he could proceed no further, because there
wasn't enough room between the Holy Man's chair and the far wall for
him to pass.
"Why don't you take a seat and we can get started?"
suggested the Holy Man. There was not the slightest quiver of emotion
in his voice, or the suggestion that he even cared about why he had
finally been invited among them.
The Capitalist looked at the Holy Man for a moment, his eyes a
bit wide and bugging out of his head, like a small child being given
permission for the first time to ride off on his bicycle alone. No,
at a moment like this not even the Holy Man could ruin the sense of
triumph, not even he could tarnish the sweetness of the taste of
power like a nectar running down his face in a rain, clinging to his
skin, making him stronger.
The Capitalist gurgled. It may have been as close to a
good-natured laugh as he was capable. Carefully, he maneuvered
himself around and began to instinctively lurch back towards the
opposite end of the table. One tiny step followed by another. The
movements were sporatic, as if he were highly unstable with only one
foot on the ground. "Well," he sputtered as he moved. A
foot scrambled panick-stricken towards the safety of the floor. "I
know why you've asked me here. And about damned time, I'd say! I
could have helped prevent this whole mess in the first place. But at
least I'm here now. Everything will be alright now. I can assure you
of that! You boys finally made the right decision." The
Capitalist was now out of breath. He had finally reached the chair at
the other end of the table where the Politician usually sat. Looking
down, he saw a tiny, metal stool with arms and legs and there was
absolutely no way he was going to be able to safely squeeze himself
into it.
Looking up, he saw that the Politician had remained standing by
the Holy Man. He was watching the Capitalist with grotesque interest.
Certainly, he had never seen a man so fat. Really, he hadn't seen the
Capitalist in a while, that was true, but the image presenting itself
to him now was beyond even what his imagination had conjured up in
the meantime. The man, like the Universe, was constantly expanding.
"I'll stand," the Capitalist announced finally, smiling
uncomfortably.
The Holy Man did not react. The Politician snickered and
slithered quickly over to where the Capitalist stood panting, grabbed
the chair, and yanked it back towards the Holy Man. He placed it at
his right side and collapsed into it.
"Well," managed the Capitalist. "As I was saying,
you boys have made the right decision. Just listen to me and we'll be
safely through this mess in no time. I mean, who ever heard of it?
Price setting? Government monopolies? An even distribution of wealth?
We should take 'em out back and hang them like they did their
royalty. No offence, of course. But it was the only good thing
they've done. Now, like I was saying, just leave everything to me -"
The Holy Man tossed an impatient look at the Politician next to
him. The Politician's giant head lolled. Two tiny words issued from
his mouth like darts. "Shut up."
The Capitalist wasn't sure if he had heard correctly. "Excuse
me?"
The Politician cleared his throat. "I said, 'shut up'".
The Capitalist stared at the Politician in disbelief.
At that, a crude, timid smile crept across the Politician's
bloated face. Yes, that face, it was the perfect home for a smile.
"Well what did you expect?" he finally demanded. "I'm
a master of duplicity. I do and I say what will keep me exactly where
I am, and at the moment that adds up to telling you to shut up."
"But you are under attack," murmured the Politician.
"You need me."
"No," thundered the Holy Man. He shot forward in his
chair and glared at the Capitalist. "YOU are under attack."
An insistent hand struck the table. The eyes flashed. "This -"
the Holy Man's mouth twitched as he searched for the right word -
"avatar of the people, this Communist, he may want to get rid of
me, but the reality of power will sink in quick enough! People are
spiritual by nature, and that spirituality needs to be guided and
channeled to proper use." A quick look in the direction of the
Politician. "My old friend, here, too, although perhaps not
immediately useful, would certainly find his way back in here after
this Communist is around long enough. People are, after all, people,
and if they meet any success at all he will have wealth enough to
covet. But you! You perform no useful work. Others perform the work
for you and you take it from them and all the market says it is worth
and leave them just enough to live on. You satisfy no social
requirement. No one would miss you if you suddenly disappeared. You
are a leech. You devour everything you can get your hands on and you
are bloated out of proportion and you are the most thoroughly
disgusting man I have ever met. Your stink permeates this room, and I
tell you it requires the greatest mental control to withstand the
urge to vomit. But you don't care! The wish or thought or opinion of
no other person could phase you. That's why the Communist wants you
dead, and frankly I wonder if he isn't right." The Holy Man had
stood up and was leaning against the table with balled up fists. His
face was crunched in a scowl of disdain and the veins were clearly
visible in their encasings on his forhead.
The Capitalist was shaking his head. His eyes flickered about
more quickly and more frequently than they usually did, and he was
still breathing heavily. What was left of the hotdog he held under
the table. "I wasn't even over there," he exclaimed,
panting, trying to order his thoughts. "You were, he was! I
never was!"
"Enough of this childishness!" Another slap of the
table. "Don't try and tell me whose fault this is!"
And then the Capitalist began to cry. Huge, renting sobs suddenly
burst from his mouth and sprayed from his nose. He was staring at the
Holy Man with wide, child-like eyes, eyes that couldn't believe he
was being spoken to like this, eyes set in a face whose brain
couldn't quite believe that his Money wouldn't be enough, and then
suddenly like a geizer his face convulsed and he appeared to cough
violently and he collapsed to the floor and now his head was resting
between his flabby arms on the tabletop and he was oozing tears and
uncomfortable noises and shuddering uncontrolably. The table appeared
to be having difficulty holding up under the demands he was imposing
on it.
The Holy Man sat back in his chair, a disgusted look on his face,
but also one mingled with satisfaction. After a moment or two of this
outburst he threw a subtle but demanding glance in the direction of
the Politician. "You can jump in at any time, you know," he
purred coldly.
The Politician considered that for a moment before he moved to
speak. Sitting next to the Holy Man, he avoided looking at the
Capitalist's weeping hulk directly. "Now listen here," he
began, his voice a bit trepid and slow. And who knows, maybe the
Politician genuinely felt sorry to see the Capitalist in such a
state, because even if he was a Capitalist, somewhere inside of him
he was also a human being. "It's not so bad as all that. No one
is telling you you have to give up all your stuff and go away. I know
the Holy Man speaks hard, but you can't take him at face value,
either. Sure, he doesn't like you, I know that, you know that, but it
doesn't change the fact we are in this together." The Capitalist
lifted his head and stared at the Politician with bleeding eyes
framed in the silvery remains of his tears. The look on his face
showed that he was vulnerable. The Politician was encouraged. "Now
what it comes down to is this," he continued. "You can hang
out in here with us and help bury this Communist person. You can
still skim off the top like you have been. The only difference is
that there will be limits. That's all. You won't be able to pile up
wealth beyond all measure, because right now we need the people's
support in our fight, and if there is one thing that is easy to
assault about you it is your - well, the fact that it appears that
you never have enough, which is especially, well, bad when there are
so many who don't have anything."
"I get to keep my factories?" murmured the Capitalist.
"Yes," the Politician quickly assured him. "You
get to keep your factories. Most of them, that is," he added
after a quick glance from the Holy Man. "But don't worry, as
soon as this situation is cleared up you'll get them back."
Now the Holy Man spoke up. "We are convinced that we cannot
defeat this Communist fellow with the traditional kind of war.
There's more behind him than an army. We figure we have to wage a
different kind of war, one we'll need you for. We'll need to
outproduce them. It's as clear and simple as that."
The Capitalist looked suspiciously from one to the other. "And
you will still take your cut?"
"Naturally," responded the Politician. His voice turned
hard, icy even. "The Holy Man, too."
The Capitalist thought for a moment, but really, it isn't hard
for an empty man to choose between nothing and less than what he had.
"Agreed," he said finally. He sniffled and moved to wipe
away some of his tears.
"Double," clarified the Holy Man.
The Capitalist's mouth dropped open. He began to stammer. But
when the Politician and the Holy Man only glared at him coldly, he
finally agreed to that, too.
When the Capitalist squeezed out of the room with the table and
chairs, he was pouting. He did not bid anyone a proper goodbye. He
did, however, have the presence of mind to order himself his own
chair on the way out, albeit one a bit more accommodating than the
others. For even in his miserable state of mind the magnitude of this
particular victory did not escape him. The Politician and the Holy
Man watched him slink away and were busy with their own thoughts. The
Holy Man, although you would never have known it from his cool (if
overdressed) exterior, was ecstatic, and was wondering how much he
could abuse the man before he should be dumped altogether. The
Politician was hoping that the Capitalist wasn't irreparably
offended.
Believe it or not, in the short term things actually got worse
for the Capitalist. For one thing, the Communist's regime seemed to
be achieving some early successes, and did not collapse upon itself
as the Gang of Three (as it was now unofficially called) had hoped.
It even managed to spread. But, as I said before, the Communist was a
cruel and angry man, and everything he achieved or tried to achieve
was marred by his private bitterness and his inestimable suspicion.
In the end, he discovered the necessity of moderating himself, but by
then his regime had been irreversibly stained by the habit of
repression and severity, and that was that. But all this came later
on.
And, as I have already mentioned, somewhere nestled among the new
wars of global proportions that sprang up about this time, the
business cycle betrayed them all. Sure, there had been crashes
before, and the people were tossed out of their jobs and homes (it
was only to be expected), but the magnitude of this particular crash
had previously been unimaginable, and the people in their despair
came very close to doing away with the Capitalist altogether. In the
end, it was the Politician that saved him, the Politician that hid
him away when the mob came searching for him with torches in their
hands and fire in their eyes, the Politician that gave in to all of
their demands except the most important one of all. In that way, the
Capitalist remained, and continued to attend meetings in the inner
sanctum, even if he wasn't consulted very often about anything.
I know, I know, it is difficult to imagine anyone with power and
stature enough to ignore the presence of the Capitalist, or disregard
him altogether, but believe it or not human beings were once
permitted the use of all of their faculties and they did not simply
assume that they were made to serve. In fact, people were born then.
The rules and responsibilities that governed the peaceful coexistence
of human beings all living together on more or less equal terms was
called a "society". But, alas, if the things I have already
said appear strange to you, no doubt this concept is utterly
confusing. Anyway, it is dangerous for me to be telling you these
things now, yes I know, and it might even be dangerous for you to
listen. But deep down inside you know it to be true. So perhaps it is
best to leave this era and enter into one that will seem more
familiar, the telling of which will involve considerably less risk of
being suddenly grabbed off the street, dragged behind the nearest
building, and shot for being a terrorist. All hail Oceania, the
mother of the National Capitalistic state. There, that ought to buy
us some time.
>
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workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.
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