Review by George Orwell of
We by E.I. Zamyatin
Tribune, January 4, 1946
Several years after hearing of its existence, I have at last got my hands on a copy of Zamyatin's We, which is one of
the literary curiosities of this book-burning age. Looking it up in Gleb Struve's Twenty-Five Years of Soviet Russian
Literature, I find its history to have been this:
Zamyatin, who died in Paris in 1937, was a Russian novelist and critic who published a number of books both before and
after the Revolution. We was written about 1923, and though it is not about Russia and has no direct connection with
contemporary politics--it is a fantasy dealing with the twenty-sixth century AD--it was refused publication on the ground
that it was ideololgically undesirable. A copy of the manuscript found its way out of the country, and the book has
appeared in English, French and Czech translations, but never in Russian. The English translation was published in the
United States, and I have never been able to procure a copy: but copies of the French translation (the title is Nous
Autres) do exist, and I have at last succeeded in borrowing one. So far as I can judge it is not a book of the first
order, but it is certainly an unusual one, and it is astonishing that no English publisher has been enterprising enought
to reissue it.
The first thing anyone would notice about We is the fact--never pointed out, I believe--that Aldous Huxley's Brave New
World must be partly derived from it. Both books deal with the rebellion of the primitive human spirit against a rationalised,
mechanised, painless world, and both stories are supposed to take place about six hundred years hence. The atmosphere
of the two books is similar, and it is roughly speaking the same kind of society that is being described though Huxley's
book shows less political awareness and is more influenced by recent biological and psychological theories.
In the twenty-sixth century, in Zamyatin's vision of it, the inhabitants of Utopia have so completely lost their individuality
as to be known only by numbers. They live in glass houses (this was written before television was invented), which enables
the political police, known as the "Guardians", to supervise them more easily. They all wear identical uniforms, and
a human being is commonly referred to either as "a number" or "a unif" (uniform). They live on synthetic food, and their
usual recreation is to march in fours while the anthem of the Single State is played through loudspeakers. At stated
intervals they are allowed for one hour (known as "the sex hour") to lower the curtains round their glass apartments.
There is, of course, no marriage, though sex life does not appear to be completely promiscuous. For purposes of love-making
everyone has a sort of ration book of pink tickets, and the partner with whom he spends one of his allotted sex hours
signs the counterfoil. The Single State is ruled over by a personage known as The Benefactor, who is annually re-elected
by the entire population, the vote being always unanimous. The guiding principle of the State is that happiness and
freedom are imcompatible. In the Garden of Eden man was happy, but in his folly he demanded freedom and was driven out
into the wilderness. Now the Single State has restored his happiness by removing his freedom.
So far the resemblance with Brave New World is striking. But though Zamyatin's book is less well put together--it has
a rather weak and episodic plot which is too complex to summarise--it has a political point which the other lacks. In
Huxley's book the problem of "human nature" is in a sense solved, because it assumes that by pre-natal treatment, drugs
and hypnotic suggestion the human organism can be specialised in any way that is desired. A first-rate scientific worker
is as easily produced as an Epsilon semi-moron, and in either case the vestiges of primitive instincts, such as maternal
feeling or the desire for liberty, are easily dealt with. At the same time no clear reason is given why society should
be stratified in the elaborate way it is described. The aim is not economic exploitation, but the desire to bully and
dominate does not seem to be a motive either. There is no power hunger, no sadism, no hardness of any kind. Those at
the top have no strong motive for staying at the top, and though everyone is happy in a vacuous way, life has become
so pointless that it is difficult to believe that such a society could endure.
Zamyatin's book is on the whole more relevant to our own situation. In spite of education and the vigilance of the Guardians,
many of the ancient human instincts are still there. The teller of the story, D-503, who, though a gifted engineer,
is a poor conventional creature, a sort of Utopian Billy Brown of London Town, is constantly horrified by the atavistic*
impulses which seize upon him. He falls in love (this is a crime, of course) with a certain I-330 who is a member of
an underground resistance movement and succeeds for a while in leading him into rebellion. When the rebellion breaks
out it appears that the enemies of The Benefactor are in fact fairly numerous, and these people, apart from plotting
the overthrow of the State, even indulge, at the moment when their curtains are down, in such vices as smoking cigarettes
and drinking alcohol. D-503 is ultimately saved from the consequences of his own folly. The authorities announce that
they have discovered the cause of the recent disorders: it is that some human beings suffer from a disease called imagination.
The nerve-centre responsible for imagination has now been located, and the disease can be cured by X-ray treatment.
D-503 undergoes the operation, after which it is easy for him to do what he has known all along that he ought to do--that
is, betray his confederates to the police. With complete equanimity he watches I-330 tortured by means of compressed
air under a glass bell:
She looked at me, her hands clasping the arms of the chair, until her eyes were completely shut.
They took her out, brought her to herself by means of an electric shock, and put her under the bell again.
This operation was repeated three times, and not a word issued from her lips.
The others who had been brought along with her showed themselves more honest.
Many of them confessed after one application.
Tomorrow they will all be sent to the Machine of The Benefactor.
The Machine of The Benefactor is the guillotine. There are many executions in Zamyatin's Utopia. They take place publicly,
in the presence of The Benefactor, and are accompanied by triumphal odes recited by the official poets. The guillotine,
of course, is not the old crude instrument but a much improved model which literally liquidates its victim, reducing
him in an instant to a puff of smoke and a pool of clear water. The execution is, in fact, a human sacrifice, and the
scene describing it is given deliberately the colour of the sinister slave civilisations of the ancient world. It is
this intuitive grasp of the irrational side of totalitarianism--human sacrifice, cruelty as an end in itself, the worship
of a Leader who is credited with divine attributes--that makes Zamyatin's book superior to Huxley's.
It is easy to see why the book was refused publication. The following conversation (I abridge it slightly) beteen D-503
and I-330 would have been quite enough to set the blue pencils working:
"Do you realise that what you are suggesting is revolution?"
"Of course, it's revolution. Why not?"
"Because there can't be a revolution. Our revolution was the last and there can never be another. Everybody knows
that."
"My dear, you're a mathematician: tell me, which is the last number?"
"But that's absurd. Numbers are infinite. There can't be a last one."
"Then why do you talk about the last revolution?"
There are other similar passages. It may well be, however, that Zamyatin did not intend the Soviet regime to be the
special target of his satire. Writing at about the time of Lenin's death, he cannot have had the Stalin dictatorship
in mind, and conditions in Russia in 1923 were not such that anyone would revolt against them on the ground that life
was becoming too safe and comfortable. What Zamyatin seems to be aiming at is not any particular country but the implied
aims of industrial civilisation. I have not read any of his other books, but I learn from Gleb Struve that he had spent
several years in England and had written some blistering satires on English life. It is evident from We that he had
a strong leaning towards primitivism. Imprisoned by the Czarist Government in 1906, and then imprisoned by the Bolsheviks
in 1922 in the same corridor of the same prison, he had cause to dislike the political regimes he had lived under, but
his book is not simply the expression of a grievance. It is in effect a study of the Machine, the genie that man has
thoughtlessly let out of its bottle and cannot put back again. This is a book to look out for when an English version
appears.