A Series of Ideological Portraites from the Spring and Summer of 2017 Juxtaposed with Classic Literary Snippets 

August 16, 2017 Preprint

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Both of them knew—in a way, it was never out of their minds that what was now happening could not last long. There were times when the fact of impending death seemed as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they would cling together with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned soul grasping at his last morsel of pleasure when the clock is within five minutes of striking. But there were also times when they had the illusion not only of safety but of permanence. …

      Sometimes, too, they talked of engaging in active rebellion against the Party, but with no notion of how to take the first step. Even if the fabulous Brotherhood was a reality, there still remained the difficulty of finding one's way into it. … But she refused to believe that widespread, organized opposition existed or could exist.  The tale about Goldstein and his under-ground army, she said, were simply a lot of rubbish which the Party had invented for its own purposes and which you had to pretend to believe in. Times beyond number, at Party rallies and spontaneous demonstrations, she had shouted at the top of her voice for the execution of people whose names she had never heard and in whose supposed crimes she had not the faintest belief. … Such a thing as an independent political movement was outside her imagination; and in any case the Party was invincible. It would always exist, and it would always be the same. You could only rebel against it by secret disobedience …. 

      In some ways she was far more acute than Winston, and far less susceptible to Party propaganda. Once when he happened in some connexion to mention the war against Eurasia, she startled him by saying casually that in her opinion the war was not happening. The rocket bombs which fell daily on London were probably fired by the Government of Oceania itself, ‘just to keep people frightened’. This was an idea that had literally never occurred to him. … Often she was ready to accept the official mythology, simply because the difference between truth and falsehood did not seem important to her. …  And when he told her that aeroplanes had been in existence before he was born and long before the Revolution, the fact struck her as totally uninteresting. After all, what did it matter who had invented aeroplanes? It was rather more of a shock to him when he discovered from some chance remark that she did not remember that Oceania, four years ago, had been at war with Eastasia and at peace with Eurasia. It was true that she regarded the whole war as a sham; but apparently she had not even noticed that the name of the enemy had changed. …  He argued with her about it for perhaps a quarter of an hour. …  But the issue still struck her as unimportant. ‘Who cares?’ she said impatiently. ‘It’s always one bloody war after another, and one knows the news is all lies anyway.’ … 

      Such things did not appear to horrify her. She did not feel the abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought of lies becoming truths. He told her the story of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford and the momentous slip of paper which he had once held between his fingers. It did not make much impression on her. … 

      ‘Were they friends of yours?’ she said. 

      ‘No, I never knew them. …’ 

      ‘Then what was there to worry about? …’ 

      He tried to make her understand. ‘This was an exceptional case.’

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Crimestop Party Orthodoxy

Rodney H. Swearengin

In George Orwell’s 1984, the Party felt the need to alter the record—to incessantly incinerate, overwrite and remix the data—so that, in the end, even the most painstaking restoration attempt could never get back to anything resembling an accurate understanding of the past—the day-to-day of the common man before the Revolution—the early days of the invention of the airplane.

    In the American Empire’s 2017, the Party felt no need for Winston’s diligent gremlin praxis. The record remained pristine—fully accessible—at the fingertips of each and every one. The Party need only sow doubts about all the possible secret motives that might be behind the timing of momentous turns in political transparency—and, of course, the illegitimacy revealed in a bad haircut.

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CRIMESTOP means the faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction. —Emmanuel Goldstein

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The Ideological Function of a Haircut

On the telescreen, a young woman responded to the journalist’s prompt: “And the reason that’s significant is not only because the U.S. should care about the ways in which its weapons are being used …, but also because it exposes the U.S. and U.S. officials to legal liability for aiding and abetting coalition war crimes ….” 

    “I hate to say it,” said a Party member watching with me, “because I know what she is saying is important.”

    The researcher—recently returned from the theater of war—continued, “It’s hard to describe in words how devastating it is, to be totally frank.”

    “—But I can’t even concentrate on the words coming out of her mouth. I just want to reach into the television and fix her hair.”

    “So, what you’ve got,” continued the analyst, “is what the U.N. describes as the world’s largest humanitarian crisis.”

    —“And this other lady,” a fellow Party member chimed in, hunting for the remote control device, “—she wears the same clothes all the time.”

    “… thousands upon thousands of cases of cholera, famine for millions across the country … parties at war … no regard for the ways in which that war is affecting the civilian population … attacks continuing and there being very little response …”

    I tried to explain the fact that the news organization runs on donations—that the host is a genuine journalist. “She is doing really serious work.”

    “You know, she was imprisoned.” This was evidently paramount from the perspective of orthodoxy.  

    “So, it’s one of those things,” the human rights expert was saying, “where you’re seeing, in a very gross way, the prioritization of profit over civilian lives…”

    “Yep, terrorism against the police—part of some group wanting to overthrow the government,” my fellow citizen assured me, turning the remote control towards the television.

    The litany continued: “… arbitrary detentions, forced disappearances, abuse, torture, detention of children … secret detention sites … the U.S. aware of these allegations … the U.S. itself is sending in interrogators … rampant abuse. … crammed into shipping containers smeared with feces and blindfolded for weeks on end … beaten, trussed up on the ‘grill’, and sexually assaulted…. American forces were at times only yards away… people strapped to a turning rod … a spit, and they are put over and they are rolled over a fire like a —”

    The clinical description flipped to something with rancor and dramatic flair. “Hate crime!” roared a voice in unison with the flythrough logo. Here we found the proper haircut—with its aura of legitimacy—a sign of allegiance to the Party—accompanied by a slick set of graphics—properly polished graphics to match the Long Island long polished nails, and the affected accent behind an overwrought face of elevated cheekbones and plumped lips.

    For a second, I thought the propaganda line was taking a turn towards the humane—perhaps distancing the new President and his handlers from the acts of violent racism that had been on the rise since the recent inauguration—tempering the rhetoric of the recent campaign—the loathsome posturing—the bravado and bluster that had ushered in the latest incarnation of the American mythos.

    Only weeks before, there had been a shockingly lethal subway slashing—the finishing touch to a tirade of xenophobic racial slurs unleashed on a young black girl and her hijab-wearing friend. Witnesses saw blood before they ever saw the knife. The assailant had sliced the throats of three male bystanders while they tried to diffuse the situation. Surely, that was what the Judge—as the onscreen text assured us the host was—surely, that is what the Judge had in mind, and was about to roundly condemn.

    But no, this representative of the Judicial Branch was in fact ratcheting up the invective—specifically drawing attention away from the most egregious hate crime in recent days. The viewer was treated to raillery against commentators from competing infotainment outlets. Supposedly they were culpable for the near fatal shooting of a certain Party apparatchik. They had incited “crazy lefties”—a phrase showing a slight McCarthyite patina—just the sort of thing that had been reintroduced in the latest guidelines for the manufacture of consent. Attention was drawn to a recent incident of sniper fire on some of the ultra-right members of Congress during a baseball practice. It was truly just as appalling as the subway bloodletting—chock-full of relevant similarities—similarities that very well could have—arguably—illustrated that the shooting—not motivated by racism—was nonetheless a hate crime. But—in conformity with the rules of Party consensus—those similarities were expertly avoided.   

    When I finally recognized the Party authority featured in the newscast, my confusion only intensified. It seemed—like the supplemental “v.” in the guest’s name—that the producers knew they could slip in this provocateur as an expert on hate crime—somehow without raising suspicion—just as the medieval frock, and coat of arms he wore at the ceremonies celebrating the newly inaugurated President went over without outrage. It was during that grand debut that we learned the suffix “v.” was for “vitéz”—as in the Order of Vitéz—a Hungarian chivalric order notorious for its whole-hearted collaboration with the Nazis. The act of presenting this White House advisor as the public face of anything to do with the Party line—that alone seemed overly candid. But the viewers were being offered something more. This proud hate monger—was being trotted out to instruct Party members on the nature of hate crime.

    My companions watched with rapt credulity, motioning me to listen up. I considered what was at work. There were connections to deep historical conflicts in Party ideology. But those went far beyond the quasi-historical context of Party orthodoxy—which was comprehended primarily in 24-hour news cycles. Sometimes Party members had a frame of reference that stretched out vaguely in years—but hardly in decades—and in centuries, not at all. I could see the insidiousness at work. But an old-school literal fascist as an expert on hate crime? How was it possible? How could this be effective?

    How could so much depend on a haircut?

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The mutability of the past is the central tenet of Ingsoc. Past events, it is argued, have no objective existence, but survive only in written records and in human memories. The past is whatever the records and the memories agree upon.…  To make sure that all written records agree with the orthodoxy of the moment is merely a mechanical act. But it is also necessary to REMEMBER that events happened in the desired manner. And if it is necessary to rearrange one's memories or to tamper with written records, then it is necessary to FORGET that one has done so.  —Goldstein

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The Ovular Logic of the Oval Office

The normally enthusiastic Party member sat in that silent equilibrium situated at the center of the storm and din—shouts and taunts, uplifting posters, uplifted fists—jumping, stomping. Typically, it would be irresistible—the collective fervor. Along with the fellow staffers, he had dressed the part—“U.S.A” emblazoned t-shirt, and “Make America Great Again” hat pinned with the prized “Nixon’s the One” campaign button. Prescribed shots of bourbon had been applied—chased with lager beer. But it was all absorbed by a sullen apathy—broken only by a smile at the thought of that slap on the back—a good humored sign of sincerity from the Majority Whip. He would be missed this year. The traditional baseball game between the two sides of the aisle was getting underway—but the second baseman for the red team—a man truly respected—even by those on the blue side—was laid up in the hospital—maybe dying. During practice, a couple of days earlier, he had been taken out by a bullet to the hip. A man had resorted to the terror of sniper fire in protest of what he believed to be a stolen election.

    As the newly elected President addressed the stadium from the jumbotron screen, his comments were met—as one reporter put it—with “boos, jeers and even vulgar gesticulations” from some who also believed the election had been stolen. The predictable juvenile shoves and threats were thrown. But the familiar emotional kick was absent. All that remained was an uncanny vision of the spectacle.

    From the bleachers, you are struck by the appeal of America’s favorite pastime—beguiled and absorbed by the ardor of rivalry—as it unfolds on the diamond—then emphatically amplified by the crowd. One team strives against the other—but united in a form of symbiotic sympathy—the tradeoff of the ball—the shuffling of the players—oblivious to everything outside of the field of play. The opposing lineups compete heroically over what seem—to outsiders—to be trifles. But a cathartic drama is revealed—played out through the competition over routine moments of crisis—those defined by the rules of the game. It is all for the sport—for the entertainment of the fans—those in the know—gathered in the stands—occupied with the details of fair- and foul-play interpreted at length—unconcerned with all that does not fit into the mechanics, manuals and almanacs of the game. And, of course, there is the pride of chants—the regalia—the rituals that prove all extremes of devotion—and show just which is the better of the two crews—frenzy and tribalism by design.  

    Specious counterpoint diatribes—harmoniously ensure a reciprocating reconstitution of all the necessary disparities of interests—tensions that constitute the constituents of the body politic. Wasn’t it all so perfectly orchestrated? Just as Kant prescribed? With all enlightened dictatorial benevolence? For perpetual peace. So insipidly implicit. So communally accommodating. The Orson Wellean “ovular” logic of Der Prozess by which the factions of the Party trade out their designs and imprimaturs on the Oval Office—the power of the Presidency as a token of their fidelity and allegiance to one another. Comradery—all in good sport—and support of the topsy-turvy churn and overturning of every public virtue into the dollars and nonsense that keep the whole thing going. Orthodoxy thriving in a transducing alternation of competitive cycles that arrests history in a Fukuyama finale of the only game in town.

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    “Inspector said he thought it’d be sort of more … unabusive, if they went with you to the office,” the detective explains.

    “Unobstrusive!” retorts the suspect.

    The second detective continues, “So nobody’d notice anything … uh …”

    “Unobstrusive is the word you’re looking for.” And then contemptuously, “Unabusive! … How can I go to the office if I’m under arrest?”

    The first detective answers, “That don’t need to keep you from working—not at this stage.”

    “He said I had to stay in my room.”

    “He was reading from the wrong page.”

    “Well, this obviously isn’t anything of any importance. Quite honestly, I can’t remember a single offence that could be charged against me. It’s obviously a mistake—something very trivial.” Thoughtfully, he turns to the second policeman as he continues, “But the real question is, who accuses me? Well?”

    “What do you mean?”

    “What authority do you have for these proceedings?”

    The first cop interrupts, “Don’t you worry about that mister,” as he begins to pace around the room.

    His partner goes towards the window, bends down, and picks up a book. The camera tilts down and up along with him. He starts to leaf through the book.  

    “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid you won’t find any subversive literature or pornography.”

    The camera pans briefly right as the accused starts toward the lead inspector, who is rummaging in a record cabinet near the door into the passage.

    “Don’t touch those record albums.”

    Pointing to a record player, the lead detective asks, “What’s this thing?”

    Wearily, the man says, “That’s my pornograph … my phonograph.”

    Then the partner breaks in, “What’s this?” He pulls up the rug in the center of the room.

    “What’s what?”

    “A circular line with four holes.”

    The lead investigator starts writing in a notebook, “Circular …”

    “No, it’s not really circular, it’s more ovular,” his partner corrects.

    Exasperated, the suspect cries, “Don’t write that down, for heaven’s sake!”

    “Ovular.” He continues to write. “Why not?”

    “Ovular!”

    “We can’t not write it down just because you say we shouldn’t.”

    Rubbing his forehead, K. complains with exhaustion, “Ovular isn’t even a word.”

    Pointing, the second inspector cross examines, “You deny that there’s an ovular shape concealed under this rug?”

    “He denies everything.”

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The Catastrophe of a Clean Conscience 

Unable to sleep, a devoted Party member lay consternated over the thought of it. Does it really need to be checked? Maybe …. Then, finally, stealthy so as to not wake the hubby and invite ridicule—the loyal Party member went to the curb to check. Looking over the bin with cellphone flashlight, it all looked relatively clean. But better make sure …. Back to the kitchen sink for one more good rinse. Ah, and yes, a can of Yerba Mate with a couple of ounces still swirling around. The mayonnaise jar—why, still tainted with a slathering of organic goo—and the plastic cap still in place! The anxiety was well-founded.

    As the directives from the public private partner emphasized, you should not place any “glass contaminated with stones, dirt or food waste” into the bin. “Cleanliness is essential.” And, of course, we all know, “One partially empty soda bottle in a bale of plastic can spoil the whole load.” The recycling of waste materials is such a sensitive process! We all must put in our utmost effort to support this important aspect of the strategy to reverse the run-away degradation of our environment. The thought of the decades to come—the next generation of children being born into this mess—that brought a pang of sorrow—but also a sense of determination in the act of unity and human kindness. How can you sleep with a clean conscience, if your recycling isn’t properly clean?

    Being awoken from a good night’s rest by the diesel-engine rumble, crumple and crash of the morning collection, there was a deep satisfaction in knowing a concerted effort was being made. That satisfaction and sense of commitment did falter a bit when, later that day, the local newscast reported that glass in the single-stream bins was simply going to the landfill—and had been for months. But such difficulties are to be expected. If there is no market for the glass material, then it must go to the landfill. Certainly, with oil prices in a long-term slump, much of the plastic was also headed for the landfill. Isn’t that the whole point of saying, “Cleanliness is essential”? A bundle of soiled plastic is not going to fetch as much as a nicely purified bundle. It takes a great deal of effort from us as individual conscientious citizens to make the system work. So, from now on, thought the right and ready Party member, it will be sorting and cleaning of glass separately, and then trucking it over to the centralized collection station downtown. Anything else would be unconscionable.

    What really did trouble this steadfast conservationist was my shrugging off of the infighting regarding the international climate accord. The fact that the recently installed President had withdrawn the United States from the agreement precisely because it would unduly impact business growth only showed that anything beyond the commitments made at the summit would be too much to ask of the transnational coalition of financialized corporate business entities that keep the whole global economy going. Certainly, doing something—anything—sooner rather than later—is better than doing nothing—or going backwards. The promises made in Paris were due to be embarked upon in earnest in just three years. And if all parties lived up to the principles of the accord, then it was well within the range of possibility that the global average temperature could be stabilized below a 2 degrees Celsius increase above the preindustrial level.   

    The Party line proponent explained all of this to me as “the hubby” asked if I would like another glass of sauvignon blanc—checking with a squint of the eyes to make sure that I wasn’t being put off by all the leftist agitation.

    I assured him that I was thoroughly enjoying the company. “Another glass would be great,” I said with a smile.  

    Maybe my face gave it away. I was thinking of the data showing we were already passing 1 degree Celsius—and might be somewhere closer to 1.25 degrees in three years. Projecting 10 more years out, there was an analysis showing that the immaculate living room we were sitting in—with the mid-century modern chairs and Picasso sketches—would likely be marred by chronic flood damage—supposing that the sandy peninsula upon which the house was built had not by that point entirely collapsed into the sea. I pictured my host—the enthusiastic environmentalist—diligently scrubbing the floors and walls—repeating quietly, “There is no alternative. There is no alternative.”

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    “I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Mrs. Grubach.”

    “Oh, no, Mr. K.”

    K. passes in front of her as she picks up a loaded tray, and precedes her into the dining room. The camera tracks out in front of them. In the dining room, Mrs. Grubach puts the tray on the table. The camera pans left with her, cutting out K., who reappears and sits down.

    He assures her, “This is not going to happen again, I can promise you that.”

    “A lot of things happen in this world, Mr. K.”

    “Yes.”

    “You’re my most valued lodger, Mr. K. I think I owe it to you to be frank.”

    As Mrs. Grubach finishes speaking, the camera cuts to a medium close-up of the two of them, K. in profile, Mrs. Grubach leaning forward.

    K. encourages her, “Yes, by all means.”

    “It’s your own good I’m thinking of. And I really have that at heart; perhaps more than I should. After all, I’m only your landlady.” She pauses.

    K. looks at her with a slight smile, which is both affectionate and condescending.

    She continues, leaning towards him, “Well, I’ve managed to have a few words alone with the Inspector …”

    High angle medium close-up of the two of them, Mrs. Grubach in back view, K. three-quarters facing camera, anxiously, looking up at her, “And?”

    “It seems you are …”

    Reverse shot: K is in profile, his landlady leaning towards him, facing the camera.

    “… under arrest, Mr. K.”

    “Yes, I know that.”

    “But not the way a thief’s put under arrest.”

    “No.”

    “No … no with your arrest, I get the feeling of something abstract, if you see what I mean.”

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The State of the Art of the Agitprop Swindle

The gadfly senator did his duty, forcefully expressing the thoughts of the American people—and of people around the globe. Speaking from the television mounted on the exposed brick of the Chestnut Tree Café, he railed against the President: “Do not forget—for a second—that the policies that he is proposing are the most destructive policies being proposed in our lifetimes…. I have spent the last month going to Pennsylvania, to Kentucky, to West Virginia, to Ohio…. I hope that his supporters in rural states understand that when he told them during the campaign that he was going to stand up for working class people—that was nothing but a lie…. He’s got to be exposed for the fraud that he is …”

    Sitting across from me, an ardent Party member stirred a pack of raw sugar into a cold-brewed cup of coffee—swooningly assuring, “You know, I really like this guy. I voted for him in the primary. What a shame….”

    The steady but impassioned talking points continued: “All over this country people feel helpless. They feel powerless.”

    “They’re scared,” offered the reliably coiffed television host.

    “They’re scared. They don’t know what to do. So, what I think we’ve got to do is remake American democracy. I go out there, and I say, ‘You know what? You have the power. Stand up! Fight back! Organize!’ And we’re beginning to see this all over the country. …”

    The senator was pointedly questioned, “Do there need to be new organizations to bring this about?…”

    The inside outsider side-stepped—and put on the display of skill that had captured the hearts and minds of so many Party acolytes. He launched into his signature bombast. “I think we need major efforts in building grassroots organizations. One thing I will tell you—having gone to many of these states—there’re extraordinary people out there…. You know, when media sometimes say we’re a divided country, in many respects we are not divided…. We’re not divided. The American people want to raise the minimum wage. They want to rebuild our infrastructure. They want the wealthy not to have more tax breaks—but to start paying their fair share of taxes. And I think we just need to go out to those people, and bring them together.”

    As the news segment came to an end, I stirred my latte, and commiserated with my compatriot. “Yeah …. To think—we could have had a President that would speak like that.” 

    With a cheersing motion, “Could’ve been … should’ve been,” we said in call-and-response fashion. We clinked our drinks, and took big swigs.

    “But the Party choreographed him right out of frame. The most dynamic upsurge of democratic agency that we’ve seen in decades from the rank and file—and it was deliberately and methodically demobilized—as we know now—thanks to WikiLeaks.”

    “Don’t even talk to me about WikiLeaks,” came the response with a healthy dose of disgust. “We can’t trust anything coming from there.” 

    “Well, the emails are genuine. They are actual emails sent by the Party higher ups—and, of course—by the carefully curated candidate.”

    “Can’t trust it.”

    “No one disputes the authenticity of the records.”

    “It’s all part of what gave us this fucking asshole in the White House! I really do hate him. I wish somebody with some guts would just go in there and take him out.”

    “Der Führerprinzip?!”

    “Yeah … I know. I know.”

    “Still, what about the facts? —Or, what about the human rights abuses going on in Yemen? There are reports of guys being put on a fucking spit—like a rotisserie chicken—broiled over a flame—while our military personnel stand by and watch.”

“That’s what I mean. This sweaty douchebag is out of control!”

    “But these reports aren’t just from the last few months. These are on-going war crimes that have been public knowledge for quite some time—well back into the previous administration. There was knowledge and complicity—on the part of your beloved savior of a President.”

    In the silence that followed I added, “You know, the previous administration was not that great. And the candidate put forward by that administration and anointed by the media was not that great. We have there a Secretary of State that goes around the world promoting fracking like there’s no tomorrow.”

    “You mean the current Secretary of State.”

    “No, I mean the former Secretary of State—who, supposedly, would have been so much better as a President than what we’ve got now. This is no big secret. It was one of her big initiatives—using all the resources of the State Department. She had a special division of some 85 people devoted to coercing foreign nations to allow more and more fracking by the big oil companies—you know, those big donors that line the pockets of all the politicians. The current Secretary of State—when he was CEO of the biggest energy company—he was one of her partners in the whole initiative. It is perfectly clear that she was just another frack-happy candidate—as we know from the diplomatic cables published … um … you know, by that organization that will remain unmentioned.” 

    “Oh, here we go! Here we go!”

    “I mean, listen. I know that Party allegiances, advertising dollars, and the whims of corporate executives keep journalists from delving too deeply into such things. And the intelligence analysts are required to elevate conjectures to certainties—while being forbidden certain sources of evidence. They and the pundits put everything they got into ridiculous arguments resting on alternative facts. But it does us—you and me—no good to mimic those pretenses. Mumbling formulas and superstitiously shunning anything problematic only serves to undo the solidarity we have as free-thinking human beings. Any and all sources are good sources—when we—”

    “That’s just not so. Can’t you see that you’re not thinking critically—that you’ve been taken in by a cutting-edge propaganda hack?”

    “I’m talking about primary source documents.”

    “You’re pinning your faith on a guy who has raped two women.”

    “There was never a trial. In fact, the charges have been dropped. And have you taken a look at the details of the allegations in the first place?”

    “Look, he has been under investigation for sexual misconduct that technically amounts to rape in Sweden. That’s the fact of the matter. The statute of limitations has run out on some of the charges, but they have three more years to charge him for rape. That is still out there. However you try to spin it, something shady went down. He’s not the kind of person I’m going to trust.”

    This gave me pause in a strange way. I could see how the procedural details of the case made it possible to keep Assange under house arrest for years on end. But the question was why? Why such machinations? After all, what would sexcrime have to do with the authenticity of records? There was the lingering threat of extradition. But why undermine international law by effecting imprisonment through the withholding of charges? It really did make me wonder if something more nefarious was going to be exposed—some secret piece of information that would change the whole logic of the situation—something that would make me see that I had been taken in by an elaborate ruse—that I had been conned—that my instincts were all wrong.

    But what could be so nefarious that it would alter the documentary evidence?

    I rallied in the defense of evidence. “Whether or not you think he’s morally depraved—or even criminal—apart from that, there is still the database of documents that have been acquired and scrutinized—by a whole team. It isn’t just Assange by himself. This kind of documentary evidence is the basis of any legitimate journalism. It’s what allows us to sort things out historically. It’s the foundation of how we conceive of the past. In ten plus years of publishing massive troves of correspondence and other data, not one piece of it has ever been seriously challenged. And you can look at it for yourself. It’s all there for anyone to take a look at—all indexed—nicely organized in a searchable format.”

    “There are a bunch of people that have quit working with the guy, because he is an egomaniac narcissist who doesn’t take advice. He just does whatever he wants. And it is clear that he deliberately intervened in the election. And now we’re all living with the consequences.”

    “Wait a minute! Assange can’t control what documents are submitted. They just have to take what comes their way, and then publish it as soon as they have it vetted.”

    “You keep talking about ‘they’. There is no they. It’s just Assange—doing his handiwork. You’re not going to convince me to take seriously anything that comes from a conniving player like that. We know that Robert Stone laid out the whole thing before it even happened. Stone knew that Guccifer 2.0 had fed the emails to Assange—way back in August. But then Assange sat on the information until just before the election in order to give the Russians just the ‘October Surprise’ that they wanted—all made to order. The timing, my friend—the timing! And then Assange had the audacity to pump up the ‘Body Count’ conspiracy. The family of Seth Rich had to watch while this guy cynically offered a $20,000 reward for information on the murder of their son—when he knew all along that that didn’t have anything to do with anything. The guy is despicable. It’s disgusting. It stinks to high heaven. And I don’t know how you can buy into any of it.” 

    “Wait … What? I know that the Intelligence Community has merely stipulated that the Russians in some way were attempting to somehow somewhere influence the election—without any specifics—and no evidence. But what is this about a ‘Body Count’? —And what’s the guy’s name, Seth …?”

    “Look, just leave it alone. You’re obviously caught up in the whole agitprop swindle, and don’t know what you’re talking about.”

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    ‘History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Party is always right. … After the thing is done, no evidence ever remains. The only evidence is inside my own mind, and I don’t know with any certainty that any other human being shares my memories. Just in that one instance … I did possess actual concrete evidence.’ …

    ‘What could you have done with it even if you had kept it?'

    'Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have planted a few doubts here and there, supposing that I'd dared to show it to anybody. I don't imagine that we can alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine little knots of resistance springing up here and there—small groups of people banding themselves together, and gradually growing, and even leaving a few records behind, so that the next generation can carry on where we leave off.'

    'I'm not interested in the next generation, dear. I'm interested in US.'

    'You're only a rebel from the waist downwards,' he told her.

    She thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms round him in delight.

    In the ramifications of Party doctrine she had not the faintest interest. Whenever he began to talk of the principles of Ingsoc, doublethink, the mutability of the past and the denial of objective reality … she became bored and confused …. She knew when to cheer and when to boo, and that was all one needed. … Talking to her, he realized how easy it was to present an appearance of orthodoxy while having no grasp whatever of what orthodoxy meant. In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most successfully on people incapable of understanding it. … By lack of understanding they remained sane.

.

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