Orwell divides his book into two halves.
The first half is a riveting documentary on the immense challenges of life in
the 1930's, even in one of the most prosperous countries in the world—for those
who worked in difficult occupations on the lower end of the economic spectrum.
In particular, Orwell focuses on coal miners and the remarkably onerous
conditions in which they worked. Orwell "gives a first-hand account of the
life of the working class population of Wigan and elsewhere. "It is a
terrible record of evil conditions, foul housing, wretched pay, hopeless
unemployment, and the villanies of the Means Test [England's welfare
programs]." (xi) In this, WP is akin to a (presumably-more-accurate) version of the Upton Sinclair's The Jungle.
The second half describe Orwell’s
admiration for socialism and his sense of the public's frequently-poor perception
of socialism and socialists. Orwell "looks at Socialists as a whole and
finds them (with a few exceptions) a stupid, offensive, and insincere
lot." In this, WP is akin to reading a liberal's take on liberals and the
plethora of contemporary faux liberals—a la Thomas Frank's contemporary work.
The second half is so pointed in this
regard that the "Left Book Club" (which commissioned the work)
expressed disappointment with the book and felt a strong need to clarify the
book to its club members. The editors' note that the decision to publish Orwell
should not be mistaken for full agreement with his conclusions (ix)—a point on
which they elaborated for a full page (x).
Victor Gallancz, writing for the editors,
said that he had more than 100 minor critiques of the book (xii). But he deeply
appreciated Orwell's narrative and respected his "highly provocative"
argument. The editors loved the first half of the book and were willing to
tolerate the critiques, polemic, and bomb-throwing in the second half. Gallancz
wrote that it had been "a long time since I have read so living a
book, or one so full of a burning indignation against poverty and oppression."
(xi) Perhaps the editors secretly respected and valued the second half of the
book—for its efforts to make socialism more palatable to the masses. In any
case, we can be thankful that they saw fit to publish Orwell's work.
Note also the context of the book and its
times. It was published in 1937, as England was continuing to limp along after
its "Great Slump" (their version of our "Great
Depression"). England did not endure as many policy errors as America
under FDR and his "New Deal". So, the times were not nearly as bleak
as in America's continuing "depression". (In the 6th year of FDR's
policies, unemployment was still 19%. See: Vedder
and Galloway’s Out of Work.) But
England's recovery was still tepid and times were tough.
Also, socialism was still ascendant as an
ideology, and to many, as an economic system. Gallancz points to the
then-apparent "successes" of the Soviet Union's economy with its
five-year plans (xviii). This is so difficult to imagine now. But even into the
1980s, there were those who imagined (and wrote economics textbooks saying)
that the Soviet Union had a better economy than the U.S.
One final observation before I dig into the
details of what Orwell wrote. The man was good with a phrase and colorful in
his descriptions, making the book a pleasure to read (even when one has
quibbles or complaints with what he has written). For example, in chapter 1’s
description of the boarding house where he stayed, "the dust was so thick
that it was like fur" (5) and "in the morning, the room stank like a
ferret's cage" (6). The owner climbed "the stairs, carrying a full
chamber-pot which he gripped with his thumb well over the rim." (12) And
on the stench of one town: "If at rare moments you stop smelling sulphur,
it is because you have begun smelling gas." (106)
Orwell's Observations on "the
Working Class"
In Chapters 2-3, Orwell turns from his
lodging to the coal miners. He notes the vital importance of coal in his time
(or by extension, energy): "In the metabolism of the Western world, the
coal miner is second in importance to the man who plows the soil." (21) When
I talk about cartels in the classroom, there are only two prominent examples.
Both, not coincidentally, are international and natural resources: OPEC and
DeBeers. DeBeers is more impressive as a cartel, but OPEC is more important
since its sporadic successes have ripple effects across the entire
macroeconomy.
Orwell's description of work in the coal
mines is sobering. We might have the impression that it's peaceful and bucolic,
if we visit when the mine is not in operation (21b). And really, few people
want to think about such unpleasantries: "Probably a majority of people
would even prefer not to hear about it. Yet it is the absolutely necessary
counterpart of our world above...[not] black stuff that arrives mysteriously
from nowhere in particular, like manna except that you have to pay for
it." (33-34)
The reality of the work is rough. Orwell
felt "a pang of envy for their toughness...an almost superhuman job by the
standards of an ordinary person...monstrous quantities of coal" while
kneeling (22). "The heat...the coal dust...the unending rattle of the
conveyor belt" (23). The elevator "cage" to get "400 yards
under ground" (24). And then there are the "immense horizontal
distances" (25), where one "walks stooping" to get there (26)
and this "travelling" is not compensated (29).
When the miners come up from the pit, their
faces are "so pale...due to the foul air” even though it “will wear off
presently." (36) He was fascinated by the blue scars on their faces:
"The coal dust...enters every cut...forms a blue stain like tattooing,
which in fact it is. Some of the older men have their foreheads veined like
Roquefort cheese from this cause." (36) Without full "pithead"
baths, they could not possibly get clean. Orwell estimates that these were
available to only one-third of the miners. "Probably a large majority of
miners are completely black from the waist down for at least six days a week.
It is almost impossible for them to wash all over in their own homes."
(37)
In Chapter 4, Orwell turns to housing. It
is "by any ordinary standard not fit for human habitation" (51). And
yet "there are no others to be had...[a] housing shortage" (52). Of
course, from Econ101, this doesn't make any sense, unless there is profound
monopoly power—of the sort that could only be found at this time through
government power. But Orwell doesn't provide any evidences of government
malfeasance. Instead, the more likely explanation is that the housing was lousy,
but what consumers could afford.
From there, Orwell talks about
"Corporation" housing. These seem to have been government-run—what we would call "public housing." (This
is ironic since this government effort was labeled "Corporate".) At
their worst, the Corporation houses were still "better than the slums they
replace...a condemned house" (68). They were nicer, but more expensive—10
shillings vs. a former rent of 6-7 shillings (68). And the Corporation houses
had "restrictions" (71).
In Chapter 5, Orwell turns his sights on
"the Means test"—what we would call "welfare programs" for
the poor. Orwell was a prophet ahead of his time—at least by American
standards. He was disturbed by the system's cold calculations and bureaucracy.
It wasn't until the 1980s when "liberals" were bothered by these
things in American welfare. (See: Funiciello’s
Tyranny of Kindness.)
Orwell was also concerned about the impact
of welfare incentives on work (76-77, 81-82) and family formation (79-80). He
said that welfare programs "discourage people from marrying" and
"break up families". For a short time, Charles Murray was seen as a
gadfly in the 1980's for making this case in Losing
Ground. But a few years later, his work on welfare policy was
mainstream. Led by liberals and conservatives, motivated by scholars such as
Murray and Marvin Olasky (The
Tragedy of American Compassion), Bill Clinton and a GOP Congress
"changed welfare as we know it" (well, sort of) in 1996.
Orwell takes a few more pokes along the way—at
unions (83), government training and make-work programs (83-84), and gambling
through the "Football Pools" (85, 89). He claims that "a luxury
is nowadays almost always cheaper than a necessity" and so many people are
"underfed but literally everyone in England has access to a radio"
(89-90) It's difficult to make heads or tails of these two claims—how the
market could provide luxuries for the same price as common goods or outside of
an Obama-phone-like radio initiative, why so many people would have radios but
not food.
Orwell on Class Differences
Orwell covers two important topics in the
second half of the book. The first is his lengthy discussion of class and
pseudo-class differences. In the contemporary American context, I've often
argued that racial differences are overstated; class differences are underestimated;
and that the latter are probably greater than the former. Orwell doesn't talk
about race much, but he certainly sees and explores massive class differences
in 1930's England.
Let me give you a full
dose of Orwell's description of the boarding house and its owners, the
Brookers (17):
On the day
when there was a full chamber-pot under the breakfast table I decided to
leave. The place was beginning to depress me. It was not only the dirt,
the smells, and the vile food, but the feeling of stagnant meaningless
decay, of having got down into some subterranean place where people go
creeping round and round, just like blackbeetles, in an endless muddle of
slovened jobs and mean grievances. The most dreadful thing about people
like the Brookers is the way they say the same things over and over again.
It gives you the feeling that they are not real people at all, but a kind
of ghost for ever rehearsing the same futile rigmarole. In the end,
Mrs. Brooker's self-pitying talk--always the same complaints, over and
over, and always ending with the tremulous whine of 'It does seem 'ard,
don't it now?'--revolted me even more than her habit of wiping her mouth
with bits of newspaper.
But, in a manner reminiscent of those who
discourage today’s liberals and Democrat partisans from ignoring Trump voters
(whatever they think of their lives and beliefs), Orwell continues by warning
us not to ignore "[these] people" (17):
It is no use
saying that people like the Brookers are just disgusting and trying to put
them out of mind. For they exist in tens and hundreds of thousands; they
are one of the characteristic by-products of the modern world. You cannot
disregard them if you accept the civilization that produced them. For this
is part at least of what industrialism has done for us...this is where it
all led to—labyrinthine slums and dark back kitchens with sickly, ageing
people creeping round and round them like blackbeetles. It is a kind of
duty to see and smell such places now and again, especially smell them,
lest you should forget that they exist; though perhaps it is better not to
stay there too long.
So, learn about them, but don't immerse
yourself too much or it may rub off on you. Orwell does encourages his readers to
empathize with them as best they can. But understand that it is exceedingly
difficult to transcend class differences and there are probably significant
limits to the effort (115):
Is it ever
possible to be really intimate with the working class?...I do not think it
is possible. But undoubtedly it is easier in the North than it would be in
the South to meet working-class people on approximately equal terms. It is
fairly easy to live in a miner's house and be accepted as one of the
family; with, say, a farm labourer in the Southern counties it probably
would be impossible. I have seen just enough of the working class to avoid
idealizing them, but I do know that you can learn a great deal in a working-class
home, if only you can get there. The essential point is that your
middle-class ideals and prejudices are tested by contact with others which
are not necessarily better but are certainly different.
Or later (154-156):
It is so
easy to be on equal terms with social outcasts. But unfortunately you do not
solve the class problem by making friends with tramps. At most you get rid
of some of your own class-prejudice by doing so...But when you come to the
normal working class, the position is totally different. There is no short cut
into their midst...It is not [necessarily] a question of dislike or distaste,
only of difference, but it is enough to make real intimacy impossible...
Olasky and Peter
Cove in Poor No More make the
same point about efforts to (really) help the poor. It requires effort and
(true) compassion, not just sentimentality and money. Given the difficulties,
it's common to find posing and trying to shed guilt by spending money, rather
than making the difficult investments of time and energy that would make
feasible even the start of a helpful approach (157-158):
Of course,
everyone knows that class-prejudice exists, but at the same time everyone
claims that he, in some mysterious way, is exempt from it. Snobbishness is
one of those vices which we can discern in everyone else but never in
ourselves...We all rail against class-distinctions, but very few people
seriously want to abolish them. Here you come upon the important fact that
every revolutionary opinion draws part of its strength from a secret
conviction that nothing can be changed.
And how should we even define
"class"? The easiest empirical proxy is income. The next-easiest
empirical proxy and the easiest to approximate visually is wealth—or at least,
evident wealth. But "class" stands in for education, a variety of
social/cultural norms, and a general approach to life. (In his vital book
on this topic, Coming
Apart, Charles Murray presents
data on classes based on income and more. Murray has also done useful work on the
“bubbles” in which we live—particularly in the upper classes.)
Orwell provides some estimates of income in
contemporary England. But then he quickly moves to professions of the
"upper-middle class": "not to any extent commercial, but mainly
military, official and professional" (123). In sum, for him: "Which class do I belong to? Economically I belong
to the working class, but it is almost impossible for me to think of
myself as anything but a member of the bourgeoisie." (225)
In our day, profession, education, and
income also intersect in a Venn diagram of what might constitute
"class". And so, for example, the middle-income sociology professor
is upper-middle class or even upper class. For those within some of the
intersections of the Venn, "you live, so to speak, at two levels
simultaneously" (123). Moving toward the outer edges of those
intersections, we see people "struggling to live genteel lives on what are
virtually working-class incomes...forced into close and, in a sense, intimate
contact with the working class..." (124) But this intimate contact is no
longer true today—with our diminished sense of neighborliness, low-cost
transportation, and easy communication.
Orwell talks about being a young man and a
wannabe reactionary. "I was both a snob and a revolutionary." (140)
(The editor refers to Orwell as "at one and the same time, an
extreme intellectual and a violent anti-intellectual" [xvi]. I'm down
that end of the spectrum too, in a group that includes today's anti-anti-Trumpers.) "We
retained, basically, the snobbish outlook of our class, we took it for granted
that we should continue to draw our dividends or tumble into soft jobs."
(139) Orwell says that he grew more aware of this tension over time, but
noticed that others were satisfied with platitudes: "Many people, however,
imagine that they can abolish class-distinctions without making any
uncomfortable change in their own habits and 'ideology'." (162)
Orwell is also brutally frank about his
problems with the working class. He starts with a phrase that was popular in
his youth but had become too PC to utter at the time of his book: "The
lower classes smell." (127) Wow! He continues by describing it as a
repulsive physical feeling—and thus, more difficult to get over (128).
"They are dirtier" and less likely to have bathrooms (130). He has a
"hope that in 100 years, they will be almost as clean as the
Japanese" (130)! Then he shares a hilarious story where he was in a
position to share a quart of beer with a bunch of herdsmen. He thought he would
vomit, but he didn't want to offend them. "You see here how the
middle-class squeamishness works both ways." (131) Later, "it was
rubbing shoulders with tramps that cured me of it." (131).
This is reminiscent of Michael Harrington
in his classic book on poverty. Harrington argues that the poor are “maimed in
body and spirit” (11). On a story about poor African-Americans, Harrington
concludes: “The story is funny enough, but at bottom it is made of the same
stuff as Amos ‘n’ Andy: the laughing, childlike, pleasure-loving Negro who must
be patronized and taken care of like a child…the incident is ultimately one
more tragedy within the structure of the ghetto.” And commenting on family
structure in the African-American community, Harrington argues that “as a
result of this, to take but one consequence of the fact, hundreds of thousands,
and perhaps millions, of children in the other America never know stability and
‘normal’ affection.” (16)
Orwell closes the chapter by noting that
"he is still responding to the training of his childhood, when he was
taught to hate, fear, and despise the working class." (136) Perhaps given
our lack of proximity these days, there's not much of such
"training". Instead, we have apathy and utter unfamiliarity. But I
suspect that fear of the unknown—and less opportunity for intersection with
those who are different from us—get us to a similar outcome.
When one looks down on people—and gets
involved with them, out of pity, compassion, etc.—it's easy and often correct
to question and criticize their choices. This leads to a difficult and
uncomfortable question: When are differences a matter of preference and opinion
vs. some objective norm? And if you and I differ—and I am convinced that your
decision is "wrong"—at what point should I condemn your choices
(never the sinner; always the sin!) or even, bring government policy into the
fray?
Orwell plays with this from a few angles.
He points to "the squalor of these people's houses" and "the
number of children" (60). (He's not nearly as rough in his paternalism as Michael Harrington’s.)
Orwell also notes the role of paternalism in foreign affairs: "seen
from the outside, the British rule in India appears—indeed, it is—benevolent
and necessary...[but it also] an unjustifiable tyranny." (144) And he
extends his observations to paternalism and condescension in nationalism and
regionalism (111-112).
Orwell on the Failure of Socialists to
Sell Socialism
The second primary topic in part 2 of the
book is Orwell's frustration with socialism's failure to spread in the popular
imagination—and thus, socialists' failures to make their case effectively. This
is also relevant to a common political malady today.
With the most recent American presidential
election, it became patently obvious that most voters are not all that
ideological. The Democrats gave us a decidedly illiberal candidate—e.g., with
her approach to foreign policy, crony capitalism, "free speech", the
"sharing economy", and so on. The Republicans gave us a decidedly
un-conservative candidate—at least by any conventional social or economic
definition of "conservatism".
Public Choice economists describe voters as
"rationally ignorant and apathetic". Weighing benefits and costs,
it's rarely enough for voters to get educated and take action in the political
realm. This leads to light investments in a complicated arena.
The political philosophies that usually
emanate from this approach are somewhere between piecemeal and incoherent.
Sadly, this limited thought process too often results in rabid
partisanship and a strange sort of hubris. The most impressive cases are
those who have applied coherent ideas to a particular policy or a narrow set of
policies—say, in support of a position on abortion or international trade
restrictions.
In contrast, there are a handful of folks
who have thought things out relatively well and have come to embrace a coherent
ideology. In broad terms, these people fall into two categories. They typically
have high regard for freedom and economic markets—and pessimism about
regulation and political markets. Or they are pessimistic about markets and
individual choices—and have high regard for the actions of the State. The
former are libertarians or Libertarians; the latter are
"Progressives" or Statists.
Those who have invested enough to reach
these conclusions often have difficulty in understanding why others don't think
the same as they do—why they don't see the "obvious" problems or
solutions that they envision. More broadly, the advocates don't understand why
laypeople don't spend much time thinking about these things. (Jonathan Haidt's research on this is fascinating.)
Given the contemporary problems for those
in every class (remember this was the 1930s), Orwell remarks casually that
"everyone who uses his brain knows that Socialism, as a world-system and
wholeheartedly applied, is a way out. It would at least ensure our getting
enough to eat even if it deprived us of everything else." (171)
But "Socialism is not establishing
itself...[it is] visibly going back...with so much in its favor—the idea of
Socialism is less widely accepted than its was ten years ago. "This must
be due chiefly to mistaken methods of propaganda." (171) And/or socialism
"has about it something inherently distasteful" (172).
Orwell puts himself in the position of
Devil's Advocate to empathize with why people are not impressed by socialism
and socialists. (In this, along the lines of Haidt's research, he's doing something that is rare/difficult for many self-styled
liberals—at least of the modern, American sort.) While engaged in this
exercise, he notes that socialism "is a theory confined entirely to the
middle class" (173); it is plagued by a "prevalence of cranks"
(174).
Orwell's example is hilarious, even to a
contemporary mind (174-175):
For
instance, I have here a prospectus from another summer school which states
its terms per week and then asks me to say 'whether my diet is ordinary or
vegetarian'. They take it for granted, you see, that it is necessary to
ask this question. This kind of thing is by itself sufficient to alienate
plenty of decent people. And their instinct is perfectly sound, for the food-crank
is by definition a person willing to cut himself off from human society in
hopes of adding five years on to the life of his carcass; that is, a
person but of touch with common humanity.
On "cranks", Orwell's observation
seems to apply nicely to “Progressives” and the Libertarian party. In his
context, "One sometimes gets
the impression that the mere words 'Socialism' and 'Communism' draw
towards them with magnetic force every fruit-juice drinker, nudist,
sandal-wearer, sex-maniac, Quaker, 'Nature Cure' quack, pacifist, and
feminist in England." (174) For Libertarians, you get James Weeks
dancing, an assortment of single-issue folks (who are always somewhere between
focused and obsessed), and those who “get it” but can't explain it well and
come off as...well, interesting. Or think about the LP's three top presidential
candidates in 2016: Johnson, Peterson, and McAfee—each admirable in his own
way, but not exactly gifted at reaching the mainstream of American
society.
Continuing his Devil's Advocate critique,
Orwell cites "the ugly fact that most middle-class Socialists, while
theoretically pining for a classless society, cling like glue to their
miserable fragments of social prestige." (175) He also notes the rarity of
laypeople having any sort of coherent sense of political economy (176-178). As
a result, "it is only the 'educated' [orthodox] man...who knows how to be
a bigot...The creed is never found in its pure form in a genuine
proletarian." (178)
And so, "the ordinary decent person,
who is in sympathy with the essential aims of Socialism, is given the
impression that there is no room for his kind in any Socialist party that means
business." (182) Again, we see this sort of thing among the purists in the
Libertarian party. And there is a place for purity—but at what expense?
And what motivates the entire enterprise
for the ardent socialist? Orwell observes:
Sometimes I
look at a Socialist--the intellectual, tract-writing type of Socialist, with
his pullover, his fuzzy hair, and his Marxian quotation--and wonder what
the devil his motive really is. It is often difficult to believe that it
is a love of anybody, especially of the working class, from whom he is of
all people the furthest removed. The underlying motive of many Socialists,
I believe, is simply a hypertrophied sense of order. (178-179)
What an ironic angle! Orwell argues that it's
not love of others, but a personal desire for order, that motivates the
socialist. This connects nicely to the fundamentalism one finds from
ideologues, even from "liberals"—from orderly thinking (a la
Chesterton's "maniac") to believing in government's ability to
instill order and the desirability of such an end. Then, Orwell throws
another haymaker:
Poverty and,
what is more, the habits of mind created by poverty, are something to be
abolished from above, by violence if necessary; perhaps even preferably by
violence. Hence his worship of 'great' men and appetite for
dictatorships...revolution does not mean a movement of the masses with which
they hope to associate themselves; it means a set of reforms which 'we',
the clever ones, are going to impose upon 'them', the Lower
Orders...Though seldom giving much evidence of affection for the
exploited, he is perfectly capable of displaying hatred--a sort of queer,
theoretical, in vacua hatred--against the exploiters. Hence the grand old
Socialist sport of denouncing the bourgeoisie. It is strange how easily
almost any Socialist writer can lash himself into frenzies of rage against
the class to which, by birth or by adoption, he himself invariably
belongs. (179-180)
Another problem for socialism’s popularity:
Its supposed success is driven by artificial, government-induced mechanization,
with "five-year plans" in search of progress, organization, and
efficiency (188-194, 201). For one thing, it's not at all clear that government
can accomplish these goals. But Orwell points to another angle: If successful,
the things replaced will be anachronisms. Capitalism has the same problem when
people recognize it: the good news for consumers and "markets" (of
technological advance and increased competition) is also bad news for producers
(firms and workers). But Orwell notes that socialism is unattractive to
the extent that people perceive it as cold and sterile “progress”.
The bottom line here for Orwell is nicely
put at the end of Chapter 12 (p. 216):
We have
reached a stage when the very word 'Socialism' calls up, on the one hand,
a picture of aeroplanes, tractors, and huge glittering factories of glass
and concrete; on the other, a picture of vegetarians with wilting beards,
of Bolshevik commissars (half gangster, half gramophone), of earnest
ladies in sandals, shock-headed Marxists chewing polysyllables, escaped
Quakers, birth-control fanatics, and Labour Party backstairs-crawlers.
Socialism, at least in this island, does not smell any longer of revolution
and the overthrow of tyrants; it smells of crankishness, machine-worship,
and the stupid cult of Russia.
Orwell is a good read for
those interested in politics—particularly for those who don't understand why
people don't embrace their views. In our days of political hostility, cultural sensitivity,
and faux tolerance, we need more empathy and humility—and Orwell can help readers
increase both by a notch.
