A Sarcastic Twit Who Is Right Sometimes (Short Story)

20. August 2017

There weren’t many other people at the dock with me. John was a carpenter and Addler was a tourist from Alfonisia. By twelve O’Clock we had all boarded the ferry. There was a short of announcement welcoming us aboard which were recorded, that much was obvious by the cheery tone of the voice. One of the lifts, the one nearest to where I parked my car, was broken, and so I had to climb up the stairs. It was an old ferry, not decrepit but not new either, everything looked worn out – the carpets, the chairs etc… there weren’t any crew members on sight, and the advertising and PR all seemed out of date by ten years, back during the boom days. At any rate we sailed off the coast of Rostansia without a hitch as expected. I suppose this is where narratively speaking I should be meeting some interesting character but no such thing happened and the journey came to an end in just as an unmemorable a way as it began. It was a boring and sterile journey but at least it was always punctual, or at least the times I have done it. Without any delay I drove down the main motorway. I am too absent minded to drive so I let the car drive itself.

I looked for the news on my phone – more to entertain myself than to inform myself. I had long given up placing any personal feelings in the outcome of things I could not affect, now it was just a matter of satisfying my curiosity. It didn’t take much long to find something that would outrage me to the point it was enjoyable. Although I see no point in even bringing up what the news article was about. When I looked infront again the car was taking a turn to the left out of the motorway. Suddenly it dawned on me that what I was here for was funeral. It’s always so easy for me to be distracted by the news. Although any sentimental thoughts had long vanished the plane of my consciousness, again, because – what would it change? It was still an odd thing that I still had no idea how to act when I will meet my brother and my sister and worst of all when I’ll meet my mother. I was never that close to father but neither was I that far either – I didn’t have any strong feelings for him either way (Insert some joke about the Humour of Moderation). We did talk a bit from time to time, nothing personal, just the usual pleasantries and practical matters. I didn’t expect him to die but I was prepared for the possibility in as far as one can be for such things– though to be frank it didn’t bother it as much as I would have liked for it to when I was told about it by my brother, Jack. I distracted myself with some factoid about how in some cultures people wear white clothes at funerals instead of black ones. The car parked itself in its designated area, well I had to shift it a bit, these things weren’t perfect yet although I am surprised that we have them at all, when I was a young man these things seemed so far away – oh there I go again chasing some random line of thought.

My mother greeted me with open arms and I embraced her and muttered a few lines of greetings with a subdued tone of voice avoiding eye contact and the subject at hand – I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up. There was a small cue of mostly old people. I bowed myself out of the company of my mother and headed for that cue, I quickly reached the front and there he was, my father, or perhaps I should say his corpse in a suit as I had never seeing him lying in a wooden coffin. I quickly pretended to say a quick prayer with my head down and slowly but not too slowly walked away. I was glad that my brother volunteered to give the small speech – there was nothing that was not a platitude that I could say. My father lived a very unhealthy lifestyle towards the end of his life, I guess I should take a clue from him and abstain from my existence entirely sustained on coffee and junk food. Some things happened of a religious manner that I am not bothered to recount and then my father’s remains were buried in the same cemetery as grandpa and grandma, not too far away from theirs in fact. Jack told me that he heard some voices complaining about my absence during the ‘immediate aftermath’(to use a phrase used in the news) of my fathers death, my brother then attempted to wash away my sins by citing my busy work, I said nothing. Those voices were right, I simply couldn’t be bothered, it wasn’t as if I was any busier than usual, I could have come but I still didn’t feel any guilt about the matter and was glad that it was over and done with, to my credit if such a thing were to happen to me I didn’t expect others to rush to see my carcass either, not to be edgy, but all of this felt like some comedic meaningless ceremony out of Gulliver’s Travels. I didn’t voice any of these opinions of course and instead acted like Gulliver would have, or in other words I played along because – why bother making a scene? If it makes them feel better I will play along.

There was a beach nearby, well if you are on the island of Alfonsia you are never too far away from the beach, but this one was a particularly uncrowded one, so I headed there. It was evening but the temperature during the day was 38 degrees celsius so I figured the water would not be too cold and I was right. I swam a bit farther then I was comfortable with, people have been known to be taken and drowned away by the sudden currents in these calm seas, but any way I swam back much closer to the coast and looked up – now there is nothing about the night sky that I could say that would not be cliché but suffice to say it was purple, there were an aeroplane’s flickering varied coloured lights moving across my vision and two black moons. Unfortunately none of this was going to tell me anything about what I should do although if it did give me a clue about what I should do then I would be whinning about how it takes away my ability to decide which action is the right one. Useless! Useless! Just as I was drowning myself in self-pity while being intoxicated by self-righteousness(or is it the other way around) my phone started ringing. It was one of those waterproof models(Although I didn’t know if it was resistant to the sweet sea water). Oh shit it was that ringtone which means it was my wife, it was too late I had already answered it by the time I had realized it was her. I could have saved myself so much grief if I wasn’t so absent minded. I met her when I was studying law at Fauxbridge, well actually I met her when I was gone out in a drunken stupor at a Wapanese convention near Downtown Abbey but lets not fuss over the details lest we find the devil in them. I have never been good with puns but that hasn’t stopped me from using them.

‘Hello, it is me.” She said.

No shit.

‘Are you listening to me.’ I knew her well enough to know that that wasn’t a question but anyway I answered:

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what that swine, that sister of yours has been saying about me! How dare you mingle with that family… after all that!?’

Chirst! It couldn’t be any more obvious that technology has gone too far when a man can’t get away from his wife’s badgering after traveling two thousand miles away!

‘Answer to me! I know you are still there!’

Impervious to reason as she was perhaps it was only polite to to answer her pleas with the obvious.

‘This has got nothing to do with Helen’ I said. ‘And everything to do with my father. And you know this as well as I do. I have broken all contact with my sister’s family for you and I haven’t spoken a single word to her since I came here.’

‘How dare you say that you did for my sake as if that were a burden… The things she said about me… And you are there!’

Useless! Meaningless! Well whoever the hell is watching if anyone is of course, can’t say I didn’t try. ‘And then there is the little factoid that there is more than a little truth in those rumours spread by my sister, Helen.’ I only said that in my mind of course, I am not one to add fuel to fire. Although it would give me the temporary satisfaction of having verbally bested her this would only last very shortly as she would be sure to reply with innuendo and threats of divorce – marriage is a joke these days, I know, but my property and my money aren’t. I have always voted cuckservative my whole life.

‘Look, I am sorry about this, let’s talk about this later, my father is dead and –‘

‘We both know you didn’t care about him.’ Ouch she got me there. ‘Just like you don’t care about anything or anyone in particular!’

Well, half of what she said was right so I will let her have it. I just wanted a way to end this conversation.

‘Anyway this isn’t about Helen and her lies about you and even if I didn’t particularly care about father you must know how in grief my mother is please don’t be a reason to further that.’

‘No this has everything to do with that woman. The reason that you went to the funeral of a man you didn’t care about is so that you could spite me!’

Hold on didn’t she just say that I don’t care about anyone or anything in particular if that is the case then why would I be bothered to stir a shit storm to spite her? Oh well, a broken clock is still wrong 1438 times a day.

‘Listen to me-’ she started and right then the battery of my phone died. Thank goodness technology hasn’t reached a point where you can always rely on the batteries of those West Korean phones.

After my little swim I drove back to my parents house in the dead of the night. Just as I was about to turn away from my car I heard a voice.

‘So she was fine with you coming here despite me being here.’ It was Helen.

‘Yeah right.’ I replied.

‘You know that she –‘ I raised my hand to stop her.

‘I just had a swim and I am feeling cold so let’s not talk about this now.’ I said as I turned around to face her voice.

‘Don’t worry, this is the last time I will ever talk to you about this, it’s your life George, but why are you still with that for a lack of a better term, whor-’

‘For my children.’

‘But couldn’t you keep them?’

‘I spend most of my time working, I don’t think that I stand a chance.’

‘And then you wouldn’t want to part ways with half of your stuff.’

‘Yes and then there’s that too.’ Half of the stuff I have earned I might add but I was not generally in the mood for an argument tonight.

‘So how is Wesley?’ I tried to change the subject.

‘That sure wasn’t exactly a subtle attempt at changing the topic, George, you aren’t half as clever as you think you are, but you are right, it’s none of my business’ she said.

‘Then why did you bring it up?’ Said my face in so far as it could speak without actually speaking but fortunately there wasn’t enough light for her to see this.

‘Since you asked, although I doubt you want to know, Wesly is doing his finals to go to university next month.’

He is doing them again? Oh well did I accidently step onto a landmine? Oh father if you are up there please stop this, it’s not like I hated you or wronged you or mother.

‘What about your chicks?Wait… What were their names? What are they up to?’

She doesn’t even pretend… Or is it on purpose? Or both? Oh well I know the answer to that after all she is still my sister or should I say ‘After all I am her brother’? or both? The third answer is my final answer. Well, lets give her what she wants which after all also happens to be what I want (Read: Entertainment).

‘Well lets see… Mary is fucking that foreign drug dealer with questionable mental health, Isabella is part of some left-wing cult at her campus but she will hopefully grow out of it once she has to work and Emily is a NEET wasting away her youth watching soppy West Korean dramas, Wapanese cartoons and dating simulators while spending her days alone. And that my dear sister is what my little ‘chicks’ are doing.’

‘Thank you.’ Helen says as she cracks into a mocking laughter. ‘Your candid responses are always a breath of fresh air if a bit cringy George.’ And then she left.

Well actually Mary is engaged to the son of a businessman I know very well. Isabella is a studying a STEM degree away from the ideologues in the not only worthless but actually harmful humanities and Emily is… into a lot of weird stuff but is otherwise a kind and happy child. But if this entertains Helen and makes her feel better about her loser son… what’s the harm? Some how I feel that this lie will come back to bite me in the ass at a later date however I will not regret this until then.

Edit: If you want me to write a ‘Part 2’ for this story leave a comment in the comment section because I don’t want to write a story that at least a single person won’t read, or in other words I am willing to write as long as a single person (other than me) reads what I write.

Note: The opinions of the characters are not necessarily my own.

Nobody really cares about ‘liberalism’ and ‘democracy’

6. August 2017

During the last few years I have seen too many instances where I have heard someone say that we should suspend freedom of speech, the assumption of innocence until guilt is proven, democracy etc… when it advantages their political opponents. I suggest we should stop trying to pretend we care about things like ‘liberalism’ and ‘democracy’ and instead just set up rival militia and murder each other. That would be a much more honest way to practice politics today. Everyone just thinks that it would be better if tomorrow all of their political enemies would be wiped off the surface of the earth or sent straight to hell right away. But why won’t we do just that? Because we are cowards. No one is willing to even put themselves in harms way for what they believe in hiding behind the protection of liberty when it suits them and then disregarding all such principles as soon as the chance to strike at their opponents arises often doing both things simultaneously. Honestly it is disgusting. No wonder foreigners don’t take our ‘liberal principles’ seriously. It is all but an open fraud. In effect Erdogan was the only honest politician(and I use the term politician in the most broad and inclusive manner possible) when he said that democracy is a bus that he gets on to get to a destination and then gets off of when he has arrived there.

My Experience Writing Fiction vs. Writing Non Fiction

31. July 2017

Writing non-fiction for me is essentially an exercise in arguing with myself out aloud, it is quite easy to do without much effort as long as you have some topic and some data in mind, writing fiction, however, requires much more creativity not in coming up with the premise of the story, but in the execution of the premise through the characters, a coherent plot and dialogue which doesn’t break the immersion.

As I have already detailed at length I have an aversion towards morality plays and fiction that is generally made to preach or to make some point. I think that the essay form is good enough for that, but before criticising me on my stance I would suggest you to read the article I have linked above.

I generally find it more enjoyable to read fiction and write essays. However at the same time I don’t want to be relegated to the role of a mere critic and so I tried to write a novel of sorts which turned out to be a failure as I expected, I started writing it in third person person precisely because I did not want it to degenerate into a plotless internal monologue balancing the self-pity against the self-loathing with utmost care roughly peeling off the self-righteousness where the author-insert-protagonist uses the Socratic method to talk himself into a corner but that is how it ended up.

I also think there is a need to distinguish writing short fiction and long fiction, I personally find writing short fiction easier because it’s all about the shock value induced with some allegory, it’s not like I can’t take a premise to its logical conclusion, it’s just that I am too fast at getting to that conclusion which is fine when I write short fiction or essays but when I write something longer I am inevitably forced to start writing about a different but related subject and very soon the whole thing starts to feel formulaic even condescending like those short fairy tales with morals for children or the ‘moral lesson of the week’ scene at the end of the He-man cartoon (Even children know when they are being condescended to), at any rate it is boring, and being boring is the cardinal sin of writing. I am not saying that there cannot be a moral discussion in fiction but it shouldn’t feel forced and contrived and cheap like propaganda. Another problem I have encountered when writing long fiction is that it is too easy to inadvertently tell what the what the story is an allegory for, this is especially easy for someone who is more used to thinking about what other people write, in short form fiction even if you do tell what the story is an allegory for you can still try to play it off as the punchline to a long joke.

I have also tried on several occasions, to write what is known as ‘serial fiction’ because now thanks to the internet the serial format has become viable again as the cost to set up and distribute them is zero not counting any cost for advertising of course. A serial or a web serial is a story that is told in parts released in succession. It’s a bit like watching a tv series; It’s fun having to wait till the next part and think about what will happen next. You can find them on indexes like the one at topwebfiction.com and webfictionguide.com . The problem with the web serial format is that you have to come up either with some sort of cliffhanger or conclusion at the end of each chapter, all of which should lead to a specific ending. Coming up with a premise is easy but then it is an uphill battle afterwards. Every chapter is a story with a beginning and an end contributing to the whole towards some end.

I have mostly written about the difficulties about writing fiction but there are some difficulties to writing non-fiction too, first of all it is hard to gauge the tone that is appropriate which can sometimes lead to self-censoring and tasteless prose, sometimes the tone I am writing in changes from article to article without even me thinking about it whereas it is easier to carry an even in fiction. Superficially it might seem like research is more of a problem when writing non fiction but I have found out that it is much easier to labour on the same point when writing non-fiction by using analogies, given some general analysis, stating the same thing in more memorable ways at the end, starting the essay with some quotations. On the whole it is easier to start writing an essay and thereafter doing the research as questions pop into my mind whereas writing fiction is all about preparation, it feels very unnatural and so immersion breaking when authors try to retcon some half-forgotten plot point half-way through the story. Basically when writing non-fiction I can do the research as I am writing but when I am writing fiction I need to prepare a lot and it is easier to get stuck in the preparation stage for a long time and give up but even that is better than starting to write a story and going off on a tangent with no preparation (As web serials go on and on this preparation stage becomes even more imperative and continuous because readers will notice if I am trying to tell the same story over and over again every chapter). With all that said it is easier to expose someone’s lies including my own when they are written as a straightforward direct argument in essay form.

Another issue when it comes to writing non-fiction as I have just noticed is coming up with a conclusive conclusion and the ending when it comes to fiction, I can’t just abruptly leave the reader hanging up on a peak with an abrupt pause in my voice, an essay needs to be punctuated with a conclusion just like a sentence ought to be with a fullstop. Actually it may even be more vital than the punctuation itself. I am really bad when it comes to these, it’s as if after I have said everything that’s on my minds backlog my mind is suddenly empty and my hands abruptly stop typing, and then I have to think a bit about what I have written so far, an end up inserting sort of forced repeat of the intro. I always feel satisfied when my train of thoughts ends at a point when I can safely end an essay without aborting it. A tell-tale sign that the I was not simply bothered to write a conclusion and simply wanted to end the essay either because I was tired or ran  out of ideas or had written myself into a corner but didn’t know how  to end it is when I start the conclusion with ‘In conclusion’ and restate the premise of the argument in a slightly altered way.

 At any rate, at any rate, I have been writing ‘at any rate’ too much lately, I think I picked up those three words from Orwell and I have been taking them along with me too often – oh repetition is bad, so there’s that – but I digress… Endings. As the youtube anime reviewer GRArkada used to say ‘The Ending is Paramount’ in fiction, oh no wait he actually still says it in a video he uploaded two days ago(It’s his catchphrase, forgive me for being such a self-indulgent internet geek). Anyway the beginning of a story of a story is important to get people to read my stuff but the endings greatly affect what the final verdict of the reader which will inevitably affect the popularity of my story. They say the journey matters more than the destination but if the ending is a meaningless rushed clusterfuck, or if there is no ending at all like the infamous anime adaptation ‘read the light-novel/manga/VN-source material’ endings or when the author writes himself into a corner, this gravely affects the re-readability of the story too. It can be hard to write an ending after the climax, this is very evident in detective novels where the author simply doesn’t know what to do with the detective and so sends him to drink coffee at a caffè with his lobotomized-ask-man-reader-self-insert-assistant or ends the story with a lot of unsatisfying exposition about what happened to the characters later which looks like its straight out of an outline and so feels contrived (Look at the ending of David Copperfield). The ending is the seal on the story, those ‘life went on afterwards imagine it yourself because I am not bothered to write it’ endings are simply not good enough, especially those by Rumiko Takahashi(Seriously why didn’t she write a proper ending for Ranma? It felt like it was all for nothing, my childhood). A bad ending is vague and leaves a lot of questions (I am looking at you Neon Genesis Evangelion – EoE saved it though), a good ending takes the narrative to its logical conclusion and a very good ending can salvage even a show that is complete bollocks (the classic example for this is the ending of season 2 of Code Geass but now they are trying to milk it with a third season so I am not  sure it counts). In conclusion, a bad ending to a story is worse than a bad conclusion to an essay, because even though a null conclusion feels like it ends abruptly the rest of the essay still retrospectively counts but a bad ending retrospectively spoils the whole of the story.

No Man is An Island

31. July 2017

No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. –

MEDITATION XVII
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
John Donne

I think that the ‘no man is an island’ clause can be interpreted almost in terms of geopolitics. Here is my take on it.

No man is an island means that Every man is a land-locked nation. Of course there is always room for co-operation however as in any relationship Capabilities matter more than intentions. The individual has no permanent friends, or enemies only permanent interests. The human being is a marionette that can see(1) its own strings, the strings of biology and culture, of causality. These strings control his desires and his aversions and therefore his interests. To cut these strings means death. To put forward his interests with others effectively he has to create a buffer region around him to protect his industrial core. Lets call this buffer region ‘civility’ and the industrial core is his ‘uncensored opinion’.

In effect all interactions between two or more ‘land-locked/non-island’ humans is diplomacy and consequently governed by the laws of social exchange theory.  The nearest ‘non-island’ humans are more likely to have conflicting interests. If a clod is washed away by the sea, this is always a loss for some land-locked humans and a gain for other land-locked humans because you see Europe is not one island nation- one individual but rather a continent of nations with competing interests. Some men’s deaths diminish him but others benefit him because he is involved in mankind. Therefore the bell only tolls for him if it tolls for his individual/national interests(2).

What is the point of this analogy?

It is precisely because ‘No man is an island’ that the bell does not always toll for him. Whereas if he had been an independent agent, an island, so to speak, if he didn’t have a stake in it, then his warm immaterial intentions would have counted rather than the cold hard capabilities that govern him.

Notes:

(1) To an extent

(2) I know it is quite absurd to think of the individual as a nation or of the nation as an individual, this doesn’t make any sense internally, well may be said that symbolically the people are the body of the nation, at any rate often you will find that when countries ‘interact’ with each other almost as if they were individuals and that their interests remain often unchanged, and if the nation can act is if it were individual when interacting with other nations, I don’t it is too far fetched to analyse the behaviour of human beings when they interact with each others as if they are nations.

Status; Zer0 (A Web Novel)

28. July 2017

Status; Zer0

(A Misanthrope’s Manifesto, or The Final Solution to The Human Problem)

by Hikki

Everyone has a book in them, but in most cases that’s where it should stay.”

-Christopher Hitchens

Dedicated to.. well this is a misanthrope’s book. There’s no point in dedicating it to some dead writer. I could dedicate it to Peter Hitchens but that would make it sound like this book was inspired by him and that would make him look bad. At any rate I will dedicate this little book of vitriol to Hideaki Anno.

Paperback cover ideas: There are two designs I have in mind. One of them is like a light novel book cover, with the picture of a cute anime girl with a lot of colourful text around in various fonts, all on a white background. The second idea is to write the title in white on a black background with a lot of other significant text/words/short sentences from the book floating around the cover at different angles but not upside down and the title once again written in grey and bulging slightly outside. The black background must not shine and the white one should. The subtitle should be spread out starting from the top of the cover to the bottom and the title in the middle with some black space around it so as to make it clear that it is the title. The text/words/short sentences written all over the cover should vary in font size, some of them like ‘Orwell’ written larger than others. They should all be written in the same font.

Story synopsis: Winston Smith is your common twenty year old NEET wasting away his life in a crummy South London flat arguing with strangers on the internet while leaching off of his parents. His thoughts were a mixture of gloating, whining and virtue-signalling and occasionally some self-reflection. Gradually as his situation became more and more precarious – as his guilt and his debts collected and pursued him he had the choice to take some action presented to him one more time, will he take it, or not (as usual)?

FNAQ (Frequently Not Asked Questions)

Is this story based on the author’s experiences?

Yes, this is a semi-autobiographical story. All persons names herein are fictional. I will not disown all the views in this story as satire but they are the kind of thoughts that I have at least intermittently when I am in an unpleasant mood or situation, and I know that many have had such thoughts because I can find them all the time on the internet. This story is a distillation of such lines of thought and an attempt at following them to their logical and illogical conclusions.

How long are you planning to continue this web serial?

Two years. If it becomes more popular I will continue it further than that

Have you an ending in mind?

Yes, I do.

What’s up with the title?

Status Zero, Status Zer0, or Status Zero Zero is the original term used to describe NEETs. A NEET is someone Not in Education Employment or Training, ergo a young male with no job or future prospects. The ‘;’ in the title is just a reference to the title of an anime called Steins; Gate. I believe that the term ‘Status Zero’ conveys the condition with much more clarity than ‘NEET’, just like shellshock is a better term than PTSD plus it sounds much more cooler for a book title.

What are your influences for writing this story (Translation: Who did you copy)?

For now I have drawn from Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human, Tatsuhiko Takimoto’s Welcome to the NHK (well, to be honest the TV series adaptation, the source material was average), Neon Genesis Evangelion TV series and The End of Evangelion film, George Orwell’s novels and his essays in particular Politics vs Literature; An analysis of Gullivers Travels, Lear, Tosloy and the Fool and ‘Such, Such were the Joys” Peter Hitchens’ Blog, Christopher Hitchens’s Letters to a Young Contrarian, his memoir and his debates against religion that I watched on YouTube, Wataru Watari’s My Youth Romantic Comedy is Wrong, As I Expected, Natsume Soseki’s Kokoro, Ango Sakaguchi’s essay ‘A Thesis on Decadence’ and the TV series Un-Go based on his detective stories, The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya TV series and the film The Disappearance of Haruhi Suzumiya, Mark Manson’s Models, The Watchmen (Comic Book) specifically Rorschach’s character, The Temple of the Golden Pavilion by Yukio Mishima,

Why do you write this serial?

To expose and explain the cynicism and bitterness and done-unto-ness in Britain and on the internet. I didn’t have internet before I moved to Britain, so my experience of Britain is tied to that I have had with the internet. Mind you some of this hatred is justified and all of it is explainable, it is not some neurotic impulse surfacing the minds of people exposed to too much information on the internet – things have really gotten worse for many, don’t think they be will dissuaded by dismissing them as delusional or under mere impressions given to them by the flavour of media they follow. But that doesn’t mean that cynicism and bitterness alone, a sort of faked stoicism, will get them, nay us anywhere. If what I say sounds strange visit places like 4chan.org/pol/ or reddit.com/r/redpill and you will get a glimpse of what I have seen and felt in increasing intensity over the last decade or so. Of course some of it is flagrant shit-posting but even then many of the things said sarcastically on the net hint at a tone of an ongoing current of cynicism and bitterness. If it can be seen through so easily what is there left to expose, some of you might wonder? Well, I wanted to go through it fully, otherwise an incomplete analysis will only lead us further down the rabbit hole. And besides they, we might have a point or two too.

Who should read this serial?

You will probably not agree with everything in this story, not even I do that, if you are someone with the mental fortitude to listen to what people who don’t agree with you have to say then go ahead and read. It’s okay if you get angry and rage in the comment section (there already is so much of it in the serial it won’t make a difference). Anything but threats of violence and spam is acceptable in the comments. Yes, that includes pedantic nitpicking, I am new to this web serial business and to writing as well, so I expect there to be some inconsistencies although I doubt they will matter too much given the straightforward simplicity of the plot. Let me warn you the pacing is quite slow, so you will need to learn to like or like to hate at least some of the characters to get through it.

Prologue: The Melancholy of Winston Smith

MISANTHROPE’S OF THE WORLD UNITE!?

“It is a pathetic, dog-like face, the face of a man suffering under intolerable wrongs. In a rather more manly way it reproduces the expression of innumerable pictures of Christ crucified, and there is little doubt that that is how he sees himself. The initial, personal cause of his grievance against the universe can only be guessed at; but at any rate the grievance is here. He is the martyr, the victim, Prometheus chained to the rock, the self-sacrificing hero who fights single-handed against impossible odds. If he were killing a mouse he would know how to make it seem like a dragon. One feels, as with Napoleon, that he is fighting against destiny, that he can’t win, and yet that he somehow deserves to.” – George Orwell, A Review of Meinf Kempf

“In the last days of peace in 1914, you might have seen a myopic, wild-haired young man eking out a single cup of coffee for hours in Vienna’s Cafè Central, engaging in spluttering arguments with others like him, furiously scribbling or equally furiously glaring at some dense volume. How absurd and marginal he would have seemed.”

– Peter Hitchens on Leon Trotsky, Revolutionaries and Why They Matter, Even When They Seem Absurd

Prologue Part I A Lonely Modern Man and The Internet

“If we watch too much TV or read too many manga we may end up with unrealistic expectations, hopes and ideals” – Cromartie High School

Prologue: A Lonely Modern Man

It was 4 O’ Clock in the morning in a dingy South London one-room flat above a halal shop.

“Why the fuck can’t I sleep!?” Winston cursed under his breath while rolling on his bed tugging at his tangled blankets to stave off the cold. His head felt like it would spontaneously combust. And then it all came back to him.

He was a stubborn fool and he couldn’t accept a convenient lie. Actually he was so stubborn he might even believe in an inconvenient lie over a convenient truth. This isn’t the story of some magnanimous hero or undeservedly marginalized victim or for that matter of a pauperised intellectual. This is the story of a life of a NEET. The life of someone who was ill-equipped to live a the life of a human being.

Winston Smith. Age twenty. Virgin. He was your typical apathetic underachiever. There wasn’t much else to be said about himself, he would say to himself but never admit so to anyone else, but he knew that at the heart of his self-deprecation laid the fact that he had an unjustifiably high opinion of himself that was at odds with reality. You are what you do and Winston Smith did nothing day in, day out.

One has to be very desperate to look for the truth in newspapers and Winston Smith was one such desperate individual.

It baffled him when fictional people talked of showing their true selves to each other. For in his case, what you saw was what you got, he would say – a little Indian sitting at the back of a red bus, clutching at a newspaper, feigning hatred for an imagined audience.

His greatest achievement was to share his name with the protagonist of George Orwell’s 1984, so as he wrote in his diary, he often wrote as if, he was in a totalitarian state, scribbling down thoughts, he was not allowed to have. Barely containing himself from bursting at the seams with bitterness at each stroke at the pen. He even came up with the absolutes in this dystopia:

ALL VIRTUE IS VIRTUE-SIGNALLING

ALL SPEECH IS SOPHISTRY

ALL ART IS PROPAGANDA

Thereby he believed it was his duty to fight against those who held these absolutes, by “fight”, of course what he meant was, pestering around people on the internet who he believed, in effect, espoused those absolutes. Obviously he had no original ideas of his own, everything he wrote was derivative, so he often felt he was restating the obvious in a grandiose sounding way, for theatrical purposes. He wanted the obvious to stick, because he felt the obvious was under attack, but honestly he wasn’t sure about the obvious himself, and so when he argued against others, he was really arguing with himself.

Above all he knew at the back and at the front of his mind, that his predicament was his fault but also that he was causing pain to his parents – the only people he knew cared about him for reasons he couldn’t understand. He, for one couldn’t like anyone who resembled him in any way at all, let alone love them – ‘them’ included his parents. He had incurred a debt of over £6,000 by signing a document that enrolled him into a course, without much thought, under much pressure, after he had failed to enter university and was afraid he would be whiffed back to his parents’ TPLAC (Tin-Pot Little Asian Country), if he didn’t find some course he could get into.

His desires and hopes were pretty conventional and so mostly not worth mentioning although to be exact, he knew that he wanted to be an artist, and to that end he was ready to end his exile and life as a hermit in his London shoddy one-room flat above a halal butcher. He had been cooped up in his room and avoiding all human contact bar the delivery people who brought him food and bickering with strangers about politics and philosophy with strangers on the internet, if that counts as human contact. The impersonal nature of the city suited him, much like the anonymity on the internet, it made failures like him less conspicuous. Intellectually he was aware that most people couldn’t care less about him, and the rampant pauperism and bad smell that the people of the city emanated meant that even he didn’t look out of place in this run-down part devoid of any English people or police, however he still felt as if everyone was bothered and disgusted by his presence. It was a strange feeling, but eventually he got used to it, but it never went away, today was just a test walk, he thought, so it was okay, he was as unnerved as a human can be – there was a cemetery in town, the Christian tombs were being replaced by Islamic ones, it always humoured him to see people run past the thin fence that separated the cemetery from the busy street, in a hurry to their work and their lives but perhaps it was not them who were wasting their time, it was him.

Without anything to do, he attended a ridiculous mass arranged by some Christians from the Caribbean – that involved dancing and singing, some sermon that sounded like something out of an American self-help seminar and finally collecting money. He left the place in disgust, was this why he didn’t go outside any more? He headed back to the cemetery and encountered some tomb stones of soldiers who died at the battle at the Somme? Was this what they died for? There were various religious inscriptions, personally he would rather not have anything on his tombstone, just his name, the year of his birth and of his death, but regardless he couldn’t help but feel that this was what religion ought to be about, if it ought to be, rather than the ridiculous fanfare he had witnessed, the shouting of incoherent words to pretend to be in contact with God, followed by some shallow platitudes about having to have the right attitude, this was the sort of stuff that turned people into atheists, Winston thought and subsequently left the place wiping his face with his sleeve unable to hold back a tear or two. The cleaner who was working at the cemetery ignored him or didn’t see him.

The mechanism to distrust the outsider and believe in whatever the in-group said or in other words to just trust people was what enabled interaction, cooperation and competition, but everyone was more or less an outsider to Winston and a sort of reflexive indiscriminate and involuntarily cynicism had taken over Winston, everyone was out there to swindle and debauch everyone else, everyone was a manipulative sadist in sheep’s clothing, the government, the corporations, the media, public opinion and he was far from the only one who had succumbed to this unending all-encompassing scepticism, everyone on the internet was a cynic and sceptic who distrusted everything and everyone, Winston himself didn’t go as far as believing in the conspiracy theories, but he could never be too sure any more as he used to be. And over-laid to this were all of the old and the new loyalties exaggerating and lying profusely obfuscating everything that mattered further. The people that turned to the internet to voice their opinions were either your common place virtue-signallers or all the extremists who were not part of mainstream society in any meaningful manner. But Winston wasn’t even one of them. There was no ‘us’ for Winston (and for the sceptics and cynics), there was only ‘them.’ And instead of going out and meeting with actual people, Winston was too busy playing word games, trying to catch the lies through suggestion when the facts were irretrievable (as they often were), vigilant for contractions and hypocrisy, degenerating into a pedant on a crusade that he was bound to lose to cleanse the English language of euphemisms and idiotic exaggerations while indulging profusely in them, it would be tragic if it wasn’t so pathetic but he wanted to overcome his fear of words.

The last time he has had an honest conversation with his parents was when he told he wanted to become a full-time writer. Predictably they laughed in his face. His mother told him that no one would ever want to read anything he wrote any way. What did he expect that they would support him? That they would take him seriously? They had other ideas for him which on paper were more sensible but he knew he couldn’t do because every moment he spent away from writing and reading doing something he had absolutely no interest in, purely to rise in the ladder, or the greasy pole of dominance hierarchies. But he lacked the conviction and the nerve to stand his ground in certainty in a situation of uncertainty. He thought that they did have a point from a practical standpoint but he soon found that he couldn’t stand their presence and that he had to constantly lie in order avoid conflict. The lies he told were those a five year old could see through without breaking a sweat but he worked tirelessly to avoid the issue, postpone it, derail the conversation into mundane matters and when all else failed he found excuses to avoid his parents and anyone else who would potentially probe into the matter. Agreeableness is conflict avoidance, and in a fight all pretences were torn away at first. He needed to get away from them and so he escaped to London and yet he was only able to be there through the allowance he was sent by them even when he didn’t ask for it, he believed they were daring him to refuse it. At any rate this inevitably resulted in a gradual boiling up of all his problems, he avoided having to think of these matters through political posturing and anime otaku culture and through reading and writing too of course. Ironically he always searched for realism, plausibility and relatability in escapist fiction and complained if he didn’t get it.

He couldn’t go for long periods of time without writing. But then when he did, he wondered why the fuck did he write if everything he wrote would inevitably be propaganda, virtu-signalling and sophistry. It could be because every other option is worse than writing. He didn’t live to write but neither did he write to live. He found both life and writing to be a pain but yet honestly felt no compunction to die, well that was a lie.

Prologue Part II England, Whose England?

If you want a picture of the future, imagine a man kissing the boot stamping on his face forever

“Britain has an ugly, greedy face. From the gluttonous insanity of rabid consumerism, to the mealy-mouthed politicians with their superior sense of entitlement and contemptuous disregard for the majority of the country, to the selfish commuters with their tinny music squeaking through the rail carriage and their dirty feet upon the seats. Merry Christmas, one and all.”

– Jane, Sheffield (A reader response for The Metro around Christmas eve)

You cannot extract a god out of a human being, but by kowtowing to that which is considered a god, it is possible to create a god and shove it down the throats of people.” – Un-Go

You can’t extract a god out of a human. However, by kowtowing to the thing that is considered to be a god,

Maricaangela: … And making the immigrants work in unskilled jobs, i.e. recreation and parks, street cleaning etc.

Wordwork: This is how the resentment grows. Create an underclass of immigrants to do your dirty work as you pretend you are being compassionate and generous. And then you are surprised by ghettos and riots and terrorism.

The trouble with the Left is that they do not want to flip their own burgers and clean their own toilets. They are a bourgeois bohemian middle class and that’s all they are. Pampered by the affluence of their countries, over educated because it’s free, and arrogant because that’s the outcome of affluence and too much useless knowledge.

– Wordwork and Maricaangela, Guardian.co.uk comment section

In response to NaMorris

I get your sarcasm. But let’s be clear about one thing. The modern is not the Left of the thirties, 60’s or even 80’s. The modern Left is a middle class construct. A hectoring, sanctimonious and obnoxious bunch who are in need of getting their hands dirty once in a while.”

– Workwood, Guardian.co.uk comment section

“ Watchman80: It might be time to consider a deeper level of thinking

I agree. Let’s start with an analysis of the development of racial Marxism since the 1960s. Racial Marxism has at its core the idea that it’s not class which is the prime mover in history but race, and that the world today is in the grip of a reactionary race (i.e. white people) which needs to be destroyed by the revolutionary race (i.e. brown people). Hence the Left’s promotion of mass immigration regardless of the social consequences, and the lefts’ mad addiction to Islam.”

– Spiraland , Guardian.co.uk comment section

– Somewhere down the bowels of reddit

Winston didn’t think it was possible to go back to a Christian past and even if it were possible, it would just recreate an expectation for truth so high and fail to deliver on it so badly, that we would be back to square one.

One thing that someone like him, an egalitarian misanthrope appreciated in England was the privacy, people could essentially live lives parallel to each other only interacting for business transactions and during acute emergencies, it also helped that he was a foreigner.

Orwell did not write guidebooks in general.

Winston did once burn a bible, but it was a modern translation, so he wasn’t exactly sure whether it counted as a bible.

The only thing that he learned from Job is that God is a pedant and a voyeur (and an arsehole but that’s subjective). The fact that God is a hypocrite is apparent throughout so he wouldn’t note it as a highlight.

Essays are not lists of literary jargon but an argument.

Orwell reprimanded ‘pessimists like Swift’ but is there any thing in Gulliver’s travels that could match up to the bitterness and fatalism of 1984? Or the sadness and insanity in Animal Farm? Winston did not think so.

He was back in his room, there was a letter left by North-brook College, he owed them £6,130, for a course he had not attended even once, he tore it into little pieces and ate it. The thought of setting fire to the college briefly crossed his mind and stayed there. Never mind heaven, he could see the argument for hell everyday as clear as the sun. He wanted to harbour the collective hatred of the British people stretching from the past into the future people, from the present towards the past and coming from and heading towards every political direction. He wanted to be at the point in history where it all converged. He wanted to exact revenge and justice on behalf of everyone. He sought for a final solution to the human problem. And so all roads lead to Rome, no matter if he was a conservative, a liberal, an atheist, a Christian, a Buddhist the only solution, the only sensible option, the logical conclusion was – an international nuclear holocaust – a desire for and fantasy of death. An end to all suffering and evil, to all strife and to all moral dilemmas by removing all variables that could cause them. Vengeance for the betrayed. To Cremate England along with the maggots feeding on her corpse (in Westminster and the City). A storm of ICBMs pouring down for 40 days and 40 nights on Britain. A formal end to that tiny anomaly in history – the flailing experiment with Liberty that took off in England and has long being abandoned but in name. And in the penultimate act he believed there will be something that there has never been before – a genuine English ‘fascist movement’(by any other name), goose-stepping through the English countryside and blood running down London’s gutters. By his estimation the British people had relinquished any right to be the British people considering their choice in government for the last two centuries. The punishment for this (when no worse fate is feasible) is death. A final solution to all of Britain’s problems. Salvation through politics. A final solution to the British Question. This was the future, no the fate Britain’s enemies inside Britain had chosen for her. And he had to stop them through shitposting. It was not as if this was a delusion of grandeur. It couldn’t possibly be that he was under the apprehension of a persecution complex on his side. It was not as if he was trying to paint his political opponents as enemies so evil that Satan would look sympathetic when put side-by-side with them. No, it was nothing of the sort. In this brave new age when satire is reality and reality is satire even the delusions of a NEET could manifest themselves. Well, if nothing else he had the consolation to paraphrase Oscar Wilde, that the worst thing than not getting what you wished for was getting it, especially if you wished for an apocalypse.

Was God dead? He (often) asked himself after forty and five minutes of crying in self-pity while intermittently laughing aloud and rolling on the floor, he immediately banished the thought from his mind, of course not, God had forsaken England and for this alone God needed to burn in eternal hell-fire forever in the deepest depths of hell, until every soul that has ever been betrayed has forgiven Him, if there was any justice in this universe – let alone a universal justice. What had the English people done to deserve this? They bled twice, when they didn’t need to, to protect liberty, and what did they receive in return, they were betrayed by everyone- by History, by Fate, by the Americans and by God. It was clear God was not England’s side, as it was that England was on the right side. But, he thought, this was not all – God was on the side of the enemies of England both within and without. Winston believed God was watching his every thought and he wanted God to hear his curses against Him. He knew he was destined to lose anyway. Winston believed he would be sent to hell for this but he decided he would rather be an arrogant fool over a cowardly opportunist. The devil (Lucifer) was an Emanuel Goldstein (and probably a proto-Trotskyist and a proto-Jew too. Winston believed God betrayed the Jews by poisoning the wells and then abandoning them to their fate devised by Him. ‘Where the hell was God during the Holocaust?’ Winston would simply ask, and then after listening to the incoherent ramblings of some religious apologist he would add ‘If He wasn’t there when He was needed the most He may as well go to Hell.’ He was afraid God will do the same to the English people.) The churches were Ministries of Truth, as one Ministry was clearly not enough to confuse, lie and rob. Hell and Heaven were rooms in the Ministry of Love, the latter room being Room 101. Apparently Winston thought God didn’t need a Ministry of Peace because He could already manage that with the multitude of creative diseases (the Envy of Stalinist Torturers and Murderers) at His disposal which He liberally exploited to His pleasure. Winston Smith believed he was Winston Smith and he hoped, he thought in vain, that when the time came for it, he will not betray the promises to his comrades.

He found it cathartic to go on long pointless internal monologues, cursing at the heavens that didn’t care for him. At some point he found that the more elaborate the whining, the more he enjoyed it for its own sake, so that is what he mostly concentrated during his waking time, which was now coming to an end, well to an intermission. After lying down in silence staring at the ceiling time had passed. He had become a truant for the last 3 months, mainly because could stand neither the company nor the subject matter at the Aircraft Engineering course he was enlisted to at his parent’s expense. He couldn’t sleep of course but he knew the remedy – pornography made him sleepy like one of those lullabies his mother used to tell him as a child. He used to watch more pornography when he was younger when he had less access to it but now the novelty had worn off and it just looked like naked people rubbing against each other making(purposefully) noises. This didn’t mean he didn’t think about sex constantly but in his mind pornography didn’t register as sex – it was more like watching a music video – a performance put up to entertain an audience – and somehow the knowledge that they were trying to entertain him made it less entertaining to him. It’s not like he didn’t like being pampered – he loved it. He didn’t like to be deceived more than anything else even if it meant deceiving others and he perceived pornography as an attempt to deceive him – though he couldn’t say how. It is for this reason that he preferred its more surrealist components – as detached from reality as possible – violence, domination, humiliation were common themes in his porn repertoire – detached from reality even in their medium as he preferred to read hand drawn Japanese pornographic comics rather than watch some real actors re-enact his twisted, sick, perverted, commonplace sexual fantasies. He liked how these Japanese things were honest of their dishonesty(A bit like Sri Lankan politicians – it was a bit too obvious that they were LSSMHBs (Lying Sacks of Shit Masquerading as Human Beings), it’s almost as if they wanted you to know it). At any rate it worked but he still hated going to sleep because he couldn’t feel time passing and it always felt like there had been a time skip to the time he woke up or right before he woke up.

He woke up too early because of an obnoxiously early alarm on his phone and fell back into asleep again and then woke up late. He forwent his plan to attend his course and instead headed out to the local underground station to pick up a rag called “The Metro”, of course he wouldn’t spend anything to buy a news paper with actual articles on it so he read advertisements instead. Although he did occasionally go to the library to read the papers and magazines if he could bring himself to ask for them from the librarian. Then he went to the supermarket to buy his daily ration of instant noodles. He reached out to the shelve to get some beer, to drink himself to sleep but then he remembered of the state of his savings account and of his debt. He then proceeded to pay for his ration using the self-service machine and once again gleefully went on his day satiated because he could ‘successfully’ avoid human contact once again. If success can be redefined any way that is convenient, as the left-wing intelligentsia claimed, isn’t that an invitation to redefine success as failure, somehow he felt that the left-wing intelligentsia would decline to comment or deride him (a little man like him couldn’t possibly understand the depth and the nuances of their words and gifts upon this world), which in effect would be the same thing.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t have any pictures of him taken since the age of eight and he destroyed every one he could get his hands on. It was the face of a dog. He believed he looked like a nazi caricature of a Jew. The face of a man under the apprehension that he is suffering under intolerable wrongs. In many ways his life was a plagiarism of a parody of the archetypes in the Japanese super robot ‘mecha’ cartoons he used to be so fond of before he learned that this world was a vale of tears that ought to be blown to kingdom come, or not come, as the case may be – either way was fine with him. It was either Utopia or Nothing. He believed his attitude was where the Christian response to suffering met with that of a man of the left. If the Christians were right then all the wrongs would be righted etc.. and if the atheists were right then it would for all intents and purposes be nirvana, there would be no one, absolute peace would ensue. He could see why the hedonistic atheists were a bit reluctant but the Christians had no excuse – the kingdom of God was a few orders away from the American president’s or the Russian government, two supposedly deeply Christian countries – he couldn’t help but suspect that they were just a bunch of opportunistic hedonistic hypocritical cowards. Their faith and morality nothing more than a cynical cold meditaded cost-benefit analysis. All the hymns and adulation towards god too seemed calculated, well if there was a God dumb enough to be deceived by this flattery then he did not deserve to be worshipped. They did not really love Him, they just wanted to get something, the scum. Trying to bring on Armageddon and risking everything would have convinced Winston that there was an ounce honesty in their faith and their conviction otherwise it all seemed dodgy to him, at best bare-faced opportunism, no wonder Christian conservatives railed against benefit scroungers– since that is all they were themselves, nothing and no one could stand in the way of their greed other than their fear. A coalition of hypocrites, liars, opportunists and cowards.

He knew that he had a lot in common with others than he had not. He knew he wasn’t specially gifted in talent or in his tastes, he was made aware of this by all the crowds on the internet interested in any topic he may be interested in, he believed that he didn’t go out of his way to differentiate himself from others either, but he felt like there was something off with his way. For example he was always at a loss when someone asked him about the sort of music he listened to. Truthfully, all music sounded like noise to him. He was further at a loss at how any one could be interested in professional sports, let alone how any of these games at any moment in any way represented the prestige of any country, he was patriotic because of the values espoused by England, he felt insulted when sports were considered a litmus test for patriotism or masculinity, and furthermore he felt that the achievements of the players, were just that – the achievements of the players, he felt he was pathetic but not pathetic enough to claim others achievements as his own. His ideal was that of a simple minded straightforward Anglo-Saxon empiricist and Liberal.

There was something about reading news papers that reminded that he was alive, when he thinks of his eventual death, the first thing that springs to mind is that he won’t be able to read the next day’s paper. I guess, he read the papers, for the reason most men read the papers, to feel like they were doing something important, being informed, setting aside his assumption that reading the papers made him informed, what was the point of being informed when it didn’t matter what his opinion was, no matter how informed he was or not, the results of the events that mattered would still remain the same, he felt he had no political or economic agency in his life, as a consequence of this he felt that from his perspective Journalism was misery-porn and frothing at the mouth in righteous indignation, and that political discourse was a pissing contest poorly masquerading as entertainment. He felt he was only pretender, living “as if” it mattered what he thought about any of this, or about anything for that matter, engaging in logic chopping competitions with strangers on the internet to play pretend to even qualify as a pseudo-intellectual, forever stuck in the stage of making up and debating his opinions – consciously forgetting the fact that he can’t do anything by saying he won’t do anything until he knows exactly what is right. He use to think he knew what was right but after looking at what some others who thought they knew they were right had done, he wasn’t so sure of himself any more. The trick of course was to concentrate on concrete examples, instead of trying to build a universal framework out of platitudes that are only true some of the time, but he was enjoying himself too much punching holes in platitudes, finding obscure exceptions to every general rule, inflating his vanity to frankly unjustifiable levels which then obviously resulted in a rapid depreciation of his ego with catastrophic consequences. He loved words more than any action, he was a journalist at heart (he didn’t even qualify as a pseudo-intellectual), it wasn’t so much that he wanted to blow things out of proportion, but he found what was said about anything more interesting than the thing itself, or in other words he was a collector of sound bites, the best he could manage was to cobble up and regurgitate half-remembered sound bites from this or that pundit. As such, he couldn’t help but frequently notice, no matter how much he liked to deny this, a done-unto-ness in his speech that irritated him to no end. He wanted to live a self-determined life as as far as possible, unfortunately, he felt, this wish was at odds with reality.

‘To hell with those who whine that they have only one thing going for them’ he thought. He had none.

He used to spend more time on the internet but then he noticed what he noticed in the papers multiplied by a factor of about a thousand. There was something pathological about the way many interacted on the internet. He felt everyone was too carried away, criticizing everyone for everything, everyday – not doing anything themselves. As if this world was only an interlude, to while away their boredom until they kicked the bucket. At some point Winston started to become like them enjoying whining for its own sake – giving up the struggle to complacency and indulging in instant amusement and gratification to make up for what he wanted but could not achieve. Amusement was good but amusement alone cannot sustain a healthy mind. He didn’t want his life to turn into an amusement park he couldn’t get out of unless he killed himself. So he stopped using the internet extensively only listening to a few pundits he liked and reading some web serials such as Mother of Learning and a few comics. He grasped the falsity of the hedonistic attitude to life. The assumption that human beings desire nothing beyond ease, security and avoidance of pain. In such a view of life there was no room, for instance, for patriotism and the military virtues. The leftist who sees his children play with toy soldiers is usually upset, but he is never able to think of a substitute; somehow toy pacifist won’t do. He believed that the hedonistic view to life was not psychologically sound and that if he didn’t do something even England would fall out of liberalism in favour of something more psychologically sound, as in his opinion, to an extent, She had. To him, it didn’t matter whether there was a connection between Liberalism and wealth, he knew which one England ought to prioritize, he refused to look at the world as a group of competing power blocks and that one should pledge alliance to the power of any of these blocks, he believed that there was something that was worth protecting, regardless of whether it affected the power and influence of England. He just didn’t think this was possible. He had learned through experience that there was an inverse relationship between what he wanted and what was real. Like many pessimists, he was a disappointed idealist.

He charged up his phone and switched it on, he didn’t really have any use for his mobile, except as an alarm clock, and he rarely woke up early, so he rarely checked it or charged it. There were four missed calls on his phone, three from his mother and one call from North-brook College. Of course he lied to her about attending his course, but he knew that she knew, he was a terrible liar but it was not just that. There was a silent conspiracy between him and his mother and to a lesser extent his father, that he would never be able to make it on his own and a reassurance that they would look after him forever. They said to him, in no uncertain terms that they would always be there for him. Winston loved his parents, well certainly more than he loved himself, but somehow the prospect of mothers and fathers that never went away horrified him but much more than that he hated himself for leaching off hard-working people to do nothing in particular. Frankly he would have rather done without this life but he could hardly hold this against them. They deserved better than him. Nonetheless it was only a matter of time before he would have go back to live with them, it is not that he hated their presence, in fact they were pretty much the only people he was comfortable being around but he would rather do the deceiving than be deceived. He switched off his phone again.

He switched on his 22 inch TV, “The Jeremy Kyle Show” was going on, he immediately changed the channel, he didn’t want to see what he considered to be a national disgrace – the washing of other people’s dirty laundry in public for other people’s amusement, he was glad that Top Gear was gone as he was tired of watching some overgrown school boys gushing over machines in the end the show unsurprisingly ended because of a school boy’s antics, he hated those exotic nature documentaries that treated their audiences like children telling them what to feel sapping their interest in nature and why weren’t any such documentaries set in England, he was also sceptical of all those documentaries about how ‘we won the war’ he rarely watched any TV and when he did he spent most of his time watching advertisements, after switching channels a few more times he came across an ad about African children and then a German car ad. He hated the emotional manipulation everywhere. He hated it when people pointed out that other people had it much worse or better than him. The former seemed to him to be an invitation to rejoice in other people’s misery and the latter just a simple lie. He didn’t like to be the last man at everything however he couldn’t feel satisfied when his fellow man writhed in misery either. His long abandoned fantasy was of a world of free and equal men. He switched off the TV feeling he had wasted fifteen minutes that he could have spent devising new ways to whine and complain about everything in new and innovative ways or stick to tradition.

Next he read a blog by his favourite conservative columnist Peter Hitchens (he didn’t have a favourite left-wing one and this wasn’t for a lack of trying – he just loved the little elaborate spiteful jokes at the expense of the progressive party in power such as ‘The Blair Creature’, ‘Chairman May’ etc.. the kind of jokes prevalent but not endemic in circles with no power, another variation of this was to cover oneself in a blanket of boring political jargon which was more common to the left), about how the Special Relationship is poppycock. To a certain extent Winston believed that England had to exist in opposition to America, that is to say that people knew what their place was, that when necessary or unnecessary the working class could show the magnitude of its weight, at the ballot box, because there was no fantasy of unlimited prosperity and social mobility and ‘pursuit of happiness’ dreamed up by intellectuals. Frankly he was bitter at the United States for making a promise to the people of the world, the American Fraud, that it could not possibly keep. If hope was the American theme then abject despair and bitterness and above all cynicism had to be the English one (Bitterness was more of a Russian niche and despair could be found in abundance everywhere in abundance including America). No matter which way he looked at it Americans determined Britain’s national character, even if she was in opposition to it. This was why he empathized so much with the British case even though he was a foreigner, he saw an element of shared fate, in their shared lack of agency. Does that mean that if Britain had not been betrayed and was doing well, that is to say if she was powerful, then he would be in opposition to her or even indifferent to her? After all she was not the only nation practising liberalism even though she was the source of much of it.

He almost wanted all of this around him to be some sort of all-encompassing Big Lie or Nightmare of Orwellian proportions, it seemed too cruel and callous to him to be real. If so he only had to half-haphazardly ham-fist some pamphlet and bam, all the lies would be gone. He was fundamentally maladapted to be live the life of a human being. The best he could hope to be was a ‘diseased’ writer.

The foundation to his world-view was an Orwellian one in both opposite senses of the word.

He could live in a world with no socialism and no God. Socialism and Christianity may have informed his thinking but they did not dictate it. But he could not live in a world with no right and wrong. He could not live in a state of indefinite suspension of all judgement. Even a Christian is bound to make a provisional moral judgement out of sheer practicality that he then believes will be reviewed at the end. It was impossible to live without morally judging others.

If the choice was between being an old doddering English socialist and a cold-blooded Tory (that does not believe in anything other than power) he knew which he would choose. He had very little against conservatism and had reached a truce with them but Tories were not conservatives, ideology meant nothing to them, and so Christianity meant nothing to them. They were the merchants of ‘Realism’ which was a nice word for the naked worship of power – there was no pretence of any principle or any ethic or any vision of the future, there was only the counting of pennies by soulless politicians because the Tories knew that people wouldn’t buy it, and Winston respected this a little bit as opposed to the whole-scale increasingly ineffective virtue-signalling of the modern middle-class left. Winston was a republican but he was disgusted by the way in which he was certain that the Tories would sooner guillotine the queen than miss an opportunity that would benefit them. Winston believed that all of this could go on because there was no British opposition to speak of that he or anyone could support. The British working class had to choose between middle-class posturers and plutocracy, he could see why they would be disgusted enough by the former to choose the latter. This will not do, Winston thought, there had to be some sort of loyalty involved otherwise as soon as the circumstances change there will be betrayal and backstabbing, things not that new to the Tory party but Winston preferred that those values remained confined to the Tory party and that they spread all over Britain.

Christianity is hatred cajoled as love. Islam is just hatred. As Christians never failed to remind him, he must not forget the social utility of hypocrisy. He would rather live in a Christian society, at least Christians pretend to be decent people. The right wing Christian conservatives who are rich and who will not sacrifice everything they have for the sake of others should all go to hell especially those who want others to make the sacrifices. Christianity is Socialism with a God. Socialism is Christianity without a God. No wonder most leftists and Christians are hypocrites.

Tonight there was going to be a general election. He didn’t really care who won because there was no party that represented him. obviously didn’t vote, what was the point. ‘Is this how it feels to be an officer in an army that is destined to lose?’ He wondered as he watched the results to the general election blot out in front of him. No, there was no political movement or party that could represent his view, the British Left was dead and so was Christian Conservatism, there was no British working class movement let alone International Proletarianism. He was happy that the election turn-out was the lowest it had ever being, democracy was not useless after all. Winston threw an empty beer bottle at the wall. His range of thought and partisanship was concentrated where both extremes of the right and the left. Somehow always been on the losing side of everything had pushed him more and more towards radicalism. One moment he would write angry rants about how the abandonment of Christian values is the cause of all social problems and in that same breadth he would hope that the cold-blooded Thatcherites who have destroyed the country should suffer in the most horrible ways imaginable and unimaginable. And finally he would always conclude that taking into consideration Britain’s future prospects perhaps blowing the entire country would be a ‘reasonable’ act. He would then add that he felt like he was the only sane man in an asylum – an asylum with more than sixty-million inmates in it. There was so much rancour in his speech that he felt it cancelled out his cynicism. Winston wondered if he should start to do drugs, he was probably better off dead anyway, but this would be a step in the right direction, he thought the police had given up properly enforcing the law, he didn’t approve of drug use but if Britain was doomed anyway, by which he meant that he was doomed anyway – then again he would have to actually meet with human beings on a regular basis which would be dreadful and there was the little issue that he was broke.

Politics was the purest form of human conduct. Winston believed that politics was the realm one ought to observe to grasp the trappings of human kind because politicians were the only ones who had the power to actualize their desires and their visions. Only those who could be absolute monsters but chose not be so could be judged as innocent. Or in other words the average politician was the actual moral standard of the average human being. He didn’t subscribe to the view that Pinocchio was in Westminster. That the politicians were all lying marionettes, tools subject to forces beyond their reach (let alone control), that Britain had not to a large extent chosen her course rightly or wrongly (in his opinion wrongly). He didn’t trust any politician and in his eyes had a politician in them. So long as it could be proven to him that political behaviour was not on the whole fraudulent he couldn’t believe that on the whole human behaviour was not fraudulent. This is the reason that he hated to see politics degenerate into an arena of showmanship in the most superficial sense, or in other words virtue-signalling, because that is how he had finally started to see all aspects of human behaviour, opinions were just clothing worn to look good in front of others, and thus all virtue was virtue signalling. Winston sometimes wondered whether he had reached this conclusion because it was convenient to him, after all he suspected that he had a lot more in common with the politicians he despised (as the platitude ‘it takes one to know one’ goes) than with ordinary people, he doubted in his pessimism sometimes but he could never disbelieve in it altogether. Always, at all times he doubted people’s motives including his own. When it came to England, it’s almost as if he wanted her to sink, so that he could sink along with her. Did his desire not degenerate into a wish not to want to go to hell on his own? After all if he could go out along with everything that was virtuous, everything that was worthy of praise, everything that was beautiful wouldn’t that sort of make up for not being any of those things himself? Didn’t he shower her with praises so that he could praise himself for praising her?

He had a recurring disturbing dream, he had many other flavoured nightmares, but he usually forgot about them in the brief interval that it took to become conscious of his material conditions when he woke up. It went like this – He could see himself at a high camera angle from his back walking down a corridor. He would an open door, the camera would cut to low angle showing a side view of his legs and snippets of the contents of the room that were not covered by him. His face would never be shown – so he didn’t know what his face looked throughout the sequence. He would enter the room and there would be a pale sick man sleeping on a bed with a black wooden frame and white bed sheets. There would be a window showing a picturesque green background projecting light into the room despite the rain pouring outside, sometimes there would be a typewriter next to the window pane and some paper too. Without making any noise or saying any word he would grip the man’s shoulders and shake him awake, sometimes the man would cough, the camera would only show Winston’s hands and the bewildered man’s face, before the man could say anything he would ask him a question which varied in length and coherence in each dream but would in effect amount to “Which important factors in politics did you mean that Swift refuses to admit?” At this point Winston would wake up or the man would get angry and say something inaudible except for “James… Burnham” and then Winston would wake up.

It was Sunday and Winston was going to watch the finale of a mediocre BBC detective series at the local film theatre. There were two churches opposite to each other adjacent to the cinema.

There was a large notice in the catholic church overlooking the Anglican one, which read:

“The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God” – Psalm 14:1

Well, Winston thought, he would rather be an arrogant fool than a cowardly opportunist.. He was not the first to curse at the heavens and confront the faeces-licking opportunists and hypocrites in the churches, mosques and synagogues. It was a thankless, bitter task that he felt he nonetheless needed to be undertake lest they turn the earth into some vision of hell in their attempts to Appease to Him. He had no positive hope but he did hope that the various cults burned in each other’s hells for their actions in this world.

Winston sometimes felt he was more of a Christian than a Christian. At any rate his attitude was that of a Christian minus the simultaneous bribe and extortion of a ‘next world’ which he did not accept and give in two because even he did not want to be debased in such a fundamental manner because when convenience is the only measure and standard of truth then it immediately ceases to matter whether it is true or not and in comes sophistry, incredible propaganda, pointless purely-cosmetic self-aggrandizing gestures that even Gulliver couldn’t be able to make head or tails of. A sort of pairing of fools with cynics.

Christianity claims that three is one. It eliminates reason starting from the most elementary level of mathematics working its way up to all behaviour especially political behaviour. As a matter of fact two and one made three. One is not three, neither is three one, and on that note nor does two and two make five. Winston was vary of those who fiddled with figures in general.

Buddhism and the Eastern cults were collections of semantics, verbal handshakes complete with incantations that sound borderline satirical like the names of the action moves in a cartoon for children and manchildren alike, common sense peddled as some sort of hidden knowledge through an illusion kept up with jargon and foreign words, self-indulgent to the point that it defeats the point of asceticism, completely devoid of the attractive aspect of self-sacrifice/selflessness for the sake of others stressed in Christianity, banal to a fault basically dishonest bullshit that even a Christian would be able to see through at a glance. The Jews, well he was fine with the Jews. At least they wouldn’t knock at his door to turn him into a Jew. And if the world was going to be dominated by any faith then Judaism was the most bearable. Herbivorous Anglicans would be fine too.

But this could only explain half of why his thoughts revolved Orwell. Winston Smith believed that George Orwell was onto something. A larger point that could not be confined to the past or to future let alone the narrow confines of the 20th century. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. When Winston read Orwell, he often felt like Orwell had a neatly hidden card somewhere that would simplify everything at once to a level that he could comprehend it.

As he much as he railed against the corruption of everything by political loyalties part of him was gleeful when anything and everything was being politicized because then he could imagine himself as being in a fight between good and evil. Obviously he was on the side of all that is good, and obviously his opponents were wicked one-dimensional cartoon villains with intents viler than the devil that would make Hitler, Mao, Pinochet and Stalin and all the members of that club. The problem with this kind of set up is that eventually even someone slow like Winston would notice is that his enemies were picked for him by his group and he had to tailor himself not so much to public opinion (the wider public doesn’t care what a bunch of powerless losers on the internets think), but to the opinions of the group. Everyone segregates themselves into different groups and looks for and invariably finds sources that agree with their pre-determined conclusion, obviously the opposite camp does not trust these sources and so conjures up their own sources that support their conclusions, gradually Winston realized that he was holding opinions for the sake of holding them not because they were true. The assumption being that the right opinion had to be the true one, that what was right was always what was necessary.

His parents were hard-working decent honest working class people who deserved better than him but he ungratefully felt that they were unavailable to him that there was a wall of separation between him and them. They deserved better than him, and it broke his rancid calcified heart to see them suffer. He felt too guilty having failed them he had betrayed their trust by becoming a failure to even be able to talk or write to them was inconceivable to him. No, he wasn’t even a failure, he was disqualified as a human being. His impression of a human being was transparent, he could not act like a human. For if they could get on with their lives, maintain an interest in political parties and not go insane or feel like blowing it all to pieces with the bomb, were their concerns real? Did they really care?

If it takes one to know one(which it doesn’t), then what does that say about Orwell and Big Brother? Those could have been Orwell’s posters. If the antifascists are the fascists does that mean the fascists are the antifascists? Nothing was too cynical to be considered. 1984 is the sequel to Brave New World when things break down, as they inevitably will, force will be all that remains.

He could understand patriotic feelings but he did not have a homeland, he was a foreigner wherever he went and he didn’t like it but that’s who he was, naturally he was attracted to freedom and on the side of the little man over the giant, this meant that he could have patriotic feelings towards England and Japan but not towards America, it’s not as if he did not believe in American values but it’s as if these values had been corrupted by American power for him. Simply sharing the same values was not enough to feel patriotic, after all England was not the only country which practised liberty. He was envious of those who could honestly be patriotic because that was one among the many pleasures and pains that his debilitated self could not experience at all, he wished in vain (as usual) that no one else would have to feel alienated everywhere as him. Sometimes he wished that Americans did not speak in English. Winston had been saturated with American culture even before he knew that there existed such a country as the USA. A narcissism of the little differences made him hostile towards the Americans. There wasn’t anything in particular that he hated about the Americans (other than the way they spoke) but their attitude ran counter to his attitude towards reality.

Blinded by his rage Winston often said non sequiturs like “There was nothing wrong with socialism. Humans were the problem. Those pesky humans. If only they were saints or if only they could be made and moulded out of sheer force into creatures that exist only for the sake of others, then they could have gotten them to communism… this is a pointless line of thought and a line of action that was bound to bound to fail from the start no matter who was in charge of it including Trotsky. They will always want to follow trash. Love, Justice, Truth, Charity, Mercy, Courage, they were all lies, posturing, emotional manipulation, wish-thinking, with no more basis in reality than the everyday lies of journalists and politicians. A lie is a lie no matter how pretty it is. All idealism is dead[Winston really liked saying stupid ultimatum’s like he was Orwell or something]. Welcome to this brave new world of hedonism and pure distilled cynicism, aha ha, actually it was like this from the beginning, why did I expect anything else? Oh well I have always been rather slow in the head. I should just fucking kill myself and burn in hell at least it couldn’t get any worse then, then again I mustn’t underestimate hell given that it was apparently made by whoever made this positively wicked festering shifest. If only the Russians(Predetermined To Tyranny) and the Americans (Unilateral Worshippers Of Greed) could get it on with their nuclear holocaust, I mean what the fuck is there worth protecting any more? Britain is over, international socialism ended or never began because it is at odds with human nature, Christianity disappeared up its own contradictions, furthermore all human decency has been exposed over and over again to be a complete fraud – Mark Twain, that licensed jester did a better job than most at demonstrably showing this in “What is Man?”. Isn’t it time to end this shit-show. No, this isn’t even a question, of course it has been a long time, properly speaking the Soviets should have blown us all to kingdom come (or not come as the case may be) but their selfish leadership was too cynical to do it, they did not really think that it was either Utopia or Death, they were lying, they were human too unfortunately – they were all liars, everyone is a lying all the time.” Despair had taken over him and he was now uttering random grandiose-sounding political bullshit(even by his own standards) every waking moment. He felt like he was constantly regurgitating his own vomit and then savouring it. It felt disgusting and he didn’t want any one to see it so he only wrote such things in his journals filled with so many contracting opinions that he didn’t know what he actually thought any more, if he believed in anything at all. It didn’t help that he was so susceptible to other people’s words, so one moment he would agree with one pundit and then the next he would agree with another pundit arguing the very opposite, noticing this tendency he concluded that he should assume everyone is lying. Of course he knew he believed whatever was convenient to him in the short term but he felt totally confused, most of everything really did seem like one crock of shit of gigantic proportions to him, it was self-evident even to him that he was probably just projecting but at any rate that was how he felt, it was almost as if he was waiting in anticipation to lose his mind. He wished big brother was real, if he had to chose between Airstrip one and Brave New world he would choose the former so he could love Big Brother – it would be much easier than loving himself, or so he thought. “I love you Big Brother, I love you Big Brother, I love you’ he whispered as he cried himself to sleep. It was strange, he lived in one of the richest and freest countries in human history – England, and yet somehow he managed to feel envious even for the hellish nightmare of a sadistic pauperism enforced with systematic lying of the other Winston Smith’s Airstrip One if that would give him certainty, hope and happiness over the total uncertainty, absolute hopelessness and hatred without even some enemy, some believable Emanuel Goldstein to direct this hatred at, that life in Britain has offered him. Surely at the end Winston Smith was a happier man than George Orwell could ever be. He wanted to worship someone but there was no one worthy of worship, God was a cretin who willfully or unwillingly created this wretched shithole made liveable by liberalism and science built on a mountain of corpses balanced on a pin. He wanted to go insane so he could forget the kind of world he lived in and the kind of life he lived so he acted and said things he thought only a madman would say inadvertently he would also say a few things he meant stacked in between what was almost random drivel. He wanted to get drunk but he didn’t because he knew it would make him feel worse and besides it’s not as if booze is free. He wouldn’t touch any mind-altering drugs because he was a coward, he found it almost comical how risk averse he was, given that he was suicidal, then again he surmised it may have something to do with why he was suicidal. ‘Any contradictions are possible at different levels’ he would say in his trying to sound sagacious yet idiotic tone. He was pathetic, that goes without saying but is worth reiterating, it didn’t matter what he wrote, and he wasn’t even articulate enough to put a fraction of his hatred into words. Everything he did felt like a pointless gesture probably because it was a pointless gesture. He believed that the world wouldn’t change for him, nor for those who believe that their generation is going to do things differently, nor for those harping for a world that never probably was. He believed that Jonathan Swift’s assertion of humanity was way too lenient. Under such circumstances, he could not see the point of writing, what would a paperback with his name on it change? Nothing. He did not have it in him to write purely for style or for status (as a writer) since he believed his motive was political and he did not have any style or literary ability – he wrote for the cause because he used to believe that it was something important and necessary. And frankly because when people spoke of ‘the pleasure of the sound of mere words’ he didn’t believe them – he didn’t discard the possibility of him being too obtuse to hear it but he still couldn’t believe them, nobody had showed it to him. Nothing would change whatever proper cause he wrote for, therefore the act of political writing too was no more than posturing, weaving lies, emotional manipulation, wish-thinking and all the rest that constituted human interaction. Why else would he persist in writing if he knew his words didn’t matter? For more selfish motives that inevitably involve all of the above and worse (as usual). Whenever he wrote or spoke to people he felt like he was just lying to them no matter what he said or that they were lying to him if they said anything other than that he was awful – this is why most of his conversations (online of course) involved locking horns with this or that ideological opponent. Of course they would say that he was awful, so he knew they weren’t lying to him, but it would be for ideological reasons he could argue against, that he did not hold himself. Otherwise it was too painful so he decided he would rather just shut up. Winston was sometimes accused (over the internet) of being too puritanical about his randomly varying and rapidly shifting political beliefs. Somehow this did not offend him. That said it all. There was no point in writing at all but he still needed to. There was nothing else that he could do or that he could imagine himself doing. He was pathetic, weak, cowardly that was probably why he lost all hope and will at a drop of a hat but every moment he did not write felt like a moment he had wasted. But was all speech sophistry? Was he preaching platitudes? Was the choice always between one lie and another lie? And even if they all weren’t what was the point of him writing anything if he could not affect anything? Even if he had a way with words what would it matter if all he said was lies? Was there any value to his writing? He could not brush away these questions as if they did not matter. The only thing that seemed real any more was hatred but even then he couldn’t be certain, was the hatred he saw in the papers towards one’s political enemies real? Or was it all just a performance too? Did he really even care about those who he hated and condemned? Or was it all an act? A way to wail away boredom? Forget about them did he really even care about England or socialism? In the end he really only cared about himself and even then all that he cared about himself was to get stuff to eat and sleep. He didn’t really need anything other than comfort but he wanted to want something other than comfort. There wasn’t really anything or anyone that piqued his interest for more than a moment. He was bored too easily and boredom robbed him of his will and now that even his resentment turned out to be phoney. Everything was boring including him. The one unforgivable sin is being boring. And the appropriate punishment for it is death. It felt like he was waiting for an epiphany that will not come. He wanted to sleep all day and not think about anything at all. Oh how sweet that would be, he thought. But how different was that from a desire for death? Everything just seemed so arbitrary that now he was starting to wonder what his principles were all about? Were they too just posturing, lies, virtue-signalling to wail away boredom until he kicked the bucket? He simply wasn’t fit for human life and didn’t see why he should prolong his (self-imposed) misery. If this is all a narrative, why should he care about any of it particularly, saying that he was a failure was just one of innumerable interpretations, the same goes for history, the same goes for the genocidal mass murderers of the 20th century, it just all boiled down to bullshit in the end. The only way not to partake in it was to escape into insanity or death or religion. Or all three at once(politics). He was already making progress on one of those two fronts. It was only a matter of time that the other will catch up to him. There were all these things around him, all these institutions, the military, the police, the NHS, the parliament, all of them in place to protect his everyday life but was it really worth it? Well, the alternative is Hobssean chaos so he could see why people would want to avoid such a thing, and the adventures in a lot of fiction, especially Japanese anime and manga centred around war are about the wish for an ordinary life, but isn’t to escape such an ordinary life that he (and the Japanese audience) watched this kind drama. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that he had spent more time reading and watching these stories than interacting with real human beings so in a way fiction was more familiar to him than reality. Of course it didn’t help that whenever he tried to find out true facts of anything significant going on he would invariably have to hear two diametrically opposed stories at best, leading him to the belief that everyone is lying and is weaving fiction into reality. Winston often wondered what hell must be like, and hoped that others would end up there, because if there was such a place, he was sure to end up in it, he didn’t even know what was wrong and right any more. Actually he couldn’t say what was true and what was a lie either. All of it lies, lies, sophistry. He felt as if he had been born and lived his entire life in Room 101. He believed in nothing and in everything at the same time, he could never be sure so a universal scepticism had taken over him but at the same time because he could never be sure of anything he could believe in anything that was convenient to him but because he knew that anything that he believed was because it was convenient to him, a universal scepticism had over taken him. He believed that he lived in a world of wish-thinking and sophistry to cover up the wish-thinking. If only he had a Big Brother, who would remove all uncertainty and look after him then he too could love and be happy like the other Winston Smith. ‘I want to die.’ That’s all he was trying to say in a rather long-winded pretentious way but who would listen to him with just those four words, that is why he needed to write, but in trying to clarify his feelings to others through words now he didn’t even know what he was feeling, thinking and above all what his motives were. It was not as if he was a complex character. He and his thoughts were those of your common everyday nobody, of course he wouldn’t put it in those terms and would instead try to sound intellectual, try to sound like he has a point to make, because otherwise people would see through it right away, that he was just fishing for pity when he clearly didn’t deserve it. He was defeated and justly so. Actually he couldn’t even trust his own words let alone other people’s words. If someone tried to understand him, he would immediately try to go on the defensive, try to run away from them, suspect every word and expression of kindness involuntarily, perceive mockery where there was none or at any rate feel paranoid to an unreasonable degree. He just couldn’t judge what people said, it was almost too easy to deceive him, it’s like there was some kind sticker on his head which read, ‘I am a moron. Fool me.’ He could rarely judge what an appropriate response was and just said whatever was on his mind, pissing off people and inadvertently breaking this or that unknown social code and over all being rude in his attempts to be polite. He often wondered in vain what he had to say. For instance there was a suicide prevention centre near where he lived but what was he going to do, walk inside to the reception lady and say, ‘Hi my name is Winston and I want to kill myself.’ That sounded to him like something out of a comedy skit rather than something that he could do, he wouldn’t be surprised if the reception lady would chuckle at him once. He couldn’t also properly regulate the loudness or lack thereof of his voice sometimes, he stammered like hell, but there was something else that hindered him further, he didn’t want others to look at him, he didn’t want to be seeing by others. At heart all of his problems were superficial with all talk about ‘truth, virtue, politics’ being irrelevant fluff. The truth was that he didn’t really care that his perceptions may be lies, he just didn’t like those perceptions. So what if most virtue is virtue-signalling? So what if his right hand knew what his left hand was doing? So what if all art and all non-technical speech was propaganda? See, he didn’t really care about any of these things as much as he shouted about them because he didn’t know what to do with his life. All he could do was write, so his initial choice was made for him but what kind of writer did he want to become? He could not become any writer that he admired so he had to banish all thoughts to be like them, besides his pride (at odds with reality) wouldn’t allow for it consciously at any rate. Did he want to become a mere entertainer? A provacateur? A poet? No, he had no ear to hear the sound of words. A playwright? Not his cup of tea. A journalist? The thing he hated the most, or believed he ought to hate the most, and yet the one kind that actually mattered more than the rest put together as it hypothetically strictly dealt with the real world and concrete facts. A novelist? Maybe. A serial writer? Certainly. A mangaka? Certainly. Why did he write? What was the point any more when he was surrounded and filled with shit? Well, what else did he want to do? Nothing. Was it just a pathology to posture then? Probably that and it was occasionally amusing. It just so happened to be his only avenue to posture, he supposed. Somehow he could not be satisfied by this alone. Actually what would satisfy him? A life. He often wondered ‘What would Orwell say?’ But he was afraid that his answer would not satisfy him. Even ‘two and two makes four’ was just a slogan. Irrelevant. Irrelevant. Irrelevant. All of this was so irrelevant.

Even if he were to do something as self-evidently sensible and just as blowing up the parliament along with the one-dimensional villains and the holes in the air in it that wouldn’t change anything actually it might even make things worse as the vermin underneath would scramble to replace their superiors. He wasn’t always like this, he often wondered why did he turn into some kind of working-class Scrooge?

Since he was always assuming the worst possible motive in others, it was only fair that he would assume the worst possible motive in himself since there was no way he could accurately pinpoint his own motives or those of others it was all speculation (hogwash) anyway. Frankly he had no idea why he did half of the things he did, everything humans did seemed like a pointless gesture out of Jonathan Swift’s imagination and that included writing, or in other words most actions only made sense because of the ideas that were linked to them. It was a form of deception in which one had to believe in their own deceptions. All actions are speech, all speech is sophistry and so all virtue is virtue-signalling. All art is propaganda obviously. Winston found all of this disgusting but reality was not on his side (as usual). Was his moral outrage genuine? Was his morality genuine? Or was it just testing the limits of the English language at manufacturing outrage? Of getting people’s arteries to rupture at things they didn’t really care about out of his amusement, boredom and resentment? Was it all just for show? Choosing the most inflammatory words in the name of memorability but really for effect, attention and for amusement? If so then what about other people? Was it all orchestrated? Staged? Reality moulded after satire? Acting? A performance? A spectacle? A routine? Both the audience and the orators engaging in an unconscious conversation and coming to an agreement to hype everything up and pretend that the stakes are high when they are really low? A bunch of people who are really angry but do not know what to channel their resentment at? If he could not trust his own instincts then how could he for a moment trust those of others. Winston often engaged in this kind of rhetorical kamikaze attack, bringing his credibility down to nothing and then dragging everyone to his level by proclaiming that anyone with any interest is probably a lying sack of shit. What was the point? It’s almost as if he liked to call other people liars for its own sake even if it meant he was one of them. He even failed as a cynic. He was just a sound-bite collector. Even he could see, that saying things like, love is just a chemical reaction, that that was awfully reductionist even from a purely scientific perspective, but that wouldn’t make for a good sound bite, what really bothered about him though was that it was cliché, not that it was not true. The choice always seemed to be between one platitude and another lie, so he tended to go with what sounded good, ‘What else am I supposed to do?’ he rationalized. It’s not as if he did not believe in empirical facts, but in effect he believed that fact and opinion were non-overlapping magisteria. Of course one could cherry pick facts to jerrymander reality, that is the effect of journalism (whatever its stated goal may be), but that’s all one could do when objective facts were not the arbitrator. For instance it did not matter whether the massacres in Syria actually were done by the Syrian government, what mattered was their effect. And in effect, in practice truth is rhetoric, appearance and usefulness. At this time he decided to abandon all idealism, it was impossible to hold on to them without feeling like a complete fool in permanent cognitive dissonance frothing at the mouth in righteous indignation. In the end he believed he was just an edgy man-child pretending to be a rancorous old man lashing out in anger at seemingly arbitrary targets because the world was not that little fantasy of goodwill and camaraderie and decency and generally acted like some boyscout ideal that he had been inculcated to expect by all those Saturday morning Japanese cartoons, the Sunday morning mass and American family friendly television. Well, at least it was not as bland as he had been made to expect but that was a scant and fleeting consolation in the face of the pure distilled ill-will he had often been exposed to. Some of it he could not even be explain through self-interest. It seemed like sadism to him – both aggressive and passive-aggressive. Well, it didn’t help that he looked and acted like a moron, and in fact he often wondered whether he was one, with all the books he surrounded himself with to tell himself he was not. He tried to bury himself alive under books but frankly he was starting to hate them too. All he was doing really was to pick up phrases, sound bites, one liners that sound good. And for what? What kind of life was that? Indulging in a sort of pathetic lower-middle-upper-class man’s self-gratification? It was simultaneously unprincipled and pretentious, and for what? It’s not like he was going to find some kind of truth? He had given up on that after being lied to too many times. Seek and you will find nothing. Knock and you will be ignored. He might as well buy some fucking aspidistra. In a way, well in many ways it was his fault, why did he expect it would be otherwise? That he would be answered? Someone like him who has never really been young could easily understand the hatred of the old. For this it was irrelevant whether he agreed with them or not. He could easily like angry old men if he didn’t think too much about what they said. May be it was time to go from the post-war era to the pre-war era already.

If all speech is sophistry then freedom of speech is the liberty for everyone to lie and deceive instead of a select few monopolizing the right to lie and deceive. A free market of lies so to speak. Well, at least one got to choose in which lies one believed in, it didn’t surprise Winston that most choose whatever is convenient to them. Can such a thing as intellectual honesty or journalistic integrity exist in this world? Or are those words that one uses to describe the deceptions that one likes. Was what people called ‘truth’ in the end and from the very beginning a product of wish-thinking, sophistry and expedience? Or was he just redefining ‘truth’ as ‘lies’ and then knocking down a straw-man? He liked these stupid word games where he would in the end conclude the obvious too much. It’s like he was turning himself into a sophist by playing at their game. A game of absolute dishonesty where everything is said and done for effect not because they believe in it, deception was the end goal from the very beginning, there were so many agreement grubbing con artists in the marketplace of ideas that it may be a market of lies. When it is something that could potentially be true even those who believe they are above being deceived, no especially those who think they are above being deceived will be deceived, and when their lies will be exposed they will just refer to plausible deniability. It’s very difficult to verify where people actually have expertise. The internet fallacy experts would shout ‘argument from authority’ but if some loser with nothing else to do couldn’t verify everything that he read then how could a normal person do it? They can’t. In the end this will lead to people disbelieving in almost anything of any importance or contention as people simply wouldn’t trust ANY sources at all. These con artists appeal to perceived hypocrisies, to method without specifications and eventually cry persecution. Since journalists are fucking fools and will invite them on their talk shows and describe them by their bogus sounding credentials their lies will spread and then be replaced by other lies that claim the very opposite and so on until journalists lose the trust put in them as well. Sometimes they will even have two liars from the opposite camps talking over each other in the name of fairness and truth.

Winston so to speak felt more and more like he was waltzing over lakes of piss to get to the shit hole when trying engage in debates online, it stank, at some point it all descended into peacock-ing but even more than that in a fishing expedition for opportunities to throw mud at some vaguely defined political enemy, ideas ceased to matter and opinion became the gauge of identity, everyone carried a checklist with them of ideological purity – and an identity whip, actually he didn’t believe that he and they did even wanted to virtue-signal any more, this was nothing new, people have been making a living calling others ‘fucking liberals’ ‘fucking conservatives’ etc… but the hatred felt very real, it was the only thing that was real, and it was very tempting to blame an ill defined label of people for everything that has ever gone wrong, a version of Kissinger’s Law whereby the lower the stakes the more vicious the fighting, the fact that there weren’t any consequences or results to these conversations emboldened everyone to be as hyperbolic as the English language allowed them to be, everyone who wasn’t a part of your group was either a Nazi, a fascist, a racist, a degenerate, a communist, a misogynist, a rapist, a Jew or a combination of two or more of the above. At the same time though he believed that not all political hatred was unjustifiable, that polarization was good as long as it was non-violent and genuine instead of just for its own sake, that is to say for the sake of entertainment.

Winston wanted to write long drawn-out naturalistic novels with arresting similes, unhappy endings and long purple passages that were there merely for the sound of words and above all he didn’t want to write (and therefore think) about politics, about things he couldn’t do anything about to change. Unfortunately he did not have the talent for such an undertaking and the circumstances around him forcefully filled his mind to the brim with concern about what was happening. He lacked any kind of subtleness and he was too angry and impatient to write fiction that wasn’t boring political pamphleteering in novel form like Atlas Shrugged or plot-less snore-fests that reasserted the obvious ad absurdum like Satre. Besides he was rapidly running out of time. He needed to get it all down before it was too late.

Britain was over and in the unlikely case that she wasn’t now, she will be gone one day. The question was, why is it that he could not stand the idea of this happening even more than his own eventual obliteration. He was not even English. He surmised this had to do with a scale of worth and beauty with him on one end and with England on the other. It was a very real dichotomy for him. With all shame to be piled up on him and all praise offered to England.

He debated whether he should become a member of the Church of England, of course he did not want to believe in God but in many ways he believed that being a member of the Church of England was a prerequisite to being an atheist in Britain or at least that’s what it seemed to him from an outsider’s perspective.

Winston himself believed that he had got some Scottish ancestry but then who doesn’t.

Frankly it was getting to the point that he trusted politicians more than journalists and when a politician said that something was black he believed that it was white. He positively enjoyed bashing people like this while hiding behind walls of text, or rather it was his only pleasure in life. At times he couldn’t even say if his hatred was real. It certainly felt real when he wrote things like ‘Of course there are many flavours of shit available on the market of ideas, they are usually peddled by merchants of shit, colloquially known as journalists, social commentators, intellectuals and the clergy’ but after he writes this stuff he runs out of hatred and it all seems so silly, petty, inconsequential, false and boring. It’s as if he was spending day and night thinking of names to call people, and for what? It’s not as if journalists are going to be honest just because he called them liars, everyone knows that are liars. He was getting bored of his own whining and this was bad as there was nothing else he was interested in or that he wanted to do.

If his future consisted of a boot stamping on his face for the rest of his life then he did not want a future. He felt dissed and so did his parents. He felt he was worth less than trash. He wanted his revenge and he didn’t mind selling his soul to the reactionaries if that was necessary. If the realist intellectuals are right and ideology doesn’t matter and he didn’t have a soul to begin with and if the post-modernists are right and there is no such thing as progress then the only difference between progress and reaction is that they are opposed to each other, fine then, he will have it their way to destroy them, he would rely on the sheer hatred of the little men, no matter what political direction it comes from, salvation through politics was a lie but not damnation through politics. It didn’t need to be his doing, if enough people were pissed upon and shat on something was bound to give, even in England. It didn’t matter which way as long as the pendulum swung so hard that it will break. When the fascist by-any-other-name will bring hell and they will beg for forgiveness he will contort his face into a smile for the first and the last time and say ‘No.’ He believed that the progressive sophists had to be taught a lesson in consequentialism if there was to be any progress. The anti-consequentialist argument that the full consequences of any action are unknown justified just about any action, after all who knows – by raping and murdering little children you might actually prevent the next holocaust, you did not know the full consequences of your actions so how can you be blamed only for those in the immediate future? Some actions, that is to say some consequences are unjustifiable even without knowing the full causal chain of any action. Then again what did he know, some urban hermit who lived in a world of his own imagination separated from society by the thin mossy wall of separation of his cheap London flat next to the academics who lived in a world separated from the rest by thick walls of cold cash. He wanted to get rid of the boot stamping on his face.

He was so desperate and hopeless that he wanted to delude to himself to the point where he could be blissful- he wanted to be able to unironically say that he loved Big Brother, God, England, Allah, it didn’t really matter so long as it wasn’t human and so could show imperfections. But he could not unironically believe in such things. Alternatively an absolutely evil enemy responsible for all evil, suffering, hatred would do, he wanted his own Emanuel Goldstein or a Satan, a saviour in the form of an immortal enemy – that is why he usually framed his political opponents as enemies literally worse than everything that is evil. He didn’t actually see how objective truth or absolute could exist in this world but if he could just believe in it them that was enough, but he couldn’t believe in either when people had different opinions and thoughts – and so everything becomes politicized – a wish for a political Party that would absolutely impose his opinion is the next rational option, after all the only way for him to believe in his own opinion is for everyone to believe in it without even a single grain of doubt in everyone’s mind. An eternal truth, absolute morality and political climate imposed on the collective consciousness by an eternal and incontrovertible power. He wanted to be the smiling face on which the boot would stamp on forever. He always lied to himself but it was impossible no matter how hard he tried for him to honestly join a religious or political cult, actually the harder he tried to believe the dogma the harder it was to do so because his intentions were apparent even to him and there was no external power that could control the past and allow him think mutually opposing opinions while also being aware of it. All he could do was complain about how uncertain everything seemed to him. Of course all of this was just an indirect form of virtue-signalling as was everything else he did that involved conscious thought.

With such contenders as former prime ministers Mr. Slippery and the Blair creature, it would be quite a while before he could reach the top bottom spot in Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He hated Tony Blair, which is to say that he pretended to hate him to appear to be righteous, and when he thought about this further he wondered whether he might like certain aspects of Blair, the way he risked and lost all in the Iraq war was admirable to Winston assuming that Blair had good intentions in mind that is, which matter in any realm, even the political realm, because as circumstances change people’s true intentions become visible. One lie may be set up so that it is advantageous to both parties, but when circumstances change as they inevitably will, then the mutually advantageous situation will not last and one party or both will have to make sacrifices for the partnership or the principle it is nominally based on. Blair could have refused to involve Britain in the war and come out of it safely after having served two terms, of course the possibility that he may have wanted to be some kind Churchill in his finest hour is still there, but nonetheless the risk to him personally was also there in plain sight, and the hatred towards him will come for him down to his grave.

Political realism was not pragmatic because on the long run, he believed, it tended to be suicidal. If there was such a thing as society, and there was such a thing as society then there was such a thing as right and wrong purely to maintain that society. That is to say that ideas of good and evil did not spring up arbitrarily out of nowhere but because they proved to be useful through trial and error. He felt like an officer in an army that was destined to lose mounting a final stand on two fronts against political realism and moral relativism to protect objective truth and beauty.

He saw himself as a Tory Anarchist, someone that believed authority always did more harm than good but who couldn’t trust the individual to act in a moral way on his own either, it was a dilemma, and the only way out of it he could see was to blow it all to pieces or to go insane or both. He was conflicted towards his feelings about the fall of the soviet union, on the one hand he was glad that a force for evil in this world was gone but on other he wondered whether the world needed such a force for evil in this world to give it a moral perspective, whether the cold-blooded amoral reptile-eyed soviet bureaucrats were the actual moral pivot of this world and finally whether their sudden absence was the final nail in Britain’s coffin. Would he want them back? No, was the obvious answer but it was a ‘no’ that lacked enough conviction for his tastes. His cynicism about his cynicism made him hard to embrace his cynicism or in other words his doubt ran so deep that he didn’t even have any conviction even in his cynicism. In a way he saw his all-encompassing cynicism as a shield against bias. Whenever he heard anything said by anyone of any authority a snarkily disdainful comment would surface in his mind (He would never voice them in real life (only on the internet)of course but it served its purpose to shield his mind against being convinced by anyone about anything). He felt he had been swindled too many times. He couldn’t trust people any more. His current land lord was a middle-aged sour-looking goat-faced Pakistani (that non-state festered by paedophiles – to mention but one of its innumerable gifts upon the world) who regarded him and his many other tenants (in crummy apartments all over London’s seedy areas) as less than trash, Winston liked the man, at least he was honest about his feelings towards him unlike all those people who pretended to be polite towards him for appearances sake and failed even at that. The only man Winston could trust was a seventy-something year old Italian farmer called Giuseppe Bartolozzi. Winston met him a year ago when he visited A&E due to a drunk on the street hitting Winston with an empty beer bottle for no reason at all. For some reason he had gotten into a conversation with the old man. The old man had oesophageal cancer and his treatment had apparently been delayed for a week for the third time. Winston unusually voiced one of the innumerable cynical thoughts circling in his mind, this time it was about the NHS. The old man laughed it off saying that he was grateful he got his treatment at all as a foreigner and stating that back at home in Italy he wouldn’t have even have gotten his expensive treatment, finally he jokingly said ‘God bless the NHS.’ To which Winston silently replied that they would need it. Winston had nothing to gain from the old man and the old man didn’t want anything from him either. It’s not as if the old man had anything particularly insightful to say about anything but Winston just liked speaking to him and listening too and the silences that often befell their conversations didn’t seem to bother either of them. He liked the old man’s simple civility and the light hearted tone in his coarse cough-full voice despite what was happening to him. Winston went to visit him at the hospital twice every week until two months ago, because the old man had fallen into a coma. The only time when he sounded sorrowful was when the topic of his home country was mentioned. He didn’t speak very much about it but when he did he would open his hands and raise his palms his shoulder level(if he had the strength to) on either of his side and say ‘It can’t be helped.’

In political discourse the opposite of insanity is not sanity but the opposite kind of insanity at the other end of the spectrum where extremes met. But who gets to decide where the middle is? By setting himself up as the opposite to all the insanity in politics he wondered if that had unscrewed himself a bit. It was difficult for him to judge his own sanity. The air of scepticism that he breathed did not help either, he couldn’t trust what he read in the papers, and god forbid even some things he read in the history books, did that make him insane? Because his doubt in a way affirmed his belief in objective truth, if there are many lies with which people tried to hide the truth then that means there probably was a truth.

He felt sick and retarded but he couldn’t ask for any help either because he felt that the best thing a man could be in this world was a fool. If all there was to life was deception and power games and posturing and hypocrisy, he felt, being a moron, an idiot or totally insane was probably a better alternative. The question for him was whether it was better to be a fool or to be dead. If it was impossible to bear good will to the point where even art, the attempt to create something beautiful, was propaganda, a deception to advance one’s interest, then he would truly be be better off in hell, because then at least he would only be a victim and not a perpetrator unless some of the punishments in hell involved torturing other people in it, something he couldn’t verify in advance. This notion somehow got tangled up with his sex-negative and therefore misandrist(and possibly misogynist, he couldn’t ascertain this) feminist and Christian upbringing. This was why he was a masochist. If he could have himself debased and humiliated enough for someone else’s pleasure then he could tell himself that he wasn’t really evil. This was a self-deception of course because he would derive pleasure from his his debasement through the knowledge that he wasn’t really evil, that there was or could be some good in him. The underlying assumption was that he, personally, was unable to bring anyone pleasure and that he undeniably desired it from others.

He wanted to be a good person but he could not because honestly he wasn’t even sure that good people had good motives. He wasn’t even sure whether it was possible to have good motives.

The ‘narrative’ world view was wrong. He didn’t want to believe that his life was a narrative because if so even love and death would be merely narrative tropes resulting in a total devaluation of everything and a complete loss of perspective. It’s true that there was some reality in fiction, that they inspired each other, but reality was not fictional and fiction was not real. Objective reality should always take precedence to wish-thinking(subjective reality) and all that ‘narrative’ talk, here all this material is real, I dare you to prove me it isn’t, he would type on some internet forum where he spent the majority of his life bickering with strangers that he believed wanted to argue reality out of existence (and out of politics). He was not against curiosity, but he was tired of the baseless metaphysical speculation and of the sideshow of high-strung high-sounding self-aggrandizing sophistry that funnelled doubt into objective reality and never concentrated on whether specific events are knowable and true or not because that would expose them and blow up their overblown reputations and self-image. At any rate his life was not just a narrative. The irony was lost on him, or was it?

So ‘Blessed are the machines for they shall inherit the earth’? Winston believed that as long as they are self-interested AI would only be marginally better than humans and if they are not self-interested then they might as well be dead. Of course they could be programmed to act in a way that he found to be morally acceptable, but that would just be a conservative puppet show not a society, and he would just be a puppeteer. It would potentially be possible to get rid of all the rape and murder and that would be nice but that was only the tip of the iceberg of evil.

Morality is long-term reason.

If God wasn’t there when he was needed… then he could go and kill himself however many times he wanted to and in however many ways he wants to… the crucifixion was a suicide, a plot so he could justify torturing and murdering millions with disease and natural disasters and watching in silence as millions were murdered needlessly. Some fucking plan this was. It makes him sound like one of those cliché megalomaniac villains who always say “it’s all going according to plan” after some grandiose plot convenience bullshit. And no amount of sophistry along the lines “but he is god and we are his playthings” or “but whatever he does is right because he is powerful” or “but who cares about other people’s suffering, don’t you want to go to paradise, do you want to go to hell? Don’t you want to be a worthless opportunistic cunt?” was not going to convince Winston Smith. Winston was full of shit but he tacitly assumed he was not bursting at the seams with it.

The glass was half-full… of shit. The table was tilted. The game was rigged. This was not cricket. There was an anomaly in Winston’s life, an old Italian man called Fillippo who had helped him without expecting anything in return, but now that anomaly was gone, Fillippo had died of prostate cancer, Winston’s world-view was now impeccably reliable and accurate.

If all virtue was virtue-signalling, if there was nothing of good report, then being a nihilist was not enough, evil that ought to be punished would be everywhere and everyone would be evil. He could only see one way out of this, he thought we had the power to get out of this, well the Americans and the Russians did, he could understand why the Americans would be reluctant to do this, after all the only lasting uniting American value was greed, but he believed that the Russians ought to know better because Russia was geographically predisposed and predetermined to despotism and thus felt the fatalistic forces of evil more strongly than most other nations except those which have been predetermined to despotism by Russia because of their geography. Did God have tank warfare in mind when he made the plains between Germany and Russia? Winston saw Russia as the pinnacle and litmus test of fatalism, the one great example that no one with eyes to see could ignore, the Crown of Human Misery resting on the globe, the symbol and proof of the futility of human hope and goodwill – the Russians knew this so Winston wondered why they did not just end it all voluntarily. Winston’s fantasy scenario went something like this – what if instead of an accident or a war, all nations got together and realized that they have had enough of this, of course if the total disregard of virtue in ordinary human conduct was anything to go by then that could not happen.

There were a bunch of europhile street artists playing the ode to joy on their instruments while some of them held placards, no body paid any attention to them, not even Winston who was an EU migrant. His life or for that matter the lives of the 3 million EU migrants or for that matter the lives of the British working class or of the young, of the academics, of the businessmen, of the scientists, of anyone and everyone were insignificant and expendable on the long run when compared to the sovereignty of the British parliament – why didn’t any of the politicians outright say that? Because they were LSSMHBs? Because they knew that even the English were merely humans and would try to safeguard their own interests instead of that of Britain?

Karen Mcnamara, Fable Castle Hotel – polish workers

Villain – Emily Brown – North-brook College

In Asia you put your family first and if someone was not related to you then they could suffer in the most horrifying manner and it wouldn’t matter one tid bit, in Europe you put society first and you had to subsidize the poor and the sick and the unfortunate by paying exorbitant taxes (or no taxes at all if you lived in Southern Europe however long that will last) regardless of whether they were related to you at all and in America individual excellence was put first to hell with other people whether they were related to you or not. Britain was somewhere in between, by putting neither individual excellence nor society nor family first. The people were just too jaded and divided for any kind of ideal to take root. The only remotely idealistic thing was the ‘we won the war’ bandwagon but Winston believed even that will soon come to an end as the entire thing unravels itself up its own contradictions. The unionist parties were in decline in NI (lets pretend we didn’t lose to a bunch of gangsters and Americanism) and the political opportunism of the SNP may succeed in snatching Scotland’s soul. He was really looking forward to come and live in England until he realized that the United Kingdom was a prop, a shadow and a figment of the past. Once again though Winston couldn’t understand why he cared about any of this after all he was just a foreigner looking out for a better life but somehow he couldn’t just look away like it didn’t matter to him, it’s true it may in effect only be a distraction from his own personal problems, but the anger and the indignation at what was happening was there. Though as usual there was nothing he could do. Heck at this rate he might be thrown out of the country for being some good for nothing parasite when the UK(or what’s left) leaves the EU, he couldn’t blame them for wanting to do that, actually it wasn’t fair it didn’t happen any earlier. While he was at it he could be an internationalist and off himself. Or was that just his inflated self-importance playing tricks on him again? He did not matter enough not to matter. It was absurd. He was linking his personal well-being directly to things he couldn’t realistically do anything about so that then he could conclude that it was worthless trying to change the things he could. The acute danger of letting his personal failure leak and skew his political views was another issue but he didn’t believe that acting calm and uncaring would somehow make him more rational either – that was just a stereotype.

He could argue with himself however much he liked, which was a lot, but he didn’t feel he was getting anywhere and the more he did it the more pointless it felt. It was as if this ‘truth’ he was searching for only existed so long as he searched for it. All he could do is come to a provisional conclusion and contradict himself not long afterwards. His lines of thought were not entirely connected to one another, they weren’t independent from him either, but he was bound to come to a different conclusion if he thought about the same thing somewhere down along the line. At this rate what was the point in engaging in the didactic method if not sophistry or self-indulgence or both? Truisms are true obviously, black is not white, two and two makes four, water is wet etc.. but if there were only truisms and the rest was sophistry then there still wasn’t much space for discussion.

He never drank alcohol or smoked because he was a coward. Those pictures of lungs and livers just plainly terrified him more than images of hell, which was strange coming from a man frequently on the brink of suicide.

He rarely cried, unless it was out of self-pity of course. This was one of those times. He was not blind or deaf. He knew that no one took him seriously. He was an ordinary non-person. And so he could never imagine that he could be brought to tears at the tragedy of a fictional horse. He was referring to Boxer from Orwell’s Animal Farm. Unsurprisingly the saddest book he had read was about Russia.

He wanted to be like one of those protagonists in American films like Forrest Gump and The Truman Show, simple honest men that it is easy to root for, and who won at the end against all odds. He always heard people complaining about how television and films were corrupting children but in his case it was the opposite, it was the naive, optimistic didactic views in those children’s cartoons and family movies that later him to disappointment and cynicism because he took them seriously and it was even those crime series like Murder, She Wrote that were impossible not to watch if you watched only a little bit because they were on TV all the time. Unfortunately in real life there was not always going to be a trusty detective who will solve the mystery, and everything felt more vulgar and violent in real life rather than on Television shows, the only thing that could match the cruelty of everyday life was TV news which he saw as a disgusting spectacle from a young age and later learned about the vast misinformation caused by it. He believed that what parents should worry about is not that television and video games and fiction will make their children violent but that it may infect them with ideals, hopes and a sense of morality that will inevitably be betrayed (even by themselves). Then again Winston didn’t exactly sport himself as an expert on child development, he could only speak from his experience and a little bit of imagination. At any rate what brought his cynicism to its completion was the realization that things were often the opposite of what they were called of course there were a few exceptions such as ‘the Privy Council’ which was as ominous as it sounds but the exceptions proved the rule.

The way he thought, the language, it was always the language, he used when he spoke to himself, he had no other choice but to use those obscure vague words to hide how embarrassed he was of himself even when no one listened to him. Actually it may be said that the reason he rejected everyone was because he didn’t want them to hear what he thought, they would just laugh at him on occasion he did say something, his silence gradually eroded his scant voice until there was nothing left that wasn’t purely utilitarian that could escape his lips, it was the only way he could be honest, he kept his opinions to himself and tried to deal purely in facts with others

At any rate Britain was over, she had run her course, it was time to take her to the scrapyard of history.

Love to him in it’s purest non-cynical form seemed to be a silly thing to him but then he thought it was nice to have a silly thing or two in this otherwise cynical world- other silly things he approved of included – flags, military marches, idols, novels, gods, pornography etc… so long as they were not taken too seriously and treated like the silly things they were. There were some silly things he didn’t approve of too of course which included – mass sports, television, rudeness, public smoking, gun ownership and public drunkenness. He wanted these things as far away as possible from him even though he wanted for people to be able to do them if they wanted to.

Japanese animation was a place away from the smell, the filth, the pure distilled malice of everyday life and above all the fraudulence of human kindness. It was filled with stoic, honest and lovely characters to the point where even someone as deluded and dimwitted as him could see that they were lies and the products of wish-thinking.

He hated it when people asked for his opinion but didn’t really want to hear it. Needless to say he had no tact so he inevitably ended up pissing off a variety of diverse people by telling them what he thought of them when he was asked for it. Winston believed that the polite thing to do was not to lie to them but apparently they had a different kind of self-serving politeness in mind. This was another one of the reasons he tried to avoid people nowadays.

The end result of this is to produce people who are outraged to their core at fairly minor things, because they have from a very young age being taught that for a man to wolf-whistle at an attractive woman is the equivalent of calling someone a nigger or advocating for the extermination of the Jews, he thought much of the appreciation of scale of an insult or a misdemeanour had been lost, every was the worst, there are no lesser infractions. An inability to gauge the severity of something – everything was either a catastrophe or a blessing, with little or nothing in between.

Everyone was guilty, even God, no one could forgive anyone and the only justice there could be was punishment. Winston concluded that for there to be justice, everyone should burn in hell, especially God. Did Winston still want justice? Yes, he did. Satan was an imp of God, an Emanuel Goldstein.

Winston thought he could not write fiction, and he was right, but it was not just fiction he could not write. He could not write. But he still needed to. He didn’t even want to write but he had no other choice. For there was nothing else out there on earth, for him, at all. He wanted to make something great and to do something good so that he could justify himself. It was hopeless (as usual), everything that he had ever thought of had already been thought of by someone else and generally expressed in a more articulated and eloquent way than he could ever hope to do himself. There was nothing new under the sun, not a single original thought, certainly not in that little dumb head of his. It was easier when he had only begun to write, when he hadn’t read even a little, when he did not realize what utter trash he was writing. If everything that’s worth reading had already been written, wouldn’t he be distracting people from what’s worth reading with his scribblings? Or was he just grasping at excuses not to do what he needed to do out of fear of failure? After all it was up to them to decide what’s worth reading. Well, if so, at this point he had nothing to lose except his health (he hoped he hadn’t just jinxed that too), he was a complete failure as a human being, he figured he might as well write on his way straight to hell. As far as possible, and it was not that far, he wanted to become the author of his own fate – sure he was just a complex marionette but at the very least he didn’t want his strings to be pulled on by other puppets. And he felt like he had been compelled to do everything that he had done because someone else wanted him to leading him to not really care much about anything in particular – after all it did not matter what his opinion was regarding to anything and everything. This was probably why he liked reading the papers despite how much he derided them, they created the illusion that it mattered whether he had the right opinion and the facts even when they tried to manipulate him that meant his opinion mattered enough to be debauched, they created a self-empowerment fantasy that felt more real than any film or novel. So what was he going to write about? That depended a lot who he would like what he wrote to be read by – people like him – he was far too self-indulgent and had too little time to write for anyone else. He was a little man who liked to be taken seriously, the first time he felt this happened insofar as the media is concerned was when he watched the Japanese Super Robot TV animated series Gear Fighter Dendoh at the age of five, he wanted to make his readers, ordinary people, feel that were taken seriously for once, that they were treated as adults with independent thought even if what he was writing was just a simple comedy sketch. Or in other words he did not want to insult the intelligence of his reader and of himself with puerile or boring nonsense.

He had lost all interest in human beings as individuals, he was in no position that he could love anyone. One human was just another one with a different skin on it. Of course he was still interested in the history of human beings but this was purely a matter of pornographic factoid collection. He also had some interest left in what some writer’s wrote but once again he couldn’t care less about them – he was just interested in what they had to say and being interested in someone is more than being interested in what they have to say. He effectively saw most human beings as potential sources of interesting information and needless to say he was often disappointed, eventually all human beings started to look the same to him with different membranes. Sure there was a rapist and a murderer here and there (even they conformed to their own archetypes) but most of them conformed to civilized human beings with average morals which was fine but boring. If he lived among saints and sages he could be interested in other people. He supposed this was why he didn’t regret the thought of dying too much any more, nothing interested him that much, nothing was new or surprising – all music was noise to him, food was stuff that he ate when he felt hungry, all information was pornography, politics was a joke – a parody of morality, history was a referential comedy and its study an attempt to get the joke, humans were just puppets on strings (he had no interest in pulling other people’s strings – what’s the point of one puppet pulling the strings of another), civilization was an anthill – a monument to the absurdity of human endeavour, all idealism was baseless and everything was effectively a waste of energy. As a kid he used to watch ants tirelessly work, and wonder, for what? When he saw his fellow humans work hard until they lost their hairs, he now wondered, for what? All human competition seemed like a popularity contest to him, humans posturing for other humans’ entertainment. The only time he could feel anything towards humans was when they were in pain and fear. He could feel pity for them then. Ants that were occasionally aware that they were in fact ants. This was why he was on the left despite his lack of empathy, he couldn’t understand exactly their pain, but he felt sorry for them. He didn’t want to think this way, in fact if he could choose what life he wanted to have before he was born then he would have wanted to be a country squire in some quite town in the English countryside, studying from the bible and the 1666 Book of Common Prayer with all the certainty and faith that he could not muster any more. The best a man could be in this world was a fool. Wisdom was meaningless. Winston was not immune from the posturing he complained about, maybe that is why he sought wisdom despite feeling more and more like he was grasping at pure wind, stretching his arms further towards nothing. This is why he hated the Americans – they could proclaim their faith in ‘Liberty’, ‘Democracy’, ‘Republicanism’, ‘Justice’, ‘God’, ‘Equality’, ‘The Rights of Man’, ‘The Pursuit of Happiness’ without irony (and therefore without bitterness) in their tone, the last one annoyed him quite particularly and if mentioned would reflexively instantly cause him to clack his tongue repeatedly, roll his eyes and then look at the American as if he had just seriously told him that the moon was made of cheese and that all recorded human history was a lie. They really believed in this childish nonsense dreamed up by intellectuals. It was not fair that they could believe in it when he could not. Britain was a sinking aircraft carrier, America’s plaything and with the soviet union gone half her utility was gone too – he wished that something like the Suez Canal crisis happened to the Americans and that he and Britain could live to see it and laugh and sneer at them for their faith in their own fate. At this junction what kept him up and crawling was pretty much pure malice, there was nothing to be hoped for. It seemed to him that the Americans lived in a world of their own imagination where the good guys usually won, it was high time something happened to bring their collective consciousness back to the real world, where that’s not how it worked. He really hated that stereotypical American optimism and hope and wanted to see it wiped off of their faces completely as soon as possible. He hated this simple-mindedness more than he hated the whining virtue-signalling left (and he didn’t think this was possible) because he knew that they were bound to be betrayed by it over and over again, just like he had been. There was nothing more disgusting and sad and anger-inducing to him than to watch a man being betrayed totally by everything he believed in or by what he believed in the most.

His mother used to say that he acted as if the whole world rested on his back. Why was she always right? He always hated how he felt that she always had a point. She also used to say that he would never sleep under a roof of his own and when he donated blood to the NHS, that he only did that to win other people’s approval because he was scared of them. Winston thought nearly the same way as his mother, after all it was with her that he had spent most of his life. For example it was true that he did things not to cause conflict but he didn’t want to be praised, in fact he felt awkward when he was praised and would try to smile in an attempt to appear receptive to their praise even though he couldn’t care less about it. Of course his stated goal not to ‘cause’ conflict meant that his modus operandi was to ‘avoid’ conflict and thus avoid having to have a modus operandi. His mother used to cry a lot and he gradually learned how to pacify her by being a ‘good’ boy, it worked flawlessly, but he could not keep up the act any longer, and so she was sad again and he believed it was his fault because if only he could act the way she wanted all the time then she would not be sad. He couldn’t understand why he could not do it, after all there was nothing in particular that he wanted for himself, well nothing I particular which was in conflict with his act or not in line with it. He guessed that it was just too tiring and that the returns were not good enough to sustain his act. He had always felt that there was a not so subtle cost-benefit analysis in his conduct around others which is why he avoided contact with others successfully to prevent him manipulating others against his wishes. When people liked him he felt that it was only because he was manipulating them so he gradually surrounded himself with people who either didn’t like him or were indifferent to him so that he could be certain he was not using them or that’s how he felt. The truth may have simply been that he couldn’t engage with others properly but his strong suspicion about his own motives was certainly there and along with it an inevitable suspicion about other people’s motives followed. After all if he was inadvertently manipulating others for his gain then there was the possibility that everyone was deceiving everyone all the time, sometimes without even thinking about it. Of course he didn’t want to think this about others but the idea had rooted into him like a cancer as many a internet troll would put it. How could he ever honestly call someone a friend? How could he mourn a dear friend’s death? After all he may have deceived him all along to his grave for all those years. Winston felt he was surrounded by would-be informants. His epistemology began with something along the lines of “I am trash” with the addendum “and so is everyone else.”

Winston was your ordinary sexually/socially dysfunctional man who resorted to common kinds of escapism – burying himself alive under books, reading the news and listening to pundits and writing blogs as if it mattered what his opinion was on anything, consuming copious amounts of male masochistic pornographic content, especially in the form of Japanese fan-made comic book ‘doujinshi’, praying to the heavens and cursing the heavens, drawing pictures of the faces of beautiful women and writing short stories that almost immediately degenerated into first person monologues and rants devoid of any plot or characters (beside his surrogate protagonist). He didn’t want to be considered a pervert although he thought he was one but had no qualms about being one either, that is to say that he would rather be one than not be one. He just felt he needed to hide it well enough because otherwise it would be annoying, he had learned the hard way that it was better not be honest or open about his perversions with others. Was it shame? Perhaps. Should he be shameless instead? He didn’t want any trouble, he felt it was not anybody’s business and that he didn’t need to push it onto other people’s faces unless absolutely necessary. He also liked to have a stupid secret or two just for the heck of it. He felt there was an incentive to pathologize each and every human behaviour by retrospectively linking it to some perceived trauma, which was a fun exercise but he didn’t believe in its accuracy, it felt too much like fortune-telling where every line and every trauma had to be bent to fit a certain diagnosis. Did this mean it was all innate? He just did not know. At any rate accepting a certain narrative, a certain guess, could potentially foster a sense of acceptance, as for many a conspiracy theory is better than no theory at all but not for Winston Smith. What ever the ‘cause’ was, this was the ‘effect’ and he was who he was – perfectly flawed. He didn’t need to conjure up an imagined cause and then potentially end up making it the cause when previously it was not. The causes were too subtle to be pinpointed in his case, he could only accurately describe the effects, the past was guesswork and even more impartial memories. The causal chain was simply irretrievable using simple recollection and induction, The point that ought to be illustrated is that the past was over and that in some ways it was his fault but in some others it was not. In his case it was hard to make an objective quantitative analysis on whether it was more his fault or not. Obviously he may simply assert that it was all his fault or that none of it was his fault but that would be his feelings speaking for he was not in any position that he could afford anything as fancy as reason. If he had to imagine a cause for fun though he would choose his adolescence in particular rather than his childhood – a mixture of ignorance, cultural ignorance (that is to say ignorance of the culture and a culture of ignorance), cruel peers, his morphology and an inability to communicate effectively lead him to chisel a funny mask onto his face whose subsequent removal robbed him of several human attributes while failing to wage an adequate response to what he lacked in the first place. His latest attempt at mounting a response has been to put on the robes of a pseudo-intellectual sporting his findings having gone through a treasure house of English in a back-firing attempt to cover up how inarticulate he was.

On a level where she could hurt him but she wouldn’t and he could hurt her but he won’t. There would after much deliberation be a place where their hearts could be relatively at ease.

If all virtue is virtue-signalling then ‘intellectual honesty’ too is just a sound bite or better put a performance, an exercise in cherry-picking sound bites to jerrymander reality. And so all speech becomes sophistry. Winston visualized the editorial process of a newspaper as six witches adding disgusting ingredients to and steering a cauldron, suffice to say he would never make it in the world of cartoonists.

He often imagined his possible meeting with God. It was pure wish-thinking of course. This was his last scene. An emaciated figure in a trench coat with mud corners strewn on its corners and on his shoes would burst through the door into the over-furnitured room with some Italian gangster sitting on a chair with his hands on the table in front of him, light coming through the Persian windows casting a shadow on his front. The detective would catch his breath and then stutter through a barely articulate rant imbued with righteous indignation listing and proving just the tip of the iceberg of the innumerable crimes committed by the seemingly unperturbed figure who didn’t even deign to look at him in the face as he spoke until a smile would crack on his face and a single inaudible laugh would reverberate through him. The detective’s mouth would shut as the inhuman would set its sight on him trashing whatever ability for speech was left in him. ‘It was just a show, it was fun watching you Mr. Smith, now off to the furnace’ He would say gesturing his hand. One of His Minions would then stab him in the back and drag him into a room to be tortured forever. He found humans (and for that matter all life) to be despicable and so it followed that whoever created them was despicable assuming he couldn’t have created them any better. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t there (at the beginning) because he was here and he was not a voyeur, he could not enjoy to watch and read about the wretched suffering all around him. It is true that his suffering may have made him into a leftist which he believed to be a good thing but just like doctors are a good thing that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be better if there wasn’t so much disease and death around us likewise he believed humanity could do without leftists too if there wasn’t so much suffering and unfairness in this world. Sadly this was not the case. Was God a voyeur or was He a sadist? Well, the two were not non-overlapping magisteria. He was not against struggle, he was just against pointless suffering. Actually it may even be worse (as usual). All left-wing politics is grounded in morality but morality had got little to nothing to do with reality and so in reality there was no place for left-wing politics. There could not be a human face with socialism on it. It was all pure wish-thinking, in effect only corruption and power worship could produce results in this world. Slogans were meaningless – virtue-signalling at best. As these thoughts passed throughout Winston’s mind he wanted out of this world.

He expected no one’s pity because he knew that he did not deserve any. Human pity was too precious to be wasted on some self-pitying self-aggrandizing moralizing loser. There was so much misery in this world and so little he could do about it. He was disgusted at the way that ‘pity’ had become some sort of a political tap that could be switched on and off at will.

Winston used to love slogans, especially the ‘thou shalt not’ kind, they gave him the kind of certainty that he missed like a missing limb. Winston hated to think, it was so boring and exhausting and rarely gave way to any results and yet he was forced to think all day and all night. By now he was immune to false epiphanies, he knew that he would not figure out anything through talking to himself but there was no one he would speak to honestly because he couldn’t see why they should care, and besides most of what he had to say could be easily deduced by glancing at him. He felt that everyone thought he was too dimwitted to realize what was happening to him. And in the unlikely event that they were not completely disdainful of him, that they were on his side so to speak, that dreaded question would inevitably pop up ‘so what?’ What would be the point of fishing for pity. Fortunately he had never had the chance to ask that in this context. There was one slogan left that he could still say with no qualms or strings attached or reserve – “Death to Fascism.”

Winston had absolutely no sense of subtlety or tact or patience (this was why he believed he could not write fiction), if he opened his mouth he would invariably end up saying what was on his mind, so he opted to shut up instead heeding to the old adage that it’s better to keep your mouth shut if you are an idiot. More often than not he lacked the knowledge of the nouns to call and adjectives to describe actual things in objective reality meanwhile his head was filled to the brim with high sounding jargon from many sources which he liked to misuse for effect, for mockery and when the temptation took over him for pointless useless referential humour, he was essentially an unlicensed internet jester. He lived his life barely aware of what was going on in his vicinity. He would reflexively perceive almost any attention paid to him as an affront or an insult directed at him, and when he tried to break the habit, he realized he was mostly right. He was paranoid about what he couldn’t hear people say and he could barely understand what others said, it wasn’t as if he was deaf, but it was as if he was deaf, most of the words said around him would invariably fall deaf to his ears, it was impossible for him to listen to more than one human being at once and even then he had to relentlessly play catch up to what was being said to the point where understandably it was getting on people’s nerves and (as usual) he didn’t have a good excuse. This coupled with his general disappointment in what people said when he did listen meant he had mostly resigned to cease listening to all apolitical and ad hoc speech. The contrived speech in propaganda and fictional dialogue appealed to him much more than what ‘real’ people said. Very few people could actually say something that would interest him through unscripted speech. Unfortunately most of these people were out of his reach and anyway he was only interested in what they had to say and not in conversing with them.

Nothing piqued his interest any more, not men, nor women. If the point of anything was to advance someone’s interest (including his own) he couldn’t see why he should be interested in anything. He could see that in effect everyone wanted to have power in one form or another, in this world or another, it didn’t make any difference to him, but what he could not understand, is why they wanted power so much? Which was another way of saying why they wanted anything if everything could be reduced to one thing – power. He could explain all of it away with home-made half-baked evolutionary psychology but he wanted something more reliable than pure speculation. Of course he knew that he asked this question merely because he could not get any power but this did not answer the question, it merely made him a hypocrite, a perpetrator of the crime he was condemning. The answer eluded him to the point he could not be bothered to anything unless it could be answered (Or was this only an excuse?). He felt that otherwise he would merely be obeying to an inner master without even understanding the purpose of his orders – he simply could not do that, but that may too be because it was what his inner master wanted- what lied at the heart of human motivation – why did he even want to know this – was this merely a biological impulse – i.e. a command, a script he was following like a robot because he had no other choice – and had he as a robot come to wonder why he desired it after and because he realized that he could not get what he wanted? But that merely pushed the problem backwards… He felt like a child, asking the question ‘Why?’ from an adult until the adult could come up with no satisfactory answer. It is true that his motivations were less pure than a child who merely wanted to know why? But the lack of an answer bothered him more now than then. He felt like then he could have accepted no answer much more gracefully than now, that then he didn’t need some sort of overarching framework to make up for his shit life. It was merely a passing curiosity, if he couldn’t get the answer to one thing he could simply look at another, and there were plenty of interesting things that now that he had seen them and their variations for thousands of times and so they did not elicit any response in him at all. A large number started to sound like just a large number, that was the beginning, he wasn’t surprised any more when he heard about the number of atoms or molecules or deaths or people or stars or the heights of buildings, mountains or the size of ships and galaxies, they all felt like numbers, eventually even things like love or sex or history or music or food or relative power or even absolute power sounded like ‘meh’, eventually whenever someone mentioned these things he would internally say ‘So what?’ And somehow those two words replayed in his mind in loop managed to, along with the help of his personal failure, nullify all interest he had in this world. There simply wasn’t anything that could surprise him or interest him for a long period of time, everything that was strange or unusual eventually became normal and frankly boring to him. Everything felt like it was repeating itself, even death which he dreaded as a child, had become commonplace, he didn’t even bother to shrug off when he heard and read about how so and so many people had died in so and so many ways. It’s not good enough to complain about how he had been ‘desensitized’, would it be better if he and everyone else were less and less informed for their own well-being? No, he didn’t want to live in a Cowardly New World. Neither did he feel it was good enough to deride him as some ‘emo kid/edge-lord who hasn’t really suffered in his life’ or ‘pretentious loser who hasn’t worked hard for anything in life to know its value’ or ‘time-wasting self-aggrandizing pedant’ or ‘purveyor of sinister ideological piffle’ or simply ‘pseudo-intellectual’, he may well be all of those things but all this served to do was to give an ego boost to the derider/accuser, it didn’t answer his count/charge against existence which only left pleasure and pain to act as some sort of mechanic prompt which machine-like humans obeyed, and that that was the whole of the human experience – the dullness of which bored him to no end. Of course he would respond differently if he was exposed to different kinds of pain and pleasure but that wouldn’t objectively change anything on a larger scale that didn’t really matter to him but that he chose to care about because of a lack of a better alternative on a scale that mattered and affected him more directly.

“Enough! Enough! Some things are self-evident – water is wet, two and two equals four, hypocrisy is evil, cruelty for it’s own sake is wrong, life is good, death is bad, trust is good. For Christ’s sake I have had enough.” Intellectual honesty was not an exercise in cherry picking facts to gerrymander reality. Not all speech was sophistry, not all politics was a pissing contest poorly masquerading as entertainment, proper journalism was not misery-porn and frothing at the mouth in righteous indignation, all art is propaganda but not all propaganda is art and God damn it there is virtue.

He wanted to change. He longed for a contradictory sense of stability and adventure, order and surprise, freedom and equality, truth and happiness, camaraderie and individuality. He wanted the best of all company – the company of clean, humorous intellect. He needed to unstuck himself from this dirty hole back onto the rough surface. To rid himself of wish-thinking and not succumb to fatalism – to not miss what was right in front of his nose all this time before he looked further. He wanted to love life on the solid earth, warts and all.

The problem was that Winston didn’t know what he wanted in particular any more. His ambition had been killed entirely, all human conduct seemed repetitive and monotonous, once his basic needs were fulfilled, all that he wanted was an inexhaustible source of information – i.e. the internet. It was self evident that he needed to raise his status by becoming a useful member of society by integrating his desires into some socially acceptable behaviour, there was no dichotomy between competition and cooperation, after all by being more productive he would on some higher level make a contribution. He was extremely wary of deceit, emotional manipulation and posturing and feared all the time that he may be guilty of them, he had yet to devise a way to guard himself against them but he couldn’t just not do anything any longer just because he feared he might fall into them. He wanted self-respect before any honour, his non-existent reputation could be damned but he needed to be certain for himself that he was doing what was right or in practice what was the least wrong when given the option between two or more wrongs. This is the reason why he was reluctant to use his status as the sole indicator and compass for which direction he should move in. This may have been nothing more than posturing on his part to overcompensate for his lack of status, he believed he was effectively an unperson without anyone having to do anything, but it was more important for him to do what was right because it was right. He certainly was no saint but he at least needed to rationalize his actions, he could not just do what was wrong with the intent of doing what was wrong. He needed to do his best. He wanted to help others that is why he was interested in politics. He knew that salvation through politics was a lie but that didn’t mean that things could not be better than this. He had to live “as if” it mattered what he wrote in the hopes that if it might matter one day. It was hard. It was hard not to feel autistic man shifting the chairs on the deck of the Titanic. Then it will not be a bunch of exaggerated nonsense and sinister ideological piffle (like everything he had written thus far) clearly scribbled by someone with no hopes of affecting anything. It was hard for him not to feel that it didn’t actually matter whether he had the right opinion and or even the right facts because he could not change the course of any events. He would be effectively talking to himself or in the best scenario, to a small group of people who agreed with him but who were equally powerless. And what if, in the unlikely case that it did matter what he said, but he ended giving ammunition to his enemies? No, the cause of progress could only be served by exposing the truth never through lies, in the long run exposing the truth will serve progress even if it may give ammunition to his enemies in the short run. And what about his entirely different wish to live a self-determined life as far as possible? If he devoted his life entirely to ensure a world where others could live self-determined lives where would he have the time to be the author of his own fate? Other people were important to him, without them he was nothing but he knew that other people were not under any obligation to humour him let alone love him, he was all that he had but he could not even love himself. He was ashamed of himself so he tried to hide his mistakes wherever he could under his clothes and in his rhetoric. He rarely outright lied but he feigned ignorance and felt guilt at his impotence and inability to get anything right. If he wanted to sacrifice himself for others then he had to not expect anything from it in this world or any other, actually he should expect pain in both. But the truth was that he needed something for himself anyway otherwise he would grow resentful towards everyone and be totally unable to do anything for anyone else either. He had a deep and all-pervading suspicion about his motives and believed there was something fundamentally wrong with him. Because of this there could be no conviction in anything he wrote and when he read back it, it all felt like shock-factor and trash that wouldn’t see the light of the day in the worst of the worst tabloid news papers in Britain. He felt he was inherently evil, he hated himself for it and he needed to hide himself from others lest they got to know him and hated him. Words were the best hiding place where he could find refuge. As they say hide a tree in a forest. So many things in print were lies that he could write anything, if he used enough sophistry, he could effectively write that two and two equals five and no one would disagree, he was sure that there was space in print to write about the lie that he had become. Ironically though he could never help but consciously imply for all to see ‘that all the above is lies’ when he wrote, strangely enough the written word freed him of the impulsive need to lie because he could review and recant his words more effectively thus heeding to his inner voice of reason and honesty, he always felt jumpy when he spoke to people in person because he could never take back what he said so he would lie, it was not so much that he wanted to lie as much as lies just came out his mouth spontaneously out of fear of others, an angry person especially an angry authority figure scared Winston more than any beast could – because they knew that he was bad and they knew that he knew it too. The only way out seemed to be to avoid conflict and postpone conflict with other humans which often involved avoiding other humans altogether as there could be no better contingency to conflict than absolute isolation. If everyone was a loner like him there could be no more wars though he wasn’t sure enough it was worth it to promote such a view. The question was whether human interaction was worth the conflict that came along with it. He wanted to answer ‘yes’ but given his experience he wasn’t confident enough to answer that question. Maybe he thought that human contact was just not for him but it was kosher for others, that would explain some things but was he really that radically different and incompatible with other humans, somehow he doubted this, it just felt a tad too self-aggrandizing for his tastes, he wasn’t some special snowflake, he was just some ordinary below average guy, there were millions of others just like him that could effectively replace him and it wouldn’t make a difference. But then why was it that there were millions like him who couldn’t get on with their fellow human beings, what exactly was wrong with them? He feared that he couldn’t just pin it down to one factor… was it genetic? Was a fresh round of eugenics needed? Or was it merely environmental? He hoped that the latter was the case, so that there was at least some hope that the social conditions could be changed somewhat. He didn’t want to call what he was going through something as grand as ‘alienation’ after all that term was reserved for people like the miners in The Road to Wigan Pier not for some parasite like himself. He wasn’t just financially dependent and bankrupt, he was also emotionally dependent on others, thus it followed that the most rational course of action was that he should distance himself from those he cared about because he could only be a bother to them. He had followed this course of action to avoid conflict but then family and friends would get angry at him for not even contacting them and he would end up feeling guilty for that too. He felt he had been chained to the people who knew him, so he was reluctant to be intimate with new people lest he chained himself to them. Eventually he started to dread the people that cared for him and he stopped caring about them and about anyone for that matter. Every moment he spent with others felt like a worthless effort and burden. Both for their own sake and for his own he increasingly isolated himself from everyone. He was sick of other people, especially the people in his own walls, he could suddenly see the whole point of so many walls inside houses. He increasingly grew irritated and resentful sometimes he felt like sporting extreme political views just for the hack of it but ultimately politics felt to him futile as economically things were not that bad and as far as the rest was concerned he felt the government should just fuck off, its not that he had faith in the people but he had even less towards the government. He was a Tory Anarchist. And anyway he felt like he was just using politics to virtue-signal and distract himself from his own problems, he needed to deal with his own problems before trying to help others – helping others to help himself just didn’t work as it would degenerate into using other people’s suffering to feel better about himself, his motives would blight any critical response to the situation and make everything worse. If he wanted to help others then he should do it because he wanted to help others not because it will make him happy in return. And to make sure that this was the case he needed to make sure that he was satisfied with himself even if he didn’t help others. That he didn’t need to help others to validate himself to cleanse himself from his guilt for who he was or for the selfish things he wanted for himself. He was not a saint, he could not be one, he was a human being. His motives were always skewed to one side – to his own, but just because he was a failure as a saint that doesn’t mean that he needed to be disqualified as a human being – that he was a monster. Similarly just because he couldn’t be a super human that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a man, just because he couldn’t be a great writer that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a good writer and just because he couldn’t be an Englishman that didn’t mean it was wrong if he harboured a certain patriotic feeling for England. Building these dichotomies was just part of an exercise in finding excuses not to do any thing – why write anything if what he wrote was bound to be unreadable trash marred with sophistry that would scar the eyes of his readers against literature (assuming they would even look at it)? Why do anything good or bother interacting with others if he would just inevitably end up using people and virtue-signalling? How dare he be patriotic when he was just a foreigner, most other people didn’t get to choose the country they pledge their allegiance to so why should he? Why should he try to improve himself, he was just a loser, anything different he tried to do differently was just be pathetic overcompensation. When he went over his thought processes even he couldn’t help he was being over-dramatic and self-important, like some man-child who thought the world was centred around him and that absolutely everything bad was his fault in one way or the other. For instance when he reads of some horrific sexual crimes in the papers he often feels like its his fault in some ways. It seemed an idiotic and useless way of thinking when he thought about it but he could never fully disavow his thoughts even when accepted that they were incorrect. In some ways he felt it would be tantamount to accepting that he was mentally insane and somehow the prospect of loosing his trust in his grip on reality scared and disturbed him even more than feelings of guilt for crimes he didn’t even commit. The irony of it was that one of the reasons he stopped being a Christian was that he didn’t want to feel guilty for crimes he did not commit, eating the fruit of knowledge and more damningly killing Christ but now he felt guilty for even more disgusting crimes he did not commit. He was always on the lookout that people would blame him for something or misunderstand something because of how inarticulate he was. He could never defend himself properly after he was accused of something partly because he felt that he was guilty. So for example when the most lunatic feminist would say something to the effect that ‘all men are rapists’ or that ‘all sex is rape’ he would dismissively say that it’s all poppycock coming from the fringes of a political movement but inwardly he might start to wonder whether they are right. Suddenly those Christian lessons about marriage and about abstinence sounded very commendable by comparison. They had a positive side to them, not just shame, because at least once you followed certain practical rules you were free, you were not entirely evil, only inherently, you could even be somewhat good, what a relief. Unfortunately he could not go back to base his life on what he knew were ahistorical documents (they rewrote history for the sake of propaganda just like the extremist feminists), and the few things he thinks he got from the book, his hatred for hypocrisy and virtue-signalling for example prevented him from practising its precepts without believing in them. So he was left to carve something new that he knew would end up being a variation on what was already there, after all, he was not that different from other people. Humans are the same only the surface of things has changed. In every age, in every place, the deeds of men, remain the same. He refused to accept that intellectual honesty and ideology didn’t matter, that it was all a matter of manipulation and an all-encompassing disgusting power struggle between morally indistinguishable(that is to say equally morally reprehensible) power blocks and individuals, that goes without saying. But first of all he needed to accept himself for who he was and then only make changes only if there was a compelling need to do so and not embark on a meaningless rat race that he was bound to eventually lose. The alternative of an honest, curious, healthy and enjoyable life was in front of his nose. There wasn’t any need for him to act out and to hide his mistakes the way a little kid who felt guilty about some inane thing would do. He had become so cynical that most human social behaviours seemed like posturing to him. And ordinary human interaction a way to further their status. There had to be an alternative.

He received another letter from North-brook college warning him that they would be sending an outside company who will pursue to extort him in a week. He was feeling unusually relaxed today until he received that letter. He needed to find a job, and get an income fast, just so that he could pay the damned debt. No amount of abstracting and thoughts about his thoughts were directly going to change his material conditions. But here’s the thing, what was the point of being a puppet or a marionette that could see its own strings? So that he could cut off the strings? Should he jump off a bridge? Setting aside such useless thoughts, he thought about how he could generate an income doing something that didn’t feel like wasting his life. It was a utopian plan but he needed to be able to make a living through his writing and drawing. His skills were simply not good enough for this but he needed something and he needed it now. If he was not going to be a writer now he was never going to be one, if he was ever going to be an artist now was the time, of course there was no alternative to hard work over an extended period of time but he was not even expecting to make ends meet with his art for at least the next five years but he wanted to start earning something now by creating something of value to others as well to himself. He wanted to create something enjoyable for others just like he had enjoyed himself reading stories and articles by others. It was a distant dream while now he was haunted by the past.

Nietzsche said that the mind was the body’s plaything, (well he should have known). Winston’s body was a wreck, there was some form of pain and decay everywhere. He had never being a healthy person, he often felt he was just waiting for his health to properly abandon him. He couldn’t go to the doctor because he would rather avoid meeting people for as long as he could but also because he felt he did not deserve to get free healthcare (because he was an immigrant and the NHS was running out of money) and he would end up feeling guilty and shameful just thinking of the moment he sees a GP. He could not be good, he felt he lived in a world where it was impossible for him to be good.

He simply wanted to live according to his own rules. He tried to live according to other people’s rules and it didn’t work. He was sick of being pushed around, blamed, robbed, mocked, humiliated and betrayed regardless of whether he deserved it or not. Was that selfish? Yes, unequivocally so, but if he had to choose between being a serf and being selfish, he knew what he ought to choose. What was even more selfish though was to expect to be looked after for his entire existence in exchange for his total self-abasement. No one should expect this of him nor should he expect this of anyone.

He thought he needed a therapist but he could not afford one. He believed that just having someone he could honestly say what was on his mind would help him even if they were paid for it. He then felt that most of his problems could be solved with enough money but he immediately banished the thought from his mind (as much as it was possible to banish a thought from a mind) because it was not true and such ‘if’ scenarios felt pointless to him and ended up making him feel worse. He didn’t believe anyone would take his petty selfish concerns seriously still he thought it would be nice. He didn’t believe his concerns were legitimate and so didn’t want to bother strangers with them.

This was why he was susceptible to bouts of a hatred that was so authentic that he could not keep it bottled up when he sensed that patriotic people of any kind predilection were being used. He had since lost any patriotic predilection himself. The hardened cynic could only ever (even slightly) sympathize with the kind-hearted earnest uncorrupted faithful naive idealist. A bit like Benjamin and Boxer. To hell with the rest – a Faeces-Licking Opportunist, a Thrice Damned Sanctimonious Hypocrite, a Paid Interlocutor, a Two-faced Equivocator, a Middleman by Appointment, a Lawyer, a Pickpocket, a Tutor, a Colonel, a Fool, a Lord, a Gamester, a Politician, a Whore-master, a Physician, an Evidence, a Suborner, an Attorney, a Traitor, a Journalist, a Liar, an Intellectual, an Expert, a Fraudster, a Philosopher, a Sophist, an Accountant, a Clergyman, an Economist, a Pundit, a Populist, a Bureaucrat, a Misogynist, a Feminist or the like. Winston’s Damned Lot had exactly 512 entries in total, to date. He didn’t believe his suggestions would be accepted though because his list included one God minimum.

His mind was a like a ping pong ball rapidly being thrown across political gulfs towards opposing extremes and occasionally veering off the table of political sanity entirely and writing things like: ‘TO HELL WITH THE LEFT, TO HELL WITH THE RIGHT, TO HELL WITH EVERYONE IN BETWEEN, TO HELL WITH GOD, TO HELL WITH HELL, TO HELL WITH LITERATURE, TO HELL WITH EVERYTHING, AND YES TO HELL WITH ENGLAND. THE NUKES THE NUKES, SOMEONE SHOULD COME TO THEIR SENSES AND USE THE NUKES.’

He could not purge the platonic view of England he had acquired as a direct consequence of the lying and bashing of England. Whenever he tried to distance himself from it another phoney lie, another slander would be said about England on TV, on the radio, on the unpopular papers by the left-wing intelligentsia forcing him to defend her unequivocally again and again. He would rather be thinking about something else but that would mean letting a current of lies decide their course. He used to believe that things never had been, nor ever could be much better or much worse—hunger, hardship, betrayal, deception and disappointment being the unalterable law of life, until he realized that some people were in effect committed to prove that things could be much worse. Ironically these people used to be the ones that wanted to prove things could be much better but not always and he was starting to doubt whether it was the case even most of the time any more, in his more cynical moods. He had no power to face unpleasant facts so he was either consciously engaging in delusional wish-thinking or in a permanent depressed mood.

He wondered whether he should write back to North-brook college but then realized that these people had no concept of fairness or perhaps they did but they just did not care.

He had developed a million different pet-peeves in response to his powerlessness to affect anything that was of any importance to him. He could go on 3-hour rants about petty pedantic hatred towards non-entities and non-issues filled with bad puns and spiteful bites of misanthropic humour. To vent his bitterness at his inability to bulge human behaviour he resorted to thinly veiled satire that just came off as angry rather than funny to ridicule human beings as petty, ridiculous, simultaneously self-aggrandizing and self-abasing, unimportant, selfish, disgusting, proud, little, unreasonable scared, pompous little creatures- going on a sort of poor man’s Jonathan Swift routine riddled with partisanship and driven by anger. And nested in his hateful bile was an unmistakable desire for death. Somewhere in his mind he knew that his arguments were fallacious but if it he couldn’t affect any event, if it didn’t matter what his opinion was, then did it matter if he exaggerated a thing there, made up a story here or failed to mention something counter to the narrative? Part of it was out of futility, part of it amusement, part of it pure desperation in a hopeless bid to progress anything. People barely cared, they wouldn’t and couldn’t check if what was said was true or not. At some point even he stopped caring about whether what he said was based in fact or not.’It’s not like it makes any difference’ he would say to himself. The questions that would pass his mind and that he was ashamed to admit were –‘Will it sound good?’ ‘What kind of response would get if I say that?’ ‘Why was what she said unconvincing?’ ‘How can I make it sound convincing?’ ‘can I somehow condemn him as a hypocrite regardless of whether what he said was true?’ The question of whether something was true barely crossed his mind especially if he agreed with what he heard.

‘Why couldn’t things just be okay?’, he finally asked himself in exasperation. He didn’t want things to be great any more, he had given up on that a long time ago. He didn’t even care if his life was just going to be one cliché after another, he just wanted things to be okay now, he wanted to sleep in peace again without having to worry about his debts, his stupid life and the feeling that everything was going wrong and that there was nothing he could do about it. And as for those who swindled him, he wanted to kill them and kill them all over again, because killing them clearly wasn’t enough.

When Winston hears of the cruel sadistic barbarism going on in the Islamic world Winston asked himself ‘Do these people deserve self-determination? Was decolonization a mistake?’ This was just pointless speculation, after all it is not practical to take back that self-determination, but it was still a distressing and therefore interesting thought, of course one explanation could be that these people don’t have any self-determination to begin with, but realistically speaking if they had self-determination, what would they choose? Turkey is a case in point. Maybe Iran is an exception but far from a clear cut one as he would wish it was. But why does this matter? Well, because in the future most centres of young populations and so most centres of power will be in the Islamic world. The Islamic world could become the dominant force if not militarily and economically at least culturally and so the present day may be a window into the future of Britain and he didn’t want it to be some sort of Lebanon.

From his experience (online) whenever the subject of Islam is broached to those who sought to banish Christianity from Britain would carousel themselves into an enchanted state of collective aneurysms.

It wasn’t as if Winston thought for a moment that he could pass off as British, he was going to be a foreigner no matter where he went, but he could see an element of shared fate in their shared lack of agency. Therefore he could vindicate himself vicariously through their vindications. That was the kind of pathetic convoluted reasoning that he dabbled in, that sounded more like it, rather than any kind of principled motive – oh please. ‘Won’t someone please say ‘Play me the world’s smallest violin’’, Winston thought, even he was getting tired tired of this self-abasing self-indulgent self-pitying. ‘It’s all too much.’ Winston concluded. He did not want to read the news, he could not even be bothered with the lies been pedled by journalists and politicians and their ilk… the pulse in his wrist was completely gone, it’s not like he didn’t care, he could not not care, but he knew that he was more ignorant and more powerless than those who he critisized, he could not see any point in his commentary – there was no constructive suggestion that he could honestly make that he didn’t feel would be like shifting the chairs on the titanic’s deck. He was just a moralist, or to be more precise an improvisation of a moralist, blowing dynamite under revolutionaries and pragmatists. And a lousy moralist at that. It’s not as if he believed that things would just come to an end, but progress seemed like an illusion to him, the fundemental problem of the abuse of power remained unresolved, not even armageddon or apocalypse could save us, things would return to normality, only the surface of things would change, humans would continue to be fundementally decadent with or without England. To him it increasingly looked like without England. It was over, everything that was worth anything was gone before he even got there, or rather there was nothing worth anything in the first place, objectively speaking, and now subjective had realigned itself to the objective. It all returned to nothing. Morality was sophistry and the truth was propaganda. There was nothing worth trudging along for in Winston’s life. He just liked playing word games that an eight year old could see through so that he could fool himself to feel as if he was intelligent, so that he could overcompensate for being some dumb easily excitable dimwitted hapless git, that was all there to him.

“What would Orwell say?” he asked.

The Machiavellian (and therefore the utilitarian) response to nihilism is “So what?” The demented comedyof ordinary life will go on, and so will the shit-show of politics, it must go on, it will go on, with or without him. There was no point in exactly trying to imagine how things ought to be and then frothing at the mouth in righteous indignation, admittedly an act of public masturbation. Speaking of masturbation this brings us to the second part of the prologue: Women and saints, Trouble with girls.

Prologue Part III Women and Saints, Trouble with girls

 

“The conversations he overheard as a small boy, between his aunt, his mother, his elder sister and their feminist friends. The way in which… he derived a firm impression that women did not like men, that they looked upon them as a sort of large, ugly, smelly and ridiculous animal, who maltreated women in every way, above all by forcing their attentions upon them. It was pressed deep into his consciousness, to remain there till now that he was twenty, that sexual intercourse gives pleasure only to the man… and the picture of it in his mind was of a man pursuing a woman, forcing her down, and jumping on top of her, as he had often seen a cock do to a hen.”

– George Orwell

“If the truth is a cruel mistress then a lie must be a nice girl. And so kindness itself is a lie.”

– Wataru Watari

“And yet who can fail to feel a sort of pleasure in seeing that fraud, feminine delicacy, exploded for once?” – George Orwell, Politics vs. Literature – An examination of Gulliver’s travels

A superhero who should scare us all

The new film Wonder Woman is becoming a cult, with all female audiences frantically cheering its heroine, played by Israeli ex-soldier Gal Gadot, and rising to provide standing ovations at the end.

I went to watch this preposterous film to see if I could work out why. Alas, it was not that complicated.

The theme is that men in general are useless, dangerous, quite thick, and deserve everything they get, which is what schools and TV dramas and advertisements have been telling girls for years.

Eventually, it will actually come true, because more and more men will start to believe it too. Then we’ll all be sorry.” – Peter Hitchens

Why did Winston resent his desire for women so much? Was it because it was not just a desire, was it a need? Did he find it to be morally wrong (by which he meant selfish) at some level, well at every level bar one? Did it run counter to his goal of being a self-sufficient human being as far as possible? Or was it for the simple reason that he was unattractive? And if the last was the actual reason, does that mean all of his ideals were a façade to overcompensate he put up to be being with thus unravelling any and every principle he ever believed he wanted to uphold? Winston preferred not to think about women and sex whenever possible which wasn’t that often. Singing ‘God Save the Queen’ and reading about politics and economics seemed to help but he didn’t like it because those were things he believed he was genuinely interested and he didn’t want to use those things as crutches or distractions or props. He felt as if he was a wolf in love’s clothing.

And for some reason and this previously wasn’t the case, the sheer vulgarity of the thing seemed to unsettle him, it was a canary in a coal mine for people like him who took themselves seriously when they really didn’t need to but because they wanted to feel important. The simple minded selfish superficiality in his mind and body when it came specifically to this issue infuriated him and he feared that it would seep into every other aspect of him (or perhaps even the other way around). In effect he thought that it simultaneously made him corrupted and vulnerable meaning that he would deserve any harm that came his way. But now he had simply gotten tired of thinking this way, true there was right and wrong but everything that was not wrong was right by default, everything that was not specifically forbidden ought to be allowable. If it was not wrong it was right. Furthermore as a matter of fact the bell did not always toll for him. What kind of a miserable world would be one where everyone was always helping each other? The bottom line was that it was okay for him to want things for himself. Selfishness did not always equate to immorality and selflessness was not always righteous. Indeed there would be no use for selflessness in a world with no selfishness, there would be no value in self-sacrifice because the people for whom the martyr sacrifices himself wouldn’t care about there own selves in the least. It was a supply and demand thing. There needed to be a large supply of selfishness for there to be a demand for selflessness. Okay maybe it wasn’t as simple as that but Winston needed (and enjoyed) these little word games and logic chopping sessions, he needed an argument, a reason, a rationalization to justify his actions preferably prepared before he undertook those actions. Winston was certain that he did not want to live in a world of saints. Saints were the most corrupt and greedy because they could not be satiated by any material from this world and so settled for nothing instead. As Orwell put it “All saints ought to be judged guilty until proven innocent.”

Winston was thirty years old right now. Permanently married to his guilty conscience was the fact he had figured in his youth that he had nothing to give, nothing to offer, he could not provide someone pleasure – isn’t it normal to want to give pleasure to someone that you love? He feared that as usual he would be the one with the taking hand, taking and taking without ever giving anything. Or worse given that he did not have what others wanted from him – beauty, intelligence, strength, charisma, courage, perception and a sense of humour – that would invariably mean that he would be deceiving them, that he would be relying on tricks, manipulation, subterfuge and worst of all posturing. He was not a saint and despite what he said he could live with all of them except the last one. The truth of course was that he could not even manage that façade – he always appeared as some hapless humourless git pretending to be a pseudo-intellectual and that’s all he was. Even in the unlikely scenario that he could deceive someone it would have just made him feel even more awful – two miserable people licking at each other wounds? Even he was not that desperate. He knew that he would intermittently fall back to his bouts of self-pity and self-regard, melodramatic pedantry and pomposity that had plagued his life from his youth onwards. He believed that being with a woman was the best contingency against this tendency. In some ways he was still the man he had been ten years ago, in some ways he was not, and unfortunately that included his hairline. He believed he had done his best to make himself into a man. Now how he would go on to approach a woman with the stated intent of being in a sexual relationship with her was a mystery to him now as it had been for his entire life.

Winston believed that roughly speaking human females mate across and up dominance hierarchies. He did not particularly care how he stacked up against other men, so long as he was free to do his thing. In effect this meant that the ‘mating market’ was his entry point into all other dominance hierarchies. He did not resent women but he resented his desire for women. He felt it compelled him to do a lot of bothersome things that he would not otherwise be doing – and the fact that he was in effect putting on a show for others made a fool of him and his desire for independence and not to care for what was fashionable, for what looked good, for what affected his status and secondly and more importantly his desire not to deceive others (especially if it was through posturing). To add insult to injury all the traits he desired were all superficial. He tried to get rid of it by concentrating on other things that interested him and it alleviated it but only alleviated it. He knew what he ought to desire but it was psychologically impossible. But it gets even worse (as usual) it makes it sound like all the principles he has ever claimed to uphold were just a response to his failure in this one domain, which is not that far away from saying that none of them were really there, and that his concern was one of the most cliché and selfish and boring ones out there. He bitterly suspected that all lines of thinking brought him here. The language he spoke, the things he thought and did all lead him here. The only other thing that could match its affect on these things was his neurotic fear of poverty, which prevented him from doing the things he wanted to for a long time – The picture of a needy inarticulate immigrant hung around his neck like an albatross. He was brought up in between a company of Christians who nominally proclaimed to view poverty as a virtue, vociferously alcohol consuming drug-addled fornicating Muslims and omnivorous upwardly mobile ascetic materialist Buddhists, or in other words in the company of hypocrites – he could see that in effect all these people viewed poverty and all that came with it as a vice. They all effectively worshipped money and status and power. Most sermons he attended back in Sri Lanka as a child, sounded like American self-help seminars on how to live the good life saddled with requests to donate money by the fat German car owning priest to the church projects to build more altars and halls and plaster saints, the rich donors were often announced and lauded in mass for their contribution and many not-so subtle hints were given that you were bad if you did not give them enough money, he was a Catholic but knew this was not just a Catholic thing even though the Church had a longer history at it, in fact the smaller the churches he visited were even worse, with pathetic adulations, confessions, shouting of gibberish, wailing, immediately and shamelessly followed by wiping off their tears and changing their expressions to those of salesmen. What disgusted him at first sight however were the congregation who used this as an event to compare status, clothes, cars, jewellery, he wondered whether he was the weird one for coming with the intent of listening to the word of God, he believed that the good guys would prevail at the very end against all odds, like in one of those American movies, well now he didn’t even have that consolation. He didn’t actually want to be rich but he was afraid of being poor. He believed it was one of the worst thing that could happen to a human being bar a few other things. And the fact that he had always been on the edge, perpetually in debt didn’t help to calm his nerves. Of course his neurotic fear of poverty was bound up with his attitude towards women for he was given the firm impression that most women around him, that is to say most people around him, despised the poor – his mother, his aunts, his sisters, his female cousins and friends and especially his female teachers all seemed to agree on this point, he had them all say that the poor are lazy, that they smell, and that they were filth his patriotic aunt essentially believed that they ought be sent to work in gulags or labour camps to get the trash out of her sight and out of the sight of the foreigners, one teacher not so subtly rhetorically asked ‘Why the hell should they[the poor] even get to vote?’ and so he feared he would be despised too if he became one of them. Sometimes he felt as if there was, so to speak a coalition between upwardly mobile and middle class women seeking power and the male ruling classes against the working class. Actually it was even worse than that (as usual), he desired women’s approval more than he desired women. Of course it was about him, not the poor or not even about women, in the end. Of course it had to be because for the worst possible reason, if he wasn’t going to give others the benefit of the doubt then it was only fair that he didn’t give it to himself. For what judgement ye judge, ye shall be judged; and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again… well except that he was doing all the judgement here. The problem of the things he expected of them still remained but it was pointless to dwell on that because what he didn’t want to be there will remain there.

What disturbed even further was that he was like them in the sense that the things that they expected from him were the things he expected from himself, this seemed to be much further to the truth considering his vast reservoirs of undue vanity. This would be a good thing in the sense that the antagonism between their expectations was an illusion created by the logistical problems and economics that prevented him from fulfilling those expectations but those problems would remain and it would mean that the attitude towards the poor that he was chastising them for was actually his own too, which would make him the thing he hated most, a hypocrite fishing for others’ lack of virtue to put himself up as a paragon of virtue or down as a helpless victim. The offspring of slander, praise and a sense of inferiority. Screaming, the old statute. Its drenched corpse rotting. Climbing up The Greasy Pole of The Hierarchy of Victim-Hood.

He was especially tired of the mutual needling of insecurities, not because it was wrong or right but because it was getting exceedingly boring. There had to be an alternative to the following:

‘And to all those pathetic women who mock men with small penises’ wrote Winston in his diary ‘Well, it is better than nothing.’

Well, to be fair in his case, it was mostly him needling his own, but it’s not like he didn’t have ears to hear or eyes to see.

He understood them, their boundaries were to keep them out, but how could he blame them, if it were logistically feasible he would keep away from himself too.

Consent is based on approval. Therefore asking for consent is seeking for approval and seeking approval is asking for consent.

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder but if the eyes of the beholders have a general consensus, well then… ha ha.

But there was a much larger problem than all of this, and this was that as far as other people were concerned no one mattered more than any one else, anyone would do, it’s not like he didn’t care about others as fellow humans, fellow countrymen but he had ceased caring about individual human beings altogether, they more or less all appeared the same to him, the same human being inhabiting different shells, it’s not like he was indifferent to the suffering of his fellow man but that was the only way he could relate with anyone.

Is it the fact that disenfranchised men’s fantasies involve first and foremost success with women inherently sexist though? Would it be reductionist to say that after all society really seems like an incredibly elaborate and sophisticated(or not so sophisticated) mating ritual, where people play roles and struggle in an endless quest to obtain some form of recognition that, in its most basic form, is of sexual nature. Anything else – power, fame, money often appeared to Winston to be a sublimation of that basest instinct for hoarding resources. This is the reason why Japanese dating simulators interested him and at the same time repulsed him. And yet Winston believed these things also push humans towards altruistic acts, in the sense that we know these acts will gain us approval, but even when they just make us feel better about ourselves, the very reason why we even HAVE something in our brain that releases endorphins when we help others and see them happy is that it’s something that ends up being good for mutual trust, social cohesion, and ultimately survival of the species. He was not sure it would be right to only acknowledge “truly selfless” altruism, if it even exists, which he believed it did though he wasn’t sure it would be healthy. It bugged him that the concept of general good was itself actuated to a large degree through self-interest – but it was better than nothing.

From this point of view, when your problem is feeling like you’re being punished for not conforming to the society’s views on masculinity, it’s not surprising that you may end up seeing women as the enemy – after all, women who DO buy into those views (by definition, a relative majority, or those wouldn’t be socially accepted views at all) will end up being the harshest judges of your own lack of conformity; they will be the boot of society stamping on your face. This perception was strengthened by the fact that if something is marketed towards women (even an ideology)then it was axiomatically socially acceptable but the same was not true for the opposite sex. Of course this is a superficial view that even some dim-witted self-pitying loser like Winston could not believe in it with his shoddy reasoning. To him it was just simultaneously too convenient and sinister to be true. The insinuation that he was not liked because of some hidden virtue seemed laughable at best to him, clearly only the opposite could be the case and some clearly vice in plain view was what hindered him. He didn’t exactly have an elaborate way to argue his case where he could erase all ambiguity and be done with all thought and focus on action, but essentially he felt he was running away from his responsibilities and blaming everyone else, well not everyone else but other people for it. That is to say that he could not exactly judge how much bearing other people had on his failure when he was acting in a way that contributes to it. And more to the point he didn’t believe that what was expected of him was entirely arbitrary. He had seen the stupidity, pettiness and self-aggrandizement of authority as clear as in Gulliver’s Travels back in his school days in Sri Lanka and in an attempt to distance himself from it he seemed to have developed his brand of it, placing him right next to those that disgusted him the most. A sort of old cynical man meets young edgy loser sort of pettiness and with a good measure of resentment. He could not deny that part of him entirely otherwise he will have killed his instinct to write entirely but he had to control it if he wanted to life. He had his fun, this cannot be denied, finding new and innovative ways to blame others, the left, the right, atheists, feminists, Christians, politicians, economists, journalists or some other damned lot/punching bag he could practice on. This isn’t to say that they were entirely free of blame but his life began where politics ended. It was true that he could not control that creature, that machine, with a will or well at any rate a direction of its own, history, and that he would inevitably be swept up in it, and yet, even at the bottom of his strident fatalism, in the knowledge of his insignificance, his limitless pettiness and his impotence, there was a hope, a decadent, materialist, ordinary, small-minded, vain, selfish, uncouth, human satisfaction to be derived from simple pleasure seeking – what he has been doing all along by any other name. Without a doubt he will intermittently bask in his own self-importance, this may be why he avoided others as they would point it out but even that was okay with him. He believed the world needed foolish overly-serious silly people like him foolish enough to imagine that their incoherent ramblings will be taken seriously and seriously change things, because they just might. Of course like many others he always proclaims that he has no confidence whatsoever in the power of his words, but that is just a convenient front just in case he fails, he would never put the money where his mouth is and shut up entirely. The promise of a mystery, of an adventure, of love and all that was too far away for him to pine towards or at any rate to do so openly but he had to drop the resentment. He had no excuse to be so resentful, to pretend to care so much about other people’s suffering and wallow in righteous indignation when first and foremost he was just dissatisfied with his life, for God’s sake he lived in Britain, so rich and free that millions would cut off their own limbs to be allowed in, he wasn’t suffering from any major health problem(yet), if he couldn’t be happy here then there was truly no hope for him. He just had to write more and well enough he could make a living at it. The rest will come later, if it will.

His sense of inferiority prevented him from relating to other people and skewed his judgement to cynicism.

“Perhaps one did not want to be loved as much as to be understood.” – George Orwell, 1984

“Boner-zone: Oh George Orwell, how I loved during my college years… And then I grew more pragmatic. This is just my experience, I’m in my thirties and some just some random guy on the internet. So take it for what its worth but, I missed out and lost at least three great loves and great relationships because I was on a quest to find the one who could truly understand my complex soul. The one who crack the code that was my mind, the one that would be able to appreciate my existential heightened sense of me wants in life… But, Life isn’t about being about understood. At least not by others, that is very egocentric, megalomaniacal type of mentality. One that is very different for the human condition to fall prey to. It’s about how much love you can put into that other person. Very few of us are so lucky, as to find someone who will ever truly understand all of our idiosyncrasies. I would even come so far as to say that it’s a fool’s errand, seeing as how when I took an internal repertoire, I could come up with no less than one person (my best friend in from college in New York), that truly understood me. And he is a straight male and so am I. So what the f*** good does that to anyone? I try not to take advice from stuffy old authors any more that never knew much about being happy in the first place. Which Butchkowski, Orwell, Burroughs.. . they are very smart people. But they know f*** all about being happy

KazOoondo: Orwell didn’t… advocate finding someone who understood you perfectly. He didn’t give dating advice, generally. The quote is just hypothesizing about what someone might want more than love.” – Boner-zone and KazOoondo, Somewhere down the bowels of Reddit

“The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection, that one is sometimes willing to commit sins for the sake of loyalty, that one does not push asceticism to the point where it makes friendly intercourse impossible, and that one is prepared in the end to be defeated and broken up by life, which is the inevitable price of fastening one’s love upon other human individuals. No doubt alcohol, tobacco, and so forth, are things that a saint must avoid, but sainthood is also a thing that human beings must avoid. There is an obvious retort to this, but one should be wary about making it. In this yogi-ridden age, it is too readily assumed that “non-attachment” is not only better than a full acceptance of earthly life, but that the ordinary man only rejects it because it is too difficult: in other words, that the average human being is a failed saint. It is doubtful whether this is true. Many people genuinely do not wish to be saints, and it is probable that some who achieve or aspire to sainthood have never felt much temptation to be human beings. If one could follow it to its psychological roots, one would, I believe, find that the main motive for “non-attachment” is a desire to escape from the pain of living, and above all from love, which, sexual or non-sexual, is hard work. But it is not necessary here to argue whether the other-worldly or the humanistic ideal is “higher”. The point is that they are incompatible. One must choose between God and Man, and all “radicals” and “progressives”, from the mildest Liberal to the most extreme Anarchist, have in effect chosen Man.” – George Orwell, Reflections on Gandhi

“Saints should always be judged guilty until they are proved innocent” – George Orwell, Reflections on Gandhi

The good thing about being a man of few principles is that I follow the ones I do have. – T. J Kirk (AKA The Amazing Atheist), The Douchebag Bible

Winston decided what his few principles were otherwise he was going to remain a contradicting hypocritical mess.

Winston’s General Guidelines for Life:

  1. I am never going to say or do anything I don’t care about under any circumstances.

  2. Intellectual honesty and the facilitation of the pursuit of intellectual honesty are my only political agenda.

  3. I will do what is necessary to be popular so long as it does not contradict with A and B.

The first clause was to obviously to force him care about what he did but also to give up things entirely and do something else. If perception is truth then being is appearing. He could manipulate some of his perceptions though there was a fine line between that and delusion and he was naturally wary of manipulating other people’s perceptions, consciously at any rate.

Ethics are obvious and naturally occuring and based on opinions that couldn’t be summed up in a single point without oversimplyfing things to absurdity therefore he excluded them from his ‘guidelines.’ B esides he had in effect killed his instinct to act ethically by ignoring his desires and then exploding in vindictive exhausted rage. This did not justify or excuse his scummy behaviour but it did explain them. Human connection was worth less to him unless he was being true to himself. Therefore he excluded it lest it affect clause A, B or C or all three of them. Winston did not want to be on sale, ‘I am not on sale’ he would proclaim and yet wasn’t this just another kind form semantics like people (on the internet) saying that marriage is a form of prostituition,

The long standing problem with clause B he has had was that if it didn’t matter what his opinion was then all intellectual pursuit was self-gratification. But he did not want to be just some paid jester spewing cynicism and whinning for a living or even worse one that feigned hatred (often for an imagined audience).

He wanted to be a writer because he needed to write but he also wanted to be something else, something more over the top, outrageous, out there, something more than mere words and yet just as durable. Or in other words he did not just want to write about (the act of) writing. He could not live for an unusual or interesting turn of phrase alone. It wasn’t glory or virtue he wanted anyway(he just needed those at least in small doses), not even ‘truth’(as in objective eternal truth) but something more temporary and less abstract, material, real for all intents and purposes, emotionally genuine, outlandish, interesting, humorous, thoroughly exciting, something that could suck him into it without making him feel empty and frustrated afterwards, the way reading or writing often made him feel (‘What the fuck am I writing for?’ he would ask himself and only answer himself in nebulous terms even by his own standards). He wanted there to be a sense of escalation, progress, joy and a struggle for something but far from it all he got was not just a lowering of stakes but an elimination of stakes through a slow but persistent erosion and an ever-approaching end through slow, painful but pointless degradation of everything for nothing. Even a short-sighted fool like Winston Smith could see that this could not go on forever and part of him was glad about it but he was too resentful of the betrayal of his expectation and hope to just be comfortable with it all. And to him just writing was a form of being comfortable with it all, a sign of total resignation marked by small quips, manufactured rancour at things he didn’t really care about, tropes and stock phrases, self-reflection marred by inaction and wish-thinking in the form of fantastic worlds and stories and politics of course. Sometimes he wondered if it would be better for it all to come to an end, an end to the sideshow of art and literature, it was not a technical world that he wished for, on the contrary he wanted passion but literature and not just fiction seemed to ultimately stifle passion instead of nurturing it. This was because all writing whose purpose was mass viewing, especially journalism, was to a large extent escapism, a distraction from everyday life and when the distraction became more important and more interesting than the reader’s life… this had led him to disconnect from other people as they could not possibly be more interesting than what he read nor more important (to him) than what he wrote. But in a cliché way he hoped to use the vector of the disease to spread the cure, the breading ground for the disease was economic and so cyclical but the vector was social and linear and so its orientation could be edged towards a direction. Winston believed that when a man was being too abstract well that man was full of bullshit, so he had to set out exactly what he was going to do. If perception is truth, then the choice was between a convenient lie and an inconvenient lie but even then, that was beside the point, because perception, or in other words human nature is not infinitely malleable in fact his perception was determined by his material conditions. He could argue with himself about his feelings till his tongue swelled and his face turned blue but this didn’t change the fact that his temperament was determined by his material conditions. ‘Yes, I am a vulgar materialist’ Winston would readily admit. The line between changing one’s perspective and delusion was arbitrary, and so the brainwashing torturers in Room 101 would make excellent therapists. The problem Winston had is that all these are arguments from consequences, in many cases long term consequences which will be ignored. And what was useful was not always true – this applied to him as much as them. He was playing a game in which the standard was ‘error’. Winston believed that the problem was not with the inability of language to describe reality as many sophists would be quick to point at as the culprit – ‘the jury is still out’, the information is simply still unavailable as cliché and annoying as that is, and the scientists seem to be the only ones to have made any headway.

But he had one major impediment and that was that he could not speak well at all. In many ways writing was a substitute for speaking for him. He couldn’t pretend to be interested in others so that he could speak about himself, trying to do so made him feel guilty for essentially deceiving them so that they would like him, and it bored him too – he could only keep the facade of interest in others for a short period after which it would be impossible for him to do so sheerly out of a lack of interest. He could not lie in writing. It’s not as if he did not want to lie but he wanted to show off so much that he would tell you that he was deceiving you while trying to deceive you thus sabotaging his deception. This usually happened right before or after something he says for effect. Similarly it might seem that his self-deprecation is at odds with his rather defensive nature but that is because the subtext to all his self-deprecation is ‘Tell me I am wrong about how bad I am. I am actually a great guy, ain’t I? Look at how humble I am being that must mean I am good.’ Of course there were times he felt that he was truly trash for instance when he recognized the meaning of his self-deprecation but these were few and in-between otherwise he would have stopped writing and killed himself right away.

Winston’s thinking was very extreme, for example he tended to characterize journalists as members of a hell-bound tradition, but was it really his thinking or was he just satirizing them and in the process satirizing himself by believing his own satire to be as true as the subject of his satire?

One of the reasons he wanted to be a writer was because he did not want to spend a life of not reading.

Winston believed that the word ‘pretentious’ in itself was not a real criticism but just a way to hide a lack of real criticism and also a way to enforce comformity. Another similar word was ‘pathetic’ and also for ‘edgy.’ And yet Winston knew that he had become some sort of pathetic contrarian sophist who didn’t believe in anything relentlessly trying to sniff out of other people’s lies because he was robbed of his comfort when his lies were exposed. He enjoyed telling people what they didn’t want to hear a bit too much. What a horrid little man he was.

The First Notebook It can’t be Helped (Shikata ga nai)

It was a bright day in April and the clocks were striking twelve.
There were many failings that Winston shared with his father but chief among them was the chronic nervousness – not shyness, his father wasn’t a shy man like Winston, hurry and lack of patience or reflection in the moment – especially around other people and the pent up anger that was an irrevocable part of the nature of a nervous man that would show itself in various passive aggressive manners all the time and peak on occasion with a gesture involving breaking some inanimate object by throwing it to the ground– it was childish and like many things that children do it was never more than a gesture which somehow made it even more annoying for Winston because it was plain posturing with a flavour of passive aggressiveness that managed to be simultaneously pathetic and repulsive. He had seen this behaviour in children and it was irritating enough though somewhat forgiveable on a purely aesthetic basis but when adults acted like children it was not so and it was unbecoming of them.

‘What the heck am I doing with my life?’ Winston asked himself aloud.

The Second Notebook

A Simple Plan

“By sketching the beauty of our fleeting dream, we are just tracing our scars.”

– God Knows/ The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya

He wanted to change. He wanted a better life for himself. He wanted to let go entirely of the indiscriminate hatred in himself. He was going to be 21 in less than a month and he didn’t want to waste a single day of his life on anything he didn’t actively choose.

Winston Smith was a loser. There was little in his self that could be considered to be virtue but it was there. He wanted to love himself unequivocally first and then perhaps love someone else unequivocally, no, he definitely wanted to do the latter but to do the latter properly he needed to grasp the former. And to that end he needed a simple plan that his simple mind could comprehend and act upon and that would yield results. An undercurrent of carelessness and thoughtlessness foiled any and all attempts to get his life back together and nullified any principle he could claim to uphold and as a consequence he had engulfed himself in a cloud of cynicism that invaded every nook and crevice of his opinions about everything and especially politics. There was no way he could talk himself out of it totally because it sprung out and was rooted in his material conditions. He was a forgetful creature so it would have to be succinct and in no uncertain terms.

There were essentially four basic desires he wanted to satisfy and they were as follows:

  1. His dream was to become a writer and a mangaka.

  2. His responsibility was to attain financial independence and stop being a burden on his overworked ageing parents.

  3. He really wanted to care about and love someone unequivocally.

  4. The bell did not always knell for him but he wanted to do something for society out of human solidarity. He would have to dabble in politics as a calling, not for fun or entertainment or attention.

Now he needed a simple intelligible plan that could stir him in the general direction of his desires without bogging down in the finer details that would inevitably be swayed by circumstances and to establish the basic criteria for failure to act, as there was no point in simply hoping things will change on their own.

  1. He needed to draw EVERYDAY until he was tired. Write until he was tired on a daily basis.

  2. Study, study, study everyday for the rest of his life and get a job.

  3. Take care of himself and be honest with others, consequences be damned.

  4. Do things that would actually involve helping people and avoid virtue signalling about his political views as much as possible. i.e. Do stuff like donating blood etc..

Now feeling good about writing a simple plan is pointless if he does not actualize it, it would only have been an exercise in procrastination. He should ALWAYS keep a copy of this on himself lest he forget it which he will, obviously he could have a bath or a shower without it on him though it was not advisable as his forgetfulness was not something to be underestimated.

He believed that happiness is long term hedonism. But what did he want his life to be like? He had to decide, he couldn’t just hope that things will turn up, he wasn’t some protagonist in a cheap feel-good story like that and he was tired of being in a feel-pity story too. To put it bluntly and eruditely he wanted money and ass and some not too boring means to get them. The injunction to ‘get a life’ could also be applied in his case. ‘TO HELL WITH how I stack up relatively to anyone else.’ he thought ‘I don’t want to be ‘special’ or ‘different’ or ‘above’ or ‘below’ or the ‘same’ as everyone else, what the heck, he didn’t even want to be ‘good’ or ‘bad’. There were things that he wanted and that’s all there is to it.’ As to why he wanted them well… that was pretty simple – he wanted the money not so much because he wanted to be rich but because he was tired of being poor, he wanted to be able to pay the bills, not fear eviction, be independent. The second motive is self-explanatory. The third was that he didn’t want to spend his few remaining decades (if not less) doing something boring. First of all he needed to become financially independent, but how? Did he really want to write for a living? Given the staggering amount of writers who can’t make a living writing he was having his doubts. What did he want to write about? Well setting aside the financial problem, there was another problem in that he wanted to start by writing naturalistic fiction about ordinary life but he didn’t have a life so he didn’t have any non-fictional material to draw on to write his fiction. Everything he wrote was referential or outright plagiarism. Not a single fraction of a sentence that formed on his lips or his fingertips were his own words. He also wanted to write more about politics and history but his knowledge was rudimentary, if he attempted to write about these topics he couldn’t say anything that wasn’t already obvious to anyone with ears to hears and eyes to see or alternatively he would end up exaggerating to the point where even the bottom feeders at Fleet Street would roll their eyes. All that he had was a ceaseless self-absorbed train of thought going through his mind every moment. All he could do was argue with himself aloud – an endless monologue running through from one thought to another. And he doubted that that was monetizable. The problem was that he was interested in little else other than writing. Oh and the money was running out but even if he had more money he didn’t have anything else to spend it on other than his bills. Most of the content he was interested in was available on the internet. Just on the Project Gutenberg there were more than 40,000 books he could read for free. Not to mention all the pundit blogs, reviewers, web serials, films, documentaries etc… It was an inexhaustible source of entertainment, he especially liked consuming stuff made by individuals, it felt more authentic.

He wanted to draw art so beautiful that it would make up for his ugliness.

He wanted a life not a carrier. He did not want to join the multi-denominational religion of the worship of money and status. He wanted to write, draw and love. He didn’t want to waste a single moment of his life on something that he hated doing. He wanted to make everyday count as a day lived. He was selfish and lazy but if for once he could get what he wanted then he could think of others. He wanted to write nine hours a day all seven days and make around £2,000 a month. In short, he wanted to be a self-employed writer. All his life he had been ordered around by someone else, he may be a puppet with no free will but that doesn’t mean he wanted his strings to be pulled by other puppets with no free will. What he realized at an early stage however was that he could not hide what his motive, ‘they treated me like an idiot, and I wanted to prove them wrong’ was written all over everything he wrote and had written. He could already hear the voices laughing at his apparent motive which presumably distorted and invalidated everything he had to say. Was there something fundamentally wrong with his sentiment, he asked himself, shouldn’t he aim for something higher or at least less petty instead? Unfortunately it was not his choice to make and any attempt to pretend that his main motive was another one would kill his instinct to write entirely. Furthermore he often doubted that something as frivolous as writing could accomplish anything of any use to anyone else or whether he was just latching on to the opportunity to act like a snobby jerk.

He was tired of the race against time to accomplish things he did not set out to achieve because he wanted them but because someone else wanted them. If he was going to fail and disappoint them anyway he might as well fail at what he wants to succeed in instead of something he didn’t even want. All this time he had deluded himself thinking that he had a choice to do something else perhaps something more useful other than writing. He didn’t want to waste a single moment on not writing (whether he was good at it or not). Well he made up his mind that perhaps his mistake was to assume that they would read what he writes in the first place, he concluded that no one probably would so he was fine.

Winning someone’s approval was the opposite of disappointing someone, therefore to avoid both he made sure that no one could have any expectations of him. It was easier done than said, no one ever trusted him in the first place.

‘This little shit-fest we call civilization’ Winston wrote in his diary ‘I often forget that there are people who contribute to make it function, I also want to be useful, of course at the end of it I won’t be able to say to ‘have lived to some purpose’ if I apply fair standards but if I could at least be a cog or a pawn for some purpose then I ought to give it the old college try, this wish is probably going to amount to nothing, a build up to nothing, like everything else in my life, but there goes…’

Winston was greedy, he wanted to have it both ways, to pursue his self-interest., and in the process make some contribution, if that was possible. Winston didn’t like the fact that that was what he really wanted because somehow he felt that by trying to achieve both would nullify his commitment to either. Winston really wasn’t the self-sacrificing saint but neither did he want to be a selfish jerk – there had to be some leeway in between. It didn’t help that Winston saw things in black and white, he didn’t like ambiguity, he wanted a straight answer from others, so he expected no less from himself. There was always a conflict between what he wanted and what he ought to want so he did nothing. He felt he would regret anything he did, either because he did not do it for others or because he did not do it for himself. No matter what he did he was bound to either betray others or himself so instead he chose neither and betrayed both to spite his fate. But now he had reached a point where he could not do nothing. He believed his cynicism was such that he was prone to accept an inconvenient lie over a convenient truth – but he was starting to suspect that that the lies he believed in were convenient ones after all. Was there really such a huge irreconcilable discrepancy between what was expected of him and what he expected of himself? Wasn’t the truth just that he could achieve neither and so he conjured up a non-existent conflict between the two? The two were not obviously the same, he wanted to be an artist but that was not what the markets or society or his parents particularly urgently needed. He had been so arrogant that he had overestimated his arrogance. He was still prone to wish-thinking, he still did not posses a power of facing unpleasant facts. He believed he was too arrogant to indulge in wish-thinking but wish-thinking had bypassed his arrogance and even hijacked it temporarily.

He believed he had figured the answer to why so many humans wanted power (excluding sadism). It was scarcity. Ironically competition seemed to be a major force against scarcity.

God had already betrayed him and England, he could not realistically expect there to be a universal justice, that would just be wish-thinking.

It’s not as if he didn’t appreciate some advice but too much advice was a vice especially if it was backed by passive aggressive threats for example when his mother would in effect say ‘You can do what you like but if you don’t do what I like then you don’t love me’ as far as Winston was concerned this was no better than that tone he was talked to by his authority figures when they said things like ‘put your hands out of your pocket’ for no reason just because they could order him around – and then they had the gall to tell him that he should speak to them if he was worried about anything. ‘Bastards’ of course he could never say it to their grinning faces but he knew that they knew that that was what he thought and that he could not say it. He didn’t like to be talked to in that tone nor did he ever talk to anyone in that tone. And the way their tone would change when money and gifts were brought to them – or when they spoke to an authority higher to them. It was disgusting. A display of human hypocrisy and pompous pettiness(Winston believed that the sadist was petty and pompous) that he had been exposed to at an an early age. It was as if the classroom had given them their little space where they could act out their power fantasy and role play as a dictator over a state the size of a few dozen square metres over a few dozen subjects. This is why he needed to become an independent writer, who didn’t need to answer to anyone just to get on with his life. He absolutely didn’t want anyone to interfere with him. It was a matter of personal sovereignty. A feeling that he ought to have a say in his fate. He didn’t want his life to turn into a mindless goose-stepping march towards death.

The way in which Americans could unironically without cynicism proclaim that their liberty was intact thanks to mere pieces of paper still simultaneously infuriated him and induced feelings of extreme envy in him but now he suspected whether his rancour towards America was actually manufactured by him in on a mistaken bid, so to speak, to prove his credentials as ‘English’ or ‘British’. Or in other words he did not particularly dislike Americans but he bashed them to feel secure. This would make it even more petty and pathetic than he had previously thought but he knew himself better than to put past anything of the sort on his part. In fact, if that wasn’t already clear, he wished that Britain was more like America in certain ways – not all – being a secular republic would be nice for a start, a short clear written constitution would not be that bad either, it would be great if the country wasn’t on the verge of breaking up all the time due to the political opportunism of a few scruple-less politicians whose only hope at ever rising to prominence was to break up the country while their boat was still riding the wave that will inevitably come down with them. By the way the real reason that Americans fought a civil war was to crush a separatist movement, okay. He still couldn’t like the way they spoke.

He had got to stop living his life as if he would be dead tomorrow as if everyday could be the last day of his life, he had got to think of the long term consequences all the time, even if he might perish before he can reap what he has sown – he must not assume that he will perish that soon because if he doesn’t he will have driven himself into a corner. He found the advice to live your life as if it were the last day of your life to facetious because if it actually were the last day of his life and he knew that it was it then he would spend his entire day terrified of everything. So he had to write and draw and read more than he could. Of course it was going to be a failure. Everything he did was bound to be a failure, that was the unalterable law, but he knew he had to write to survive. Everything he wrote was bound to be a flimsy transparent plagiarism – half-as articulate, not quite eloquent and much more pompously and melodramatically worded than the original.

“My sense of guilt and inevitable failure was balanced out with an unalterable instinct to survive. Even a creature which is weak, ugly, cowardly, smelly, and in no way justifiable still wants to stay alive and be happy after its own fashion. I could not invert the existing values, or turn myself into a success, but I could accept my failure and make the best of it. I could resign myself to being what I was, and then endeavour to survive on those terms. I understood to perfection what it meant to be Lucifer, defeated and justly defeated, with no possibility of revenge.”

– George Orwell, Such, Such were the Joys

“The whole idea of revenge and punishment is a childish daydream. Properly speaking, there is no such thing as revenge. Revenge is an act which you want to commit when you are powerless and because you are powerless: as soon as the sense of impotence is removed, the desire evaporates also.”

– George Orwell, Revenge is Sour

Winston knew that there wasn’t going to be any Dickensian deus ex machina for him, no the author of his life and his world was not as moral as Dickens, but more than that he knew he did not deserve such a thing. Winston wanted to have his revenge in print. Thinly veiled behind his transparent self-deprecation he had an unjustifiably high opinion of himself at odds with reality– this is why he needed to write, he knew that he was worthless yet he didn’t feel that way. The person who he wanted to be still had to be him. His arrogance was not inhibited by reason, he couldn’t claim that it had no bounds, but every-time he thought that he could not possibly be any more arrogant and posturing than this, he always reached a new level of arrogance and posturing. He despised himself but he had to live purely out of spite if nothing else. ‘I won’t die no matter what…I am going to live… I am going to live… and… I am going to end this!’ he told himself aloud as got up from from his bed with a start. He knew he was sounding melodramatic but it was his life and it was important to him. Winston wanted for once in his life to be neat, to achieve some form of excellence. He knew that as usual this was going to be a huge build up to nothing, that was how his life had been and will always be. Well, it’s not like he didn’t like a well executed anti-climax either.

He was not going to change in any fundamental way, after all isn’t ‘change’ and ‘adapt’ in effect what he had done till now, trying to mould himself in to whatever shape the situation required and in the end forgetting even what he wanted? He did not want to change who he was, true he despised himself but he was also full of himself. Self-regard and self-loathing apparently being overlapping magisteria. He wanted to be independent even when he knew that any sort of independence was criminal. He wanted to be free to act in his own self-interest and then care about others, if he could not depend on himself then no one could depend on him either, all that he could have would be mutually dependent relationships where they would be making passive aggressive moves at each other all the time, where resentment would be well hidden but could grow unfettered by exposure.

He envied beautiful women more than he desired them and envied them far more than he could envy any man. Rationally speaking this did not make any sense to him, wasn’t he supposed to feel envious of members of his own gender who were better off than him? He couldn’t care less how better off than him other men were, it was strange but he would rather wish them well, and was too obsessed with himself to care about others even negatively through envy – sure there were many who he hated but that was because of who they were rather than what they were except when they were nothing more than what they were (one-dimensional evil ass-holes) of course. He couldn’t just order himself to feel envious of those he was not and to not to be envious of those who he was. But more importantly why did he envy them more than he desired them? How could he explain that? Wasn’t that strange? It’s almost as if ideally he would have rather been a beautiful woman rather than a powerful man. Did he desire to be desired like a woman (more than he desired women)? Well, he certainly was an ego maniac. Was it because he wanted to show off? Yes, but not quite, there was a difference between a man’s annoying posturing and a woman’s beauty. The latter somehow seemed virtuous and the former was simply pathetic but more damningly it was boring.

And of course he was a failure at everything and so would hasten conclude that it was all pointless anyway, however by that same token it would be true that those who have not failed at everything would have in interest in believing that it was not all pointless. Therefore whatever lows Winston’s motives may reach that did not mean invalidate his proposition. He had given up looking good through his opinions and if that made him look like he was rather than like he would like to be and like to be seen then so be it. Not that this mattered since stoicism could be used to justify any and every contradicting position. At some point it all seemed to converge and degenerate into virtue-signalling and posturing. All that mattered was the proposition. He did not matter. ‘Let the truth shine through or stink through as the case may be’ he would say. Well, it usually stank, but through what? Through him? Or was he mistaking it for his own stink? Through the invisible wall of words around us.

‘Blessed is the name of George Orwell, for he what?’

Orwell was right” are three words he said to himself too often to be comfortable with. He was too fond of the man and he hadn’t even read everything he had ever written that is available. He made a point to find somewhere where he was wrong about something. Sure it feels good to worship the plaster Saint Orwell – patron saint of England, Anti-totalitarianism, Anti-imperialism and Democratic Socialism as he sees it so that he could worship himself. It is hard to set up oneself as a saint or a sage or a god instead it is much easier to worship something that is considered a saint or a sage or a god and make others worship it too and to be pleased with oneself for being virtuous for the virtue of kowtowing to the virtuous. Every compliment and respect given to the idol, the saint becomes a compliment to themselves. This is the principle by which referential comedy works, when the viewer recognizes a reference made he/she will feel pleased with themselves for identifying it or rather for being one of “the ones” to identify it. It is also the principle behind all effective positive political slogans. To give an air of validity to your platform just selectively quote and leech on what is considered virtuous. For negative political slogans its just the opposite compare your opposition to all the things that are considered non-virtuous. However this doesn’t mean that all virtue is virtue-signalling. But only that those who sacrificed themselves for a great cause, those who did something good, only they are beautiful, only they are virtuous, and that their actions don’t say a damned about the rest of us and more to the point that they do not require our veneration. Or in other words every-time he said something like “Orwell was right” he also thought “and so am I.”

It wasn’t just that he felt that Orwell spoke to him but his own thoughts echoed back him through Orwell’s words.

“Socialism, Socialism, Socialism” Winston would repeat that word over and over again to himself like a mantra as he cried under his blankets, trying to imagine things he read on wikipedia, trying to wail away thoughts about himself – it had all become a distraction and he hated it, he would have rather looked at the world with lucid eyes but he simply could not believe that because he could not really care about any of it when he was so miserable and self-absorbed. When he was a kid he always imagined he would be some kind of scholar or a scientist, he really believed he wanted to make some contribution, he didn’t need a reason, it was obvious to him that that was what he should do, he was also even more selfish than he was now but that to him didn’t pose any contradiction, so why was he so disgusting now – some slob pedant buggering sophists on the internet? Socialism was a lost cause and so was he. He didn’t want to die but killing himself was his civic duty. No one had any use of him, he felt was barely being tolerated by others and he felt he couldn’t blame that for it. He was a leaching off his parents, leaching off of society, leaching off people who were better than him who actually helped to run this little shit-show we call civilization. He was just a NEET, what was there he could do? He couldn’t even care about people or things any more, there was no scenery that could make him feel awe, he would just think ‘meh’, no music that didn’t sound like noise to him, no food that would do more than satisfy his hunger and no person he could more than barely tolerate. He was totally obsessed with himself, it’s not as if he could just be evil towards other people but that was because he didn’t want to be evil and feel guilt and not because he cared about any of them at all. Other people all appeared to him like indistinguishable blobs, for example he couldn’t see why he should care about his parents more than some random stranger or his grandparents more than some random old folk. He could not see why someone’s death would count more than another’s to him provided that they were both morally average people. In short he was plainly unable to live amongst people without frequently threading on their toes, antagonizing them, disappointing them, letting them down. He was a complete failure at everything he did, if he was given a simple task that could not go wrong, he would invent a new innovative way to make it go wrong in no time. Writing was not his only hope, he didn’t have any, but it was the only thing he could do even extremely badly. He didn’t write to live, he lived to write. By the way what was the point of literature? Was it all whining and whiling away our time until we kick the bucket? How is King Lear better than Peter Pan? Literature could not change the world for the better and it was unlikely to allow him to live a self-determined life either. Was it all a distraction – but from what, an add-on but to what? Was he wasting his time studying these made up stories as if they were more important than anything or anyone? What should he take seriously any more? What should he care about? Who should he care about? What was he supposed to do with himself? Where should he go?

Well, first of all there was a flaw to his line of questioning as there wasn’t just one reason why people wrote but why did he want to write, what did he hope to accomplish other than a living? Even he knew that that was unlikely to happen which meant he had other motives for writing. He hoped he would come off more articulate in writing unrestricted by the time and social constraints of a face to face conversations, he believed he could say the things he really meant, he liked to think aloud and he loved good writing and good story telling.

Ithaka, or Nihon

“The ‘Post-war’ extends forever” – Shin Godzilla

“Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you are destined for.

But do not hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you are old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you have gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you would not have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.”

– Ithaka, C.P Cavafy

This will not do. Winston believed that the fact that his opinion didn’t matter entitled him to the most outrageous and vindictive political views available to mankind and that he was in fact practising restraint constraint compared to what was around and that if people like him were never listened to then society will have to live with was beyond the borders of sanity. A threat can be a warning. Winston knew that he was ridiculous, hopelessly unfashionable, woefully inarticulate(and overcompensating for it through pretentious, relentless self-education), too-clever-by-half, totally unjustifiable and socially awkward but he also knew he was far from the only one and that sooner rather than later one of them, maybe someone far more vindictive than him, was going to crawl up to a position of power and then wreck havoc to teach this world a lesson. He did not want this to happen but who of the powerless did not (at least involuntarily on occasion) relish the chance of saying ‘I told you so, [a reluctant] damn it, if only you had heeded my warnings’ what was left unsaid was ‘and now burn, burn, suffer, suffer, sufer [while internally pointing his accusatory index finger at them]’ and the look on their faces when they will deny he was right all along when it is too late. Powerlessness bred an indiscriminate hatred.

What people called ‘honour’ really seemed to him to be nothing more than reputation. Therefore he had neither.

He felt that The Declaration of Independence and The US Constitution were wish-thinking and propaganda, even worse(as usual), they clearly stated what he wanted, worthless than the toilet paper he used to.

“Ah Padron, Ah Padron, siam tutti morti. (Master, we’re all dead)” – Leporello, Don Giovanni, Mozart

Winston believed that sometimes it takes a coward (or a scoundrel) to tell the truth and he was confident he could tick both boxes to fill in that role.

He goose-stepped in his room while listening to Japanese pop idol music, then sang The Internationale while making a Nazi salute, he then played Bach’s St John Passion aloud on his cheap stereo while trying to bite off the head of a 9-inch ceramic statue of Jesus he used to worship everyday in his room when he was a full-time Catholic. He did all this while being dressed up in a Sherlock Holmes costume. It wasn’t as if he was going insane (probably) but more that he wished that he was insane and acted as he thought someone insane would act.

Winston had written a will because knowing his luck he always lived under the belief that he had only a few more years. It wasn’t as if he had any thing which was not worthless to give away but still he saw this as an advanced note to those few who would care to read it written when his mind was still relatively clear.

Facts were obsolete in this brave new world of sophistry. There was nothing external to the mind. Emotions always preceded reason that was normal but when they substituted reason, it didn’t matter any more what the truth was, many didn’t even believe that there was such thing as objective truth. All that was left was a power struggle between different power blocks where all trust in honesty and speech had been eroded. A world ruled by real cynics who could easily see through the pretence of cynicism of disappointed idealists like Winston, a world where politics was a form idolatry, where unreasonable hopes were raised by cynical and foolish men and women to advance their status and whereby disappointment inevitably followed. This will not do, if some dullard like Winston could notice this, and if the anger he felt at being deceived was even marginally to be felt in mainstream society then things may blow up and crumble down. No body even wanted to hear what the truth was, least of all Winston, he would rather spend his days watching Japanese cartoons, pretend to be a writer and he was fine with that, ‘why the fuck can’t things just be okay?’He often wondered as he involuntarily read the news. Everything just seemed to be falling apart or disappearing up its own contradictions. Nowadays he simply stopped believing in almost everything of what he read and slowly but surely he was starting to stop to care as it didn’t matter what his opinion about any of this was in the first place but he really didn’t want to stop caring altogether, he was already callous enough and no matter how much he denied it there was the hope in him that his words could get through to someone and that even if they didn’t he wasn’t the only one who thought the things he thought so there was still some cautious hope in him. He felt awful he could only feel fear and boredom simultaneously all the time and a bit of pain too to remind him of his own mortality. At the end of it was his own decline and humiliation that he was concerned about but somehow the idea of enjoying himself without even caring about others even when he could realistically do nothing for them just didn’t sit right with him. Of course his motives always turned out to be egotistical ones once he interrogated himself far enough and at this point he readily admitted this, but he did not want to be a saint or a self-sacrificing hero, he just wanted to be a decent, honest human being living a dignified life – three things were far removed from his filthy, dishonest, lazy, frightened way of life. But there was something more, he felt uncomfortable, guilty even when he read of the extremely terrible circumstances and evil in the past and in the present that totally blew out of the water his petty pathological personal concerns and highlighted even further how useless he was to have failed to amount to anything useful given all the mercy that fate had shown to him compared to them. But mercy in its excess produces pathology. His utter uselessness was unforgivable but he was allowed to carry on in it because, well frankly because he could afford to, but it was accepted by his family by giving him an extended lease on his childhood, if only they had been considerate enough to be inconsiderate, but no, he couldn’t blame it on them.

He didn’t like the concept of ‘role models’, if he ever amounted to anything (unlikely) then the person who he would become would still have to be him, the same non-entity who raided second hand book stores, he was too arrogant and egotistical to have it any other way. The nearest thing to a ‘role model’ that he had was George Orwell, reading him was the first time, outside of the internet, he knew with certainty that he was being talked to rather than talked down at as usual with faked dismissive(towards him) civility that was more insulting and rude than mere insults and rudeness. It is not as if he agreed with every assessment of Orwell, Winston didn’t want his views to be dictated by the grave of a foreign journalist who died seventy years ago along with his beloved Britain (that Winston missed like some distant hopeless admirer) but the point was that Orwell made clarified what was already in Winston’s head or what was right in front of his nose. Orwell rekindled the need and hope in him for human connection in the form of a desire for the best company of all – the company of clean humorous intellect.

There had to be a way out of this, there had to be a way he could be useful to others but also serve his interests. That was one of the reasons he wanted to be a writer, he knew that he would never amount to anything more than a dog on a leash barking at an immovable rock, but it was better than nothing.

An ordinary garden variety fascist.

The selective outrage, the shoddy reasoning, all around him and in himself led him to believe that everyone was lying, that communication and discourse and the didactic method was meaningless at best and at worst, usually, manipulation and sophistry.

“You’re going to spend your life having one epiphany after another, always thinking you have finally figured out what’s holding you back, and how you can finally be productive and creative and turn your life around. But nothing will ever change. That cycle of mediocrity isn’t due to some obstacle. It’s who you are. The thing standing in the way of your dreams is that the person having them is you

– xcdc

‘Maybe I should just kill myself’ Winston concluded again. He tried to use so many words and so many arguments to dissuade himself, but they all amounted to pure cowardice, Orwell once said that one ought to consider the long term consequences when lying for short term gain of one’s faction, well Winston believed that on the long term his death would be a good thing for the few that cared about him for reasons beyond his understanding – but the truth is that he didn’t know the long term consequences, did Orwell know them? ‘No, that’s a non sequitur,’ Winston concluded, ‘Even if I may be just pretending to care about my parents, I cannot lie to myself, rationally speaking they would be better off without some neurotic dead weight like me but reason holds very little sway over humans, heck I am a very good example of that.’ Did he really care about how it would hurt them? Unlikely, he was just searching for more excuses not to kill himself more justifiable than his cowardice. There really wasn’t any other reason, even the bitterness was getting boring and it even felt contrived, a limited pass time of sorts that even someone like him could easily afford. But it was not just him that was wrong, everything seemed warped, twisted, wrong

and a sickening feeling clung to every human being around him,

A Socialist in Wonderland and a Libertarian in Neverland. A dreamer and a child.

Here is an extract from his latest will:

I want the book of the Ecclesiastes to be read at my funeral. I really want to be buried in England preferably in a small Anglican cemetery in the countryside. My tomb has to be a simple inconspicuous one with just my name and birth and death day on the tombstone. I would prefer if my body would be donated to medical research if that’s not too much to ask and if that is possible at all. Keep my books only if you will read them or else give them away to a charity, they are nothing special but just don’t let them rot unread.

‘What is success?’ Winston asked himself if it was right for him to change the meaning of words, after all the motive for doing so was that he was a failure. The grinning American faces of self-help merchants were a grim reminder of the idiocy of reality defying language gymnastics.

The Third Notebook Part One

 

Once his skills were good enough that he could enlist other people’s cooperation, he wanted to create ‘Nanjou Sachi’ a group of talented manga-style(s) creators (A Manga Circle) each of them specializing in a different demographic working together, sharing the same platform to create ever and ever more ambitious projects.

Who were other people to him? No matter which way he looked at it, even if he said that he ought to treat them as end of in itself rather than as a means, it all came down to what he wanted from other people and what they would invariably want from him? What was it, that he wanted that he could not have himself? Was there such a thing? He felt uncomfortable about being emotionally dependent on others and of others being emotionally dependent on him to some degree. After all that was the cross he had delivered himself from during the last few years. And yet somehow it didn’t feel like it was enough to learn new things and to have his health. New things would eventually become old and his health would eventually deteriorate provided he does not die before that. It was not that he was reluctant for his material well-being being dependent on others. This was already true to a large degree so long as he lived in civilization he was dependent on doctors, plumbers, electricians, drivers, soldiers, farmers etc… but this was different, he was talking about elevating a certain group of people above the rest of the lot and he frankly wasn’t sure whether it would be worth it. At the moment most people around him were the same to him unless they had done something for him (or against him). But this time he wanted to invite them into his life first now that he was in a position to be able to do so by not being utterly worthless to others. He had something to offer, he did not expect something for nothing, but did anyone have what he wanted from others? What would be the point of Nanjou Sachi for him personally as opposed to just another project to create more manga, more stories? What was his story?

He was a writer. He wanted to be liked by others but by who specifically? He didn’t want to be liked by Nazis, Islamists and people who he had no respect for, sometimes he even liked to be disliked by them provided that he was not in danger. He wanted to be liked by the people that he liked. But didn’t this mean that his behaviour and words could easily degenerate into thinly veiled virtue-signalling and get away of his goal of intellectual honesty? He didn’t want his life to turn into some kind of a reverse Truman Show. He supposed his arrogance could provide a certain resistance against this tendency, but was his arrogance enough? Actually it was even worse (as usual) there was a part of him that wanted to be liked by everyone in his immediate surroundings, that is to say that he wanted a component of him that would make him distinguishable regardless of his partisanship. Or in other words he wanted to show off. Even his arrogance was potentially an accomplice in his virtue-signalling. His motive for interacting with others insulted him in some fundamental manner that eventually led him to being scared of people the more they liked him because he couldn’t get rid of the thought that he may be just deceiving them inevitably leading him to running away from them and avoiding them. This is the reason he still tried to cling to political orthodoxies and “thou shalt not” clauses, because then when he followed the rules, he could be certain that he was not evil. However he could not wait any longer, there were certain things that could not be derived by principle and needed to be learnt by experience. He respected those American Libertarians that derived everything from principle, he admired how they would rather be traitors to history than traitors to their principles. But he didn’t like it enough to sacrifice his life for pipe dreams, libertarians could only exist in such numbers within the safe borders of the American nation-state, nor could he trust anyone without a libertarian bone in them with anything. He felt guilty when he was dishonest however the reason he wanted to be honest had got little to do with principle, he was just bored of the euphemistic stock phrases and stock facial expressions, saying the “right” thing, being ‘diplomatic’ (offering to swindle someone with the threat of violence under the guise of formal speech and jargon), not causing any ripples. He knew that honesty could be addictive. Some people would hate him, that was inevitable and not always a bad thing. But the problem remained, how could he be honest if he was ashamed of himself? Was there really anything worth it that he had to say besides all of this self-pity? He could almost hear someone sarcastically asking him to “Play me the world’s smallest violin’ and he did think that they had a point.

That pastel coloured-future he drew as a Christian as a leftist and as a child was smeared and went up in flames.

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” – John 15:13

He didn’t want to betray his comrades like the other Winston Smith. But who were his comrades and his friends anyway? He didn’t want to dismiss every ideal as a psychological impossibility, true most of them were inhuman. But he wanted something more subdued and down to earth. Ideally he wanted to be a good man, honest and easy to sympathize with, except that in reality he was a whiny little bitch that people would instinctively avoid – he mitigated this to an extent by keeping his mouth shut as far as humanly possible but soon he became so aloof that there could a bomb ticking next to him and if there were other people around him he would just look bored and dumb – and it took an excruciating effort for him not to look bored and dumb and then he would overreact.

It sounded a bit soggy even to him but essentially he wanted to connect to other people, he wanted other people to matter to him – he felt he had built an impenetrable wall of words around himself. He wanted to be able to speak his mind freely at least to one or two people.

He didn’t mind helping people when they needed his help (rare – someone would really need to be in dire straits to need his help) but he didn’t want to help people just to curry their favour.

Ofcourse the validity of any and all of the propositions described in his long diatabres had nothing to do with his well being. They were just thoughts to occupy his mind so he could momentarily forget his material conditions.

Human Farm

“Without money men won’t listen to you, and women won’t love you.” – George Orwell

“I will work harder” – Boxer, Animal Farm

“To work is to lose” – Hikigaya Hachiman, My Youth Romantic Comedy is Wrong as I Expected

Arbeit macht frei

“Bullshit is the glue that holds us together……. – George Carlin

“Good evening. Today is Wednesday, September the 24th, and this is my last broadcast. Yesterday I announced on this program that I was going to commit public suicide, admittedly an act of madness. Well, I’ll tell you what happened: I just ran out of bullshit. Am I still on the air? I really don’t know any other way to say it other than I just ran out of bullshit. Bullshit is all the reasons we give for living. And if we can’t think up any reasons of our own, we always have the God bullshit. We don’t know why we’re going through all this pointless pain, humiliation, decays, so there better be someone somewhere who does know. That’s the God bullshit. And then, there’s the noble man bullshit; that man is a noble creature that can order his own world; who needs God? Well, if there’s anybody out there that can look around this demented slaughterhouse of a world we live in and tell me that man is a noble creature, believe me: That man is full of bullshit. I don’t have anything going for me. I haven’t got any kids. And I was married for thirty-three years of shrill, shrieking fraud. So I don’t have any bullshit left. I just ran out of it, you see.”

– Howard Beele, Network

Man is a noble animal and life is worth living” – George Orwell, Politics vs. Literature – An examination of Gulliver’s travels

“He is saying that life is bullshit and it is, so what are you screamifng about?.” –Network

Ofcourse he had a bias to say that life is worthless because he was a failure at it but similarly those who were not failures had a bias to say that it is worth living. Therefore his bias had nothing to do with the validity of his opinion. And whenever others pointed at his failure as his motivation he could only see it as a dirty little ad hominem to avoid refuting his claim.

“Steven Wallace: If the following generation of people would be given the opportunity to better themselves through a good education.

Wordwork: There is a flaw in this societal Ponzi scheme that is often overlooked. It is this idea of “bettering oneself” through education to get a “better” job. The perception of social status and the pay that goes with it is the reason why people have forgotten to take pride in simple manual labour – it is frowned upon and avoided at all costs. And so we import people to do it for us. The person who collects our garbage is just as vital as a brain surgeon.”

– Wordwork and Steven Wallace, Guardian.co.uk comment section

‘People study and work purely for social status and personal face, will that lead to happiness?’ Winston asked himself skeptically. Naturally Winston’s perspective was biased as he had been on a downward slope for most of his life and Winston knew this, so he was reluctant in outright that which what was convenient to him, arguably this was another form of bias.

He was never going to grovel in front of a human being as he had been forced to do in Sri Lanka, the sado-masochistic overtones of the act plainly disgusted him, but what outraged him the most was the moral hypocrisy – how the people would so readily proclaim to be morally superior to the decadent and immoral west and then so easily indulge in the same kind of behaviour they condemned only limited by their lack of resources, virtue-signalling about their asceticism while eyeing what they couldn’t get with envy, surely the drug-addled fornicators that they were so apt to portray westerners as had more of a moral backbone than this people perfectly meshing with dirt and with their own droppings(which they knew they did and would admit to being in private) pitifully but at the same time disgustingly grasping at curses and blessings at the pure wind and looking at each other with their cattle-like eyes emanating anger – it was then and there that Winston was able to see that what most people called virtue was virtue signalling, they were settling with a misplaced sense of superiority in their sense of inferiority towards the objects but more importantly the peoples at which their pure distilled envy was directed towards. An entire nation of this, 24 million souls performing in this sadist and masochist freak show of all-encompassing hypocrisy rivalling his dystopia of all-encompassing sophistry, was too much for Winston, it made him physically sick. He ran away in relatively sane England but he had been there for too long contracting several diseases of the mind permanently branding it.

Winston had a special place in his heart for moralizing hypocrites. He called it The Only Argument in Favour of Hell.

Thanks to immigration now there truly isn’t such a thing as society in Britain. No, instead we have tribalism within England, this process is also known as the euphemism ‘multiculturalism.’ Only a few deluded middle-class leftists living in a bubble of their own imagination in the echo-chambers of the left-wing universities can believe that there is such a thing as society in Britain anymore. And when there is no society there is no guarantee for the individual human being either, group rights destroying individual rights. Everyone is concerned about the position of their own ethnic/national/religious group to the extent that no will care to erase individual rights for the benefit of their own tribe.

The Marxists got one thing right about the future. That thing that is called ‘productivity’ will be the destruction of the British labour force.

Does Brave New World lead to 1984? You know when the wealth and so the pleasure that keeps it together evaporates as it inevitably will? What will the state with absolute power do when it can’t exchange pleasure in exchange for control? How about changing the past? The intellectuals have already estabilished that History is just a blank canvas you can write anything that goes through one’s imagination on it as long as you have power in the present. If History is just another narrative then History may as well just be Fictional. Well, Fiction written by the victors, which is no doubt how the intellectuals see history, a series of fictional events crafted by the powerful to oppress the powerless. It never occurs to them that their own accounts of history where the powerful oppress the powerless would be fictional too contrived to serve the interests of the intellectual class. The concept of objective truth in journalism is dead too because the intellectual class have infested journalism too and journalism is the door that opens to every other facet of society. And so journalism too becomes a form of creative writing where there are heroes we must adore and villains we must despise. Winston was deceived once during the Arab Spring but never again would he put as much trust into human beings as he did towards those journalists. That genre of journalism did not attract him any more and now instead he got his news (entertained himself) from another genre of journalism, namely the one preaches that everything was about to go straight to hell anytime now, these journalists then to be the ones who do not have any power and therefore had an interest to portray everything in a negative light. Given that Winston was one of the one’s with a sort of done-unto-ness it was natural that he would gravitate towards this genre of journalism. At this point he wondered whether any of this even mattered. Hypothetically speaking if a hundred thousand people were killed by the military and if the papers did not report on it then did that in effect happen? Can we all believe whatever is convenient to us? Humans have believed in whatever was convenient to them, so what? Does it matter what the journalistic truth is? Won’t everything be fine if we all just read the news sources that say what we want to hear? Does the truth really set us free? Is the truth just a matter of opinion? Say, is it wrong to believe that two and two makes five, that the sun goes around the earth, that the holocaust never happened, or that nothing happened in Tienanmen Square? How much do these things really matter to the average Englishman? If we can’t take action regarding anything even our nation’s future then does the truth really matter? And if the principle of truth doesn’t matter then what about every other principle, what about Liberalism? Is political behaviour and journalism other ways of saying ‘sophistry’ and ‘propaganda’? Is there anything wrong with it all being but an open fraud? Of course Winston could virtue-signal and say that it matters in his heart of heart he didn’t have it in him to declare that objective truth was desirable. He had the stinking sensation that if hypocrisy and lying were taken out of society by some miraculous act then it would all crumble down. The question then was what level of lying was allowable by politicians and journalism and which events should be fictionalized and to what extent if not entirely. He so desperately wanted a way to assert that this wasn’t the case, but as usual it didn’t matter what he wanted. And that is why he could not write, on the one he felt that everything he wrote could not be anything but convenient lies and on the other he felt that even if he could tame his tendency to lie it didn’t matter what it was that he wrote so why should he go through the pain of finding out what the truth is? All he had to do was to live in a bubble of his own creation, an echo-chamber, to only ever listen to those who told him what he wanted to hear and believe in it despite knowing that they were probably lying to him and life would go on until it does not. The problem was that his political views changed almost independent of his own volition in increasing frequency, this happened because through the internet he had access to all the propaganda from every direction and every size and every group, so he did the best he could do and tried to get an idea of an event by cross-checking the propaganda but usually he would find some contradicting fact just by passively reading them. For example a protest by Muslims in Britain against terrorism could be shown on a left-wing outlet as a large gathering and show some pictures but then a right-wing outlet would show alternative footage where it showed that the gathering was actually significantly smaller, but what if someone only read the first article and not the second? Pictures of a small Syrian girl being rescued from Syrian government attacks were on many online publications, Winston was too cynical and jaded to be moved at this point but it still made him think that ‘something’ ought to be done, however later Winston came across several other pictures of the same small Syrian girl being rescued by different men at different locations with different wounds, he was so jaded that he couldn’t even be bothered to get angry at being lied to in this manner and besides even if he knew what the truth was what difference did it make what he wanted? None. Even if he knew the truth no one would believe in him because there were so many lies so why bother trying to find out what the truth is? Now, someone who was not as cynical as him would not even bother to check the publications that did not agree with what they thought anyway, so what was the point of journalism? And if the world is still turning on it’s axis even after all of this lying, did it matter that there was so much lying? In the end all that mattered was power, the past itself could be rebuilt with enough power, did it matter what kind of principles the intelligensia or the ruling class say that they believe in? Are the people who are totally disinterested in politics and Morality and who instead concentrate on their own lives actually the sane ones? Or in other words as long as it didn’t affect him directly was there any point in him caring about politics? First they came for the Jews is simply not true, if England had stayed out of the wars and let the Germans take over Europe as the Germans are destined to in one way or another (Germany is just too powerful to just simply co-exist on an equal footing with the rest of Europe, the Germans will step over the rest of Europe) then they wouldn’t have come for us? Is the role morality plays in politics and journalism an illusion? Is there in practice no place for virtue and plenty for virtue-signalling in political and journalistic behaviour? Is there a need to just keep up the illusion of virtue in politics or else….? Why did Winston care about any of this in the first place? It didn’t matter what he wanted so it shouldn’t matter to him. Was this just a not-so sophisticated ploy at virtue-signalling? Of trying to appear as some sort of misunderstood prophet? Of trying to appear as just that guy who says as it is, or at least as he sees it even if didn’t matter how he saw it? Was this just entertainment, a way to waste time and not think about his own life which was going nowhere? Was he just trying to feel superior just because he spotted a few journalists lying(doing their job) and pretended like this wasn’t already common knowledge to everyone and their dog. Was he playing the part of some writers he admired? Is reading journalism just a form of escapism? Just like reading fiction is escapism. Is the news sector just a subsidiary of the entertainment sector? Is freedom of speech the freedom for everyone to lie instead of letting the state monopolize the power of lies? Was this just this some pseudo-intellectual wank-fest brought out by Winston’s distorted sexual desires? Well, that is one way of looking at it. Is this nothing more than a distraction? Is this obsession with politics and journalistic truth a distraction from everyday life. Should a normal, average, well-functioning Englishman care about this all the time to the detriment everything else in his life, obsess over it even though he can’t do anything about it, obsess about it because he can’t do anything about it? Should the ordinary Englishman then become like the ordinary Japanese man or the German who has no interest in politics and also no real political choice? Do England’s liberal principles and ideals mean nothing in front of political reality? Was there some way to maintain a healthy interest in political parties and journalism and not to fall into abject despair? Is life too short to care about the bigger picture? Is human solidarity just an illusion created out of abundance, boredom, guilt, a need to feel virtuous and which can be turned on and off like a political tap? It seemed odd to him that he would care about justice so much when he couldn’t stand the people around him. He doubted his own concern about injustice, he wondered whether he just wanted to feel he was more right than others because he felt a physical revulsion when he was around them directed either towards them or towards himself. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to intellectualize this revulsion but he wanted to stop thinking about it altogether and what better than posturing about the good deeds he would do if he had the political power to do them. Of course even a cursory glance at what he wrote was enough to detect this thinly veiled misanthropy protruding throughout his angry prose. Was this even a choice? Could he choose not to think about politics when he wrote? It would be easier for him not to think of a pink elephant when ordered not to think of a pink elephant than to do that. Why didn’t have anything else to think about? A correction– Why didn’t he have anything else pleasant and preferably related to someone else other than himself to think about? Was he what one would call an egoist or was he just weak willed? Well, he believed the two were not mutually exclusive. If by some miracle he could gather the facts related to an event then he could come to a fact-based conclusion and then debate about the abstract moral concepts with a clarity of mind totally(well, mostly) detached from his own subconscious motives whatever they may be(as his opponents would call him out if he pulled something not based on the facts, he believed in the didactic method as long as the facts did not change depending on who you asked, he couldn’t be asked to listen to, debate (or vote for) people who constantly lied in his face that was all there was to it). At any rate the answer for him was not in politics nor in journalism. The answer to what? The answer to why.

Leftists say there is no such as evil and yet if you put the word ‘lesser’ in front they will vote for it.

The Patriarchy, or the invisible Cock and Balls in the sky.

The Jewish conspiracy to destroy western civilization by importing anti-Semitism from the Muslim world.

You reap what you sow is truer than what goes around comes around.

Winston soon realized that you needed to be powerful to be honest and that you needed to lie in order to exercise power.

Human sympathy and kindness are very rare and fleeting things so the politician has to do everything in his power to exploit these feelings when they do manifest. Relying on people’s reason to convince them is clearly not enough especially when dealing with a mob, so cue in the histrionics (but don’t wave your hands or stretch your face into a shit-eating grin of the kind only the clergy in the third world and politicians during elections are capable of (some Japanese salarymen ass-kissing their higher-ups are also rumoured to be capable of this remarkable feat although that is yet to be documented as certain fact), look like a stern headmaster if possible for that is the kind of relationship the British public expect with the state) and turn the whole thing into populist political theatre, make it a matter of showmanship. Tell people what they want to hear precisely because it is what they want to hear and nothing more. It doesn’t matter what one’s agenda is, even if the politician’s agenda is exactly in the opposite direction of those sympathies, as long as they are vaguely mentioned and some vague and impractical promises are made then the mob will side with you (until it turns on you).

There are too many words in the English language and things have gotten too complicated and ‘problematic’, someone has to trim down the language, the destruction of words (of ideas) would indeed be a beautiful thing.

Winston tried to imagine the face he deserved to have, in most ways like his own but much calmer. It is the face of a man of about forty, with a small beard and a low colour. He is laughing, with a touch of anger in his laughter, with no triumph, and a faked malignity. It is the face of a man who is always fighting against something, but who fights in private and is frightened, the face of a man who is too afraid to be angry and yet pretends to be full of hatred because he knows he ought to be angry — in other words, of a twenty-first-century liberal, a constrained intelligence, a type hated with equal hatred by all the smelly little orthodoxies which are now contending for everyone’s souls.

Every word becomes a euphemism for its opposite. And the only way not to be sarcastic is to be sarcastic.

All men are created equal but some men are created more equal than others. We hold these truths to be self-evident HAHAHAHHAH! Don’t Americans sometimes feel that their country is one giant inter-continental crock of shit? Winston liked to ask himself questions like that because he wished that it were not so. Winston was essentially blind and unaware of his surroundings with both his eyes open, so his point of view was necessarily a one-eyed view, when he closed one eye he could see the world through the eyes of a politician and all he could see were interest groups when he closed this eye and look through the other he could see the world as a journalist would and all he could see was shit, everywhere. Winston could only care about humans as groups, as fellow human beings, as fellow countrymen never as individuals thus political partisanship appealed to him. Winston was for all intents and purposes a liberal but sometimes he wondered if politics had turned into some kind of an idolatry where impossible promises and requests and petitions were being made by the public to politicians as if the latter were gods who could grant anything and he wondered whether democracy was just bribing people with their own money. He asked ‘Was this always the case and has universal suffrage made this worse?’ But was there a fair alternative to democracy? One that did not abolish the opposition?

Politics is the last refuge of the moralist. Once God has been removed from the picture and once all faith in human decency has been lost, then the nation is all that is left, not the state that exists in reality but the nation that exists in the moralist’s mind. The trick is to delude oneself once it has been clear that a moral ideal world is impossible, that that world is already there and it only needs to be defended. Maybe that’s why even though Winston had no hope in his life and had convinced himself that he had no stake in anything that happened to him, he still felt angry and sad when he was worried about what was happening in the country. Of course he had no delusions that it mattered in any way what he thought of any of it, his opinion did not matter, and even if it did he doubted he had anything he could suggest. There just seemed to be something fundamentally wrong with human beings including himself. He was especially disgusted by sex or to be more accurate the relationships between men and women. Of course his distress had to be some hang-up about sex. What else could it be? England was not just a distraction but it was a distraction. He was confused and he didn’t even know what he believed in any more. He didn’t feel so confident discussing politics any more partly because he wasn’t so certain about himself but also because he felt he was not getting to the heart of the matter, he just felt he was projecting all the time and when he argued against others he was debating with himself, his life was a mess so he couldn’t concentrate on others in any serious manner, others could do it but not him, so much whataboutery….

Some Americans are created more equal than other Americans. He held these lies to be self-evident. It was all bullshit for, everything in the declaration, rhetoric, sophistry or in one word propaganda. And just because it was the kind of propaganda that told him what he wanted to hear he was not going to make an exception or rather he could not, it was psychologically impossible for him. He might as well try to convince himself that the moon is made of cheese or that two and two makes five. The United States was so to speak a republic of lies, pleasant, beautiful, convenient lies but lies nonetheless. This doesn’t mean that he was with the anti-American left, he was just with the British conservative who could see America as just another country not in terms of power of course but in terms of morality. At the same time Winston clang onto England’s past as a last vestige of decency, so it wasn’t as if he was immune to this sort of wish-thinking as he liked to think he was, patriotism is the last refuge of the moralist. And politics is the last form of idolatry when God simply doesn’t give a fuck. In every way it should be said that atheists did God’s moral standing a great favour by not believing in him, after all if he doesn’t exist then he can’t be held accountable, the devil is just an Emanuel Goldstein, a loud-mouthed ineffective proto-Jewish, proto-Trotskyist scapegoat, an excuse for all this disgusting evil shit on earth, an alibi that a malformed Holmes-clone on British state-run TV would see through without the need of a script, which means that God is a Stalinist, maybe there’s a politburo in heaven, and Soviet propaganda does match the descriptions of heaven. And the pedantic Stalinist apologists for God can go fuck themselves, the crimes against humanity of God should be plain to anyone with eyes to see, ear to hear and are too numerous to name, just imagine what the black death must have been like or famine in Ireland, things are never secure as they seem and this great material continuum and then go on grovelling hoping that justice will be served in your case because fuck other people, right? Any patriot by now should have realized that God(who is at the helm of History) betrayed England. Only an extremely narcissistic or cowardly or blind person could go on having faith in the face of this evil, in the hope that he alone and perhaps those around him may be spared the injustice of God. The most disgusting display of selfishness that Winston has ever seen in England is that of men grovelling in front of nothing towards a rock; In order to get favours. In short Winston had no hope for England, this world nor for the next. Of course all human decency is a fraud, and so England too was a fraud, more so now than ever, he too was a fraud so too was everyone else no he knew nothing of others, but a lie so beautiful must-

It hurt him the lack of the pure unadulterated human decency and goodwill, beyond power, that he thought was possible in this world when he was a Christian but such a thing was not human, only a machine could act in that manner, but then wouldn’t that be a fraud too? He could understand why it would be more pleasant to live under a canopy of lies and he would too if he could believe in anything because that is what it means, or at any rate what it meant to him, to have faith. Back then, he only could afford to indulge in this illusion because of the certainty that the odds were eternally stacked against evil and for good and that existence of an all-just and almighty God guaranteed this. But now such longings for justice and good will seemed empty and when they occurred in him, as they often did, he could only feel like like a fool, a moral hypocrite and a weak coward who looked up at the receding heavens for a lukewarm justice that he even lacked the agency to uphold. His reflections on sex or on lack thereof in his life, that is to say a majority of his reflections brought forth the problem, that it was impossible to form or explain a (rational) motivation without a reference to power. It was especially hard for him to ignore this dynamic of social exchange because he felt that he was impotent, and his cynical sneer and sniggering were just a conscious symptom of that (Note: All this moral grand-standing and pseudo-intellectualism were due to a hang-up about sex which is why he knew that at heart he was a fraud, that he was not genuine, but he could not help it, perhaps the point he was trying to make was beside THE POINT, he could not trust his own judgement nor did he trust any one else, well any one else who was alive). Of course ‘authority’ is just another word for ‘power’ but it never occurred to him when he was Christian, that is why he was a Christian. It didn’t matter to him that there was a drastic unequal power difference between him and God because God was absolutely and totally benevolent. And besides God wasn’t around him in any tangible personified manner. THE POINT was that wallowing in the ecstasy that women were able to induce in him, wasn’t healthy. How could he stand up to someone and not kowtow to their every whim when he knew what they can do for him? If he valued their ability to make him happy too highly, he would effectively end up giving them the means of his destruction. He didn’t want to kowtow to someone just because he could get something from them, the reason he worshipped God was because he was certain(as now he is not) that God was good. If someone could prove to him unequivocally that God was good then he would want to become a Christian again. And there was no use bribing him with the prospect of justice in an imagined future because there was no reason to believe in any of that any more than there is a reason to believe in socialist idealism. There was no trust and no unbrindled self-less good intention in any of this, it made him apprehensive of all human affairs, sex in particular. Everything seemed to have strings on them, he felt like he was a powerless puppet in some puppet show. It all seemed fake to him, not just himself, but the objects and the people around him held no value to him, that is why he held so dearly to the flag and to the anthem of Britain, he was constantly forcing himself to feel something, a twinge, when he heard the national anthem being sung, it was tiring but patriotism is the last refuge of the moralist, he needed to find some justification to care about others and things other than his pure self-interest but it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he was faking it, and it was excruciatingly painful play-pretend to be a good person, well in fact he had failed at it, he just couldn’t trust his own motivations, Am I just manipulating others? Trying to get browny points like some elementary school kid trying to please some teacher? He asked these questions from himself which would inevitably suck all the motivation in him to do anything. There were times he honestly believed that he was doing his best because he believed he ought to but then was accused by others that he was just trying to look in front of others, so he just stopped trying to do anything. Once it becomes clear that every human interaction is just a social exchange, like buying bread from the grocery, he became unable to care about other people and so he distanced himself from everyone because he felt like he was just deceiving them about caring them and he didn’t want to deceive them. The logical conclusion was that the only moral course of action was to avoid others as humanly possible, thanks to technology it is much easier to live separate from others especially he was in a crowd, he just had to take his phone out, and read about the next awful thing that has happened somewhere in the world or about the newest depths that Britain has fallen to and feel even more powerless, inconsequential and alienated. It also helped that in most major British there were many foreigners like himself, building another wall to lives even more compartmentalized, he was an outsider among foreigners, it was like living in a tin can, he might as well be an extra-terrestrial alien who knows about life on earth only through newspapers and fiction, then again even an alien would realize that there isn’t much of a difference between newspapers and fiction. Journalism was just a form of story-telling at this point but I digress, perhaps he subconsciously wanted to digress from the subject of sex and that is why he read about politics, he could tell himself that he was engaging his mind in something important so that he didn’t have to thing about what really bothered him. He had turned a blind eye to his social desires and thus preserved his integrity, somewhat, at any rate this is how he told himself that he rationalized his lack of social skills but unfortunately he could not honestly or even dishonestly say that he did not care about his sexual desires, since all human interactions are just social exchanges, i.e. buying stuff from the grocery, well it was more like a barter system as there wasn’t a single sexual ‘currency.’ This posed Winston two problems, well it posed him many problems but broadly speaking they could be divided into ethical and aesthetic problems, unfortunately some problems belonged to both categories and many were contingent on each other. This was such a mess, that he simply couldn’t go on ignoring, the days he could simply spend all days reading news articles and listening to podcasts and read blogs by pundits on the net and basically live in his own world where things like social status, authority and appearance didn’t matter because everyone was anonymous where the only thing that mattered was argument was going to come to an end, and he felt it was better if he prepared for this eventuality and slowly immersed himself into the ‘real’ world The main problem was that sex involved other human beings which would mean he would have to get involved in all those pesky moral problems he has so desperately tried to side-step by turning himself into some sort of 21st century urban hermit. There just didn’t seem to be anything beyond power except amusement. This is the reason he had reduced himself to a voyeur, a powerless observer looking for amusing things humans do through the internet, so long as he had no part in any of it he could do no evil, he could concentrate on the things he could not change in this world and write cynical pessimistic social commentary about it as a form of masturbation while frothing at the mouth in righteous indignation. In truth he had been just distracting himself from the present through fiction and newspapers because his desires weren’t fulfilled. In truth it didn’t matter to him that he didn’t have a nation of his own, a religion or a God, an ideology or any all-encompassing framework of thinking, his physiological needs remained the same, human nature is not infinitely malleable, he wasn’t any different from others and he was the phoniest of them all, his altruism was non-existent and he was as envious as the devil and as lonely as he. He didn’t really care about anyone, or rather he couldn’t, but it’s not even like he was acting in his own self-interest actually it was the other way around, he was actively trying to destroy his own future because he felt guilty but at the same time unjustly treated. It didn’t make any sense to him, everything seemed like a fraud, from himself, to his family, to England, and to the rest of humanity. He was bitter and jaded and he felt older than he was. He was handicapped, limited in every sense, inferior, undesirable. That was all there was to it. When he admitted this, all the righteousness in him dissolved temporarily and he felt better but then almost immediately he felt worse when he realized that he had lost the struggle, he had lost the competition and that he was nothing he would become self-righteous again and the cycle would repeat it self. It was like a wave that repeated itself at varying frequencies. He felt guilty in the crime he condemned. And nature itself was set up in a way he could not, not be complicit in it. He was a puppet on strings that could see its own strings. He couldn’t sleep at night. He didn’t want to get up in the morning. His brain felt separated from his body when he dreamt. He felt he was some kind of disgusting animal, and it wasn’t the ‘animal’ part that bothered him. In his initial analysis the only thing he could respect was common decency, but when he went through his reasoning he wasn’t too sure, sure ‘the problem of evil’ was something he would rather do without but what weighed on his mind was really the problem of beauty, of course he tried every reason he could come up with to avoid the issue, ‘look there’s a red herring let’s talk about all the unfairness in the world that is legitimate and leave out my petty vain jealous self-pitying narcissistic illegitimate unfairness in my comfortable life that no one in their right mind would give a fuck about even if they were paid to give a fuck about it’ <insert some pseudo-intellectual pretentious horse-shit here>’

“Beauty is beauty due to the cruelty of selection.”
― Masami Tsuda, His and Her Circumstances

Winston wasn’t exactly a eugenicist, and then he would only make a lousy one, as the traits he would select for wouldn’t have anything to do with intelligence. Winston was only interested in the surface of things, when he looked too deep into anything or anyone all he saw was shit, so he preffered not to probe. It was very tempting to assume that there was some all encompassing lie of Orwellian proportions that had infiltrated common sense, to lull oneself into the role of some sort of misunderstood prophet in an age of universal deceit when one may most probably be a deluded merchant of lies

Winston tried to be an egalitarian misanthrope but some people just begged him to be hated more than others. Just like the animals at the end of Animal Farm, he looked from man to woman and from woman to man and finally he was unable to tell one from the other.

All human communication seemed like sophistry and propaganda to him. It was all just empty rhetoric. Honesty seemed an impossibility. The choice was always between one inconvenient lie and another convenient platitude. The illusion of objective truth and absolute morality was gone in Britain, of course it was only a matter of time that it will be replaced with a different type of absolutism, a different clergy, but this in-between time was an age of absolute scepticism for he was Winston Smith. It was all a fraud, at all levels of comprehension. Slowly but surely Orwell would be proven right. Orwell once said that the best outcome possible was the world to be engulfed in a nuclear war and that civilization be given another go to start from square one but Orwell was too optimistic, this is the best that humans can do, the outcome would be the same, no matter how many times things repeated themselves. Winston thought that it would be better to end something beautiful while it still was beautiful, even if the image of Britain in his mind was just an illusion that was the more reason to end it before it was exposed, a lie so beautiful must be ended before it can be exposed, must allowed to remain intact at any cost, through ‘all necessary measures’. To end something beautiful, moral and free while it still was beautiful, moral and free. He believed that the people of Britain did not deserve England and so he wanted to see everything that made England England to be spent in a fraction of the time it took for it to accumulate. He wanted to watch fireworks. He often contemplated of Britain going up in an orgy of political hatred, the British people molesting and murdering each other’s children in the street in broad daylight in England purely for ideological reasons believing that what they did was absolutely right and moral, he knew that none of this was possible but it’s the thought that counts. Was it envy, was it spite at his own lack of beauty, morality and freedom that drove him to such callous thoughts? Somehow it was hard to convince himself that it was just for impersonal aesthetic and ethical motives, he usually assumed the worst in others and it was only fair that he assumed the worst in himself in all human behaviour including politics and he was usually right, the seasoned cynic posing as the misunderstood prophet, the disappointed idealist posing as the pessimist, the counter-revolutionary and the reactionary. ‘This vale of tears, this demented slaughterhouse, this festering shitfest’ Winston would curse while listening to the ode to joy at 3 O’ Clock in the morning sitting up on his bed in the dark with light from his laptop in front of him illuminating his face and with ear buds in his ears ‘must come to an end.’ He would then sing along about the brotherhood of mankind while taping his index finger in wiggling motion at the air imagining that every tap from his finger signified an ICBM being launched somewhere towards a population centre. He would increase the speed at which he tapped his finger as the end approached moving his entire arm and his entire body would shake. He would then listen to the opening chorus of St. John’s passion and stretch his right arm and point his index finger at the air slightly above his head cursing God for all the evil and suffering in this world and in history that Winston was powerless to do anything about and accusing God of sadism, voyeurism, Dereliction of Duty, crimes against humanity, fraud, treachery, and unfairness. He would then proceed to list in detail what these infractions consisted of and make suggestions as to how they could be corrected, patiently wait for a reply and obviously receive none. Why did he even bother? Was it so that he could say that he knocked on the door, he banged on it, kicked it everyday and no one answered and nothing changed?

Winston used too many adjectives which made it hard even for him to understand what he was writing about when he read it back obviously a failed attempt at intellect.

Winston’s ideal utopia was a world of free and equal people, unfortunately he just couldn’t think of a way to reconcile freedom and equality entirely.

Sometimes Winston wondered whether life is a preparation for hell. A warm up session so to speak.

Even though Winston had abandoned all idealism, he was sceptical about ‘political realism’ because taken to its extreme ‘political realism’ led to national suicide. Morality was just long-term reason. Imperial Japan and Mussolini’s Italy seem to be examples of this realism going out of control, in both cases a clergy, a sort of Headquarters of Reason and Logic had been formed, an official monopoly of reason and the assumption that individual liberty was unnecessary because the leaders were acting according to ‘reason.’

Winston realized that he had to decide what to do with his life. Maybe it was time to kill himself. Why? Because of what he was – poor, ungifted, dispassionate, ungifted, lonely, unpopular and ugly. He didn’t really have anyone he could blame, besides it made no difference to what he was no matter who if anyone was to blame. He just couldn’t live like this any more, he knew that others expected him to and that many would laugh and look down at him and his petty concerns but he tried to live by distracting himself with things other than himself but his past and so his present would always come for him.

Naiveness and cynicism are not mutually exclusive.

There was nothing worth living for in his life and the only thing that kept him alive was political hatred. He believed he was in a battle of justice against his unilaterally evil enemies who were his political opponents. It wasn’t enough for him to wish they were dead, just in case there wasn’t an hell they needed to suffer at least as much as he did although he believed they deserved much worse for all the evil they have done and will do unless they are stopped but they cannot be stopped because history is on their side because they can and have rewritten history to suit their evil goals. There was no hope, it was all doom and gloom ahead and behind him, he just wanted to disappear out of his own sight at this point. Is it better not to wake up from an Orwellian nightmare? Winston’s identity and personality had been co-opted into politics, or rather there was nothing to co-opt in the first place. He had even forgotten why it is that he discussed politics, to solve problems, but now he was just trying to score points against his opponents who he regarded as his enemies and who regarded him as their enemy. The reason he had forgotten why he discussed politics is because he had realized that it didn’t matter what suggestions he made, his input was unnecessary so he could believe in whatever outrageous attention-seeking political opinions for its own sake and there would be no consequences, he was a man of no consequence. Consequently less and less people listened to what he had to say because it was all incoherent hogwash. In many ways he had abandoned the very concept of objective truth as he let his enemies determine his opinions. For example if his enemies said that the sky is blue then he would say that the sky is red and if they then said that it was red then he would say it was red. Nobody really believed in anything and simply wanted to prove others wrong and to be more right than others. He felt like he was disagreeing with others for the sake of disagreeing with them. No wonder he believed that everyone was a sophist. He decided to go back to his initial purpose of getting into political commentary, a sort of civic duty to try and solve society’s problems using reason and logic. The only way to restore his faith in humanity was to restore his faith in politics. Orwell said that Jonathan Swift missed many admirable in things in politcs in Gulliver’s travels, but for Winston the opposite seemed to be the case, Gulliver’s travels is a generous and optimistic picture of politics and human beings compared to how they really are, Swift had left out too many of the darker elements of behaviour for comedic effect. Winston effectively saw people as bubbles of evil waiting to burst. He didn’t want them to burst in his face, so he kept his distance much like Gulliver.

History is a gigantic creature with a will of its own and the democratic consensus of the British people means nothing in front of this monster let alone their individual desires pulling and tearing Britain in every way and direction. The bottom-line is that Winston believed that democracy in Britain was just for show because Britain’s future was not in the hands of its elected representatives in the Parliament but instead in the hands of that creature called History, in the economic forces far beyond the reach of British politicians. And the politicians simply lied themselves into office making the most outrageous and ahistorical promises either out of ignorance if they are on the left or out of cynicism if they are on the right so that they could improve their lot in life and just manage to keep things together in Britain.

Why is it that there is such a thing as the ruling class? Isn’t the state supposed to be of the people? Who exactly are ‘the people’? Winston wasn’t one of those people who felt something tingle in their chests when they heard the national anthem but he wished he was one of them.

The problem with the didactic method, the problem with debate, is I realized that it will potentially go on long after I am dead, I will never reach an absolute conclusion, so the whole thing appears at best as some sort of group intellectual masturbation and at worst the grounds to sharpen sophistry rather than any kind of pursuit of truth. But what can didactic method be replaced with? Nothing springs to mind, debate is something we need for practical reasons but lets not put it any where above the practical, also it’s a good way of convincing people without murdering them which is a welcome change given that not even people who want to kill themselves usually want to be murdered by others.

Modern anime is so laden with tropes and otaku-pandering because their message to otakus is that society would be better off without absolute losers like them and if they can’t do their civic duty and kill themselves then the next best thing is to exit civil society all-together and live in a fantasy make-believe world through fiction. This is the reason that now he was starting to hate anime and Japanese otaku culture. He wanted to believe that through hard-work, the application of reason and changes to consumer behaviour a healthier way, a third way so to speak could be carved out through narratives where the rules are not rigged towards the protagonists but the protagonists find a way to something more bearable nonetheless, or in other words through art that is not propaganda in the sense that even though it pushes a certain kind of agenda/ideal, that ideal/agenda is a plausible one. The problem with demanding this from any artistic industry is that it could easily degenerate into an environment of censorship where fiction is not written according to the vision of the individual authors and the demands of the markets but instead to consciously push a certain agenda crushing any dissent culminating in a reduction in demand as people will easily see through the flimsy characters and narratives for what they are – artificially engineered token stock characters and morality plays for political motives which would be even more bankrupt than the current situation of catering to the desires of the audience. The only way was for him to create the art he wanted to see instead of trying to guilt trip others and where this failed to bully others into making it and then let the readers make up their own minds.

Winston did not trust his own stated motives, he simply did not what they were and he could only speculate. When all was said and nothing done, the problems remained the same, or in other words it did not matter that his motives or the motives of other people were not always pure. Perfect is the enemy of good. In his search for something genuine to follow and dedicate himself to he had discarded everything or more probably he had searched for something genuine because he could not hold onto anything ordinary and therefore anything real because of his carelessness and laziness. In short he knew he was some good for nothing with an inflated ego who would rather isolate himself from civil society than encounter the slightest bit of opposition. If there was one historical figure that he felt he could relate to then that would be Mussolini. The blunt headed stupidity, the toothless Napoleonic posturing, the excessive movement, the overconfidence and the bloated corpse always seemed oddly familiar and Winston often thought on these things. Now that he had tried everything he could possibly do to argue himself out of this position and this had proven not exactly futile but it was just a preparation, he was aware of this stupidity and narcissism in himself but he could not simply argue himself out of it but being aware of it had at least helped him to act in a slightly decent manner, at the very least on a purely superficial level, never mocking anyone unless they deserved it, always treating others with the same politeness and civility that he expected from others regardless if others would reciprocate or not, doing what he can to help others, no wonder he was dissatisfied, his mistake was assume that he would indirectly get happiness by sacrificing himself for the sake of others, no if one sacrifices himself for the sake of others then one ought to sacrifice oneself for the sake of others, otherwise it’s nothing more than a show, virtue-signalling or “moral-fagging” are terms used to describe this kind of behaviour, the truth was that Winston was a very very selfish man pretending to be a good man to get the validation of those around him. He had tried to argue himself out of his selfishness to bring his thoughts inline with his actions but this has failed with catastrophic consequences, but perhaps its other way around and he ought to bring his actions inline with his desires, if there was a hell he had come to the conclusion that he would end up in it anyway, he simply could not be a saint. A more honest mode of behaviour that did not attempt to deceive anyone about his selfish nature seemed to be at once the most practical and ethical course he could take. He was always feeling guilty about whether or not he was deceiving others, he could not say whether he was or not himself, if he could not not be full of shit then he might as well be honest about it for a start. But what did this mean he would do in practice? Well, to answer that Winston decided to come up with a list of prompt questions and answering them would allow him to delineate some of the behaviour that would propel him towards some of his desires. Or in other words if he could put some of his behaviours above the judgement of others then he could potentially make himself less susceptible to his pathological tendency to try to please everyone. Obviously each of these behaviours needed to have a rationale to convince himself to place them above his tendency. He wanted to care about others but first he had to take care of himself otherwise he would only try to use others to help himself. He needed to be able to approach others from position of surplus instead of one of deficit because he was not a saint. Being a saint is something that you are not something that you can become, Winston believed that most so-called saints had no interest in being human in the first place. At any rate he had to concentrate on being a productive and satisfied human he had to go to the root of why he was interested in politics in the first place, salvation through politics is a lie, there are no final solutions or absolute moral truths, it’s not either utopia or nothing, selflessness is more common when directed at individuals rather than groups but this doesn’t make it any less valuable, the selfishness of self-sacrifice is in itself what renders value to the sacrifice because it shows just how much the person for whom the sacrifice is being made for matters so much to the one who does the sacrifice, ethical behaviour in politics is possible and must be encouraged because in the long run unethical behaviour in politics is suicidal, morality is just long term group-interest, there is such a thing as national interest, the nation-state is the largest unit where it is possible to be effectively unselfish(‘effectively unselfish’ is not same as selfless as you can be ‘effectively unselfish’ by being forced to pay taxes but that is not selflessness or charity), liberty and equality with the balance tilted towards liberty is the most stable and just form of government and can be found in England eventually all nations must adopt this form of government or something similar to it and it is Winston’s civic duty to make sure that Britain remains free in practice and not just in name, however insignificant his voice may be he must write as if it mattered what he wrote he is morally bound to do so, if that means that he will have to bask in his self-importance then so be it there were things more important than his feelings about himself, he will not be silent in Britain’s march towards illiberalism they will have to shut people like him up, even if he loses he must not give up, even if he is too unimportant to be shut up, history moves in mysterious ways so what he does might matter, he must not lose hope he must not give in to the temptation of being merely an entertainer who says outrageous things for attention there must be substance behind his words and actions, he must stand by his opinions until they are proven wrong instead of applying post-modernism(another word for sophism) of the kind where ‘depending on which perspective you look at it you will get a different but equally valid and equally invalid answer’ and no this is not a straw-man though he wished it was.

So here are Winston Smith’s prompt questions and his answers:

“Why/How can I get more views on my blog?”

Post multiple-posts everyday at different times of the day. Response posts which respond to other blogs with more views,

Offline promotion? Key words, Search Engine Optimization, Google Adsense? Project Wonderful? Check for all mistakes in my blog posts? Add images to all blogposts? Link exchange? Reading out my blog posts on youtube with the blogpost I am reading from in the background?

I find most political behaviour disgusting and would rather not even think about it but I have a duty to talk about it, to maintain an interest in political parties without falling into complete despair and to try to make constructive suggestions even if they will not be heard instead of just whining about the current situation even though that can be useful too so I will still complain, what I must not do however is to pretend to speak for other people because I can’t, I am not the Borg I am an individual and because consensus shouldn’t matter, what should matter is principles, argument and reason. The point is I will have to write about politics even though I don’t want to. What I really want to do is write long light-hearted naturalistic comedies with interesting characters, simple plots and satisfying conclusions like the works of Rumiko Takahashi. I want to keep my art and my life separate from my politics. I want to live an aesthetic life but that is hard for me to do in this uncertain stagnating age. I don’t want to write political fiction.

I have many doubts about my interest in politics, sometimes I feel that I am interested in politics because of a hatred towards everyday life because of my own failure at it and a secret wish to destroy everyday life through politics. The stinking sensation to see everyday life engulfed, drowned and limited by politics. By politicising everything, especially people’s private lives and choices. This has to stop somewhere or where will there be any space for real life which is devoid of the useless continuous political posturing? There are a lot of people like me, people who haven’t got a life who spend night and day all-year around pontificating about politics and morality and about how other people should live their lives. A constant theme in all clergy is that they always come off as failed showmen.

“Why/How can I write stories?”

I am twenty right now. I will become a full-time writer by the time I am thirty or I will kill myself. As Orwell put it ‘one ought to think of the long term consequences’ and if I can’t write well then I don’t see what’s the point of being alive.What kind of stories? Romance. I don’t really have a point to make. I just want to write interesting characters that will make people smile a bit.

I will host my stories on Royal Road Legends, Oldspeak, Wattpad, add listing to Topwebfiction directory.

Mandatory story writing time.

“Why/How can I draw manga?”

All artists are propagandists. I cannot be an exception. Even the truth is propaganda. And so there is no truth in the truth, as the Russians used to know. I would rather separate myself from the whole of politics as soon as possible and this is the reason I want to draw manga. I may be unable to not think about politics when I write or read anything but if I can concentrate on a purely aesthetic endeavour paying more attention to form rather than content then I may be able to have some temporary peace of mind. Most art is commercial, I don’t think that making art is like training to be an olympic athlete, that is to say there is no objective standard to judge art other than popularity and longevity(long-term popularity). Nonetheless I don’t want to make dry purely commercial art, in that case I might as well get a job rather than be an artist, therefore I will try to master the current drawing and story-telling manga techniques as much as necessary.

Youtube video tutorials? Mandatory drawing time?

“Why/How can I stop failing exams?”

I don’t want to be poor, really that is why I have been forcing myself to study subjects that I have no interest in whatsoever and it has not worked. I don’t think I can do this any more but as long as I am dependent on my parents or to put it more accurately on my parents’ money then I have no choice but to do what they like, it’s not like I don’t see where they are coming from, if I do what I like I will most probably end up as some wannabe artist/writer living off doing menial jobs and so I have tried to force myself to conform to what is expected from me but it just hasn’t worked. Perhaps I have thought that if I become good at it then I will like it but it is hard and boring and I can feel my life slipping through my fingers all the time that I am trying to dedicate myself to something other than writing and so I start to despise that thing. Sometimes I wonder whether my ‘dreams’ are just an excuse to escape from my responsibilities. Am I a fool for trying to believe in my own ambition? It is all well and fine to try and cheer myself a bit with a self-pep talk but what is the practical pathway that I can become a full-time writer and comic book artist.

Essay Plans? Mandatory Reading time related to aircraft engineering everyday?

“Why/How can I socialise?(Seriously I have no fucking clue)”

Some people can live only for their own sake, like that guy Trudeau who decided to live in the woods alone and write books, well I am not one of them, I want people in my life. However at the same time I don’t want to live chiefly for the sake of others, there isn’t anyone I care enough about to do that but I do like humouring people in moderation, it makes me feel good.

Sports? Play Tennis? Public speaking? Youtube videos? Part-time job? Maybe a little bit of alcohol. I need to stop trying to be a misanthropic wisecracker I am simply not cut out for it- but then what should I be like?

“Why/How can I improve my appearance?”

Political ideology and principles have got little to do with life, most ideologues live in a fantasy world longing for a (ideological) purity that if taken to their logical conclusion would all lead to some sort of Orwellian nightmare, but the thing about Orwellian nightmares is that they are very hard to maintain, this is what Orwell is criticized the most after all, that his vision of hell on earth is not practical, ideology is platonic and so not real, what is real then? Appearances are real, well real for all intents and purposes. You could create an approximation of Orwell’s nightmare, North Korea is a far cry from Airstrip One but some schools are more close to it from the inside. If I have to be blunt I feel that ideology is borne out of a sort of resentment for those who are better off. The problem however is that it is ineffective at changing the conditions, I don’t think it is possible to change people’s real feelings but if an ideology takes over then those feelings can be hidden, what must be changed is the material conditions. At the same time however, one has to wonder what use there is of an improved economic situation if there is no decency or morality? That decency however is not a wholesome substitute for an actual change in the material conditions. I don’t feel that it is possible to get rid of certain attitudes entirely and sometimes I feel that attempts at subduing these attitudes will only result in people hiding them for appearances sake, but the problem is that in a conflict of interest most appearances and posturing(including moral posturing) is torn away leaving only the ugly truth bare. In conclusion it is neither possible nor desirable for me to live my life entirely according to an ideology. Even if I did do that it doesn’t mean that I would necessarily be more moral than others as my motives would be just as selfish as those who simply live their lives only more sneaky and fraudulent. This isn’t a licence to act in a positively immoral manner but it is better if I don’t get on a high horse. Well, what does this mean in practice? This means I should concentrate more on concrete things, on superficial things, on the surface of things instead of speculating about my motives or other people’s motives given that I cannot know them, or in other words I should shift my attention from impractical thoughts to practical actions. Speculating about moral truths that I cannot possibly know about seems to be useless too. I must engage with reality first and abstractions second. There is no virtue in being a virtuous moron who has no idea about anything going on around him. The hardest part of simultaneously losing my faith in God and Socialism is losing my belief that History and Fate themselves are geared towards a just future simply out of historical necessity, or something more, you know, God and that justice will be served in the end, that there wasn’t even the slightest possibility that this wasn’t the case. In the end this self-righteousness and desire for justice was nothing more than a self-serving fraud. I don’t want to be another little pampered ideologue who has no idea how the real world or human beings work or think ventriloquizing and moralizing atop a mountain on other people’s work and money. I find condescending ideologues who laugh in other people’s faces physically repulsive. I need to earn my own money. I don’t want to be a man-child, I want to be a man.

Below I will list the actions:

Gym? Clothes? Hairstyle? Dentist? Dermatologist?

What can I do for others?

I can’t function properly unless I can fool myself into thinking I am doing something for others even if I am really doing it because it brings me pleasure and only if it’s not too inconvenient. The guilt of the knowledge that I am really selfish will not go away but more important than what I feel is the effect that I have. And besides that guilt can be a source of pleasure too, I wasn’t a Catholic for nothing. The difference of course was that then I could ask God or an old man for forgiveness and that would give me some temporary peace of mind, it would lift a weight off my heart, knowing I am no longer responsible for what I have done or more often failed to do. And so I could let that guilt go until accumulated again. It was a pleasant thing and as long as I could feel sorry for myself enough then I felt I would have been redeemed, in many ways being forgiven felt even better than not doing anything wrong in the first place but now that I can no longer afford that luxury I have to find another way of feeling good about myself and that is by actually doing something good which by the way is harder than asking for forgiveness. While repentance only depends on me and what goes on in my head when I want to do something good well I have to do something and face reality and *gasp* other human beings.

What attracted me to the left-wing was the aspect of voluntary service for the sake of others who need it, of something beyond power politics rather than the current fashion of whining selfishly at the state and society and compartmentalizing society into different power-groups according to gender, age, body-type, sexual orientation and skin pigmentation and other things people cannot do anything to change and have got nothing to do with principles or ideology thus irrevocably abolishing society in a way that Thatcher and class differences could never have quite done. Even Tory ‘public good through private vice’ has more basis in reality than this arbitrary division of society according to supposed racial oppression and downplaying or outright downplaying the very real cultural differences. At any rate mine is a personal initiative, morality for me is there to primarily decide how I live and not how other people live, I believe in individual freedom first and then social good. I believe that if people want to sacrifice themselves for others then they must do it to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others and not because they think that they will receive happiness indirectly in heaven or here on earth. Similarly if people do not want to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others then they should be allowed to mind their own fucking business. I am fundamentally against using propaganda and force in times of peace to force and manipulate people to sacrifice themselves for the sake of society. I am not going to sacrifice myself for the sake of ‘others’ unless my personal sacrifice is absolutely necessary for society which let’s be honest it isn’t but I may sacrifice myself for certain individuals at certain times if I feel like it. Strictly speaking when I ask the question ‘What can I do for others?’ I am only speaking about the effect it will have on others and not for whose sake I am doing it. There is no doubt that I am doing it for my own sake.

The question ‘Can you really do anything for ‘the sake of’ others?’ is irrelevant to my case as I do not wish to do anything strictly ‘for the sake of others’ unless my help is specifically necessary which is extremely unlikely, I guess I am what one would call an egoist, however it is still an interesting question. I think I might, and I am in no way certain about this, there isn’t any evidence to suggest that this is the case, be able to sacrifice myself entirely for the sake. My motives even then would be selfish but my intentions would certainly be selfless. I think I will always be feeling sorry for myself, old habits die hard, and no doubt feeling sorry about myself for feeling sorry about myself.

I often feel like a puppet on strings that can see its own strings. Like a spectator of my own life. Sometimes I feel like I am thinking about someone else’s life when I recall something in my own past. The closest I have come to this emotion is in my dreams I used to have a dream about falling asleep, I would literally see myself asleep in my dream as I slept. How odd. Another strange thing about my dreams is that they rarely end well. How many times have I died in my dreams already? It’s not scary because it happens fast, like a side character getting killed in an action film, sometimes the dream goes on even after I am dead. I am not sure that I would call them nightmares.

It is amazing to think of all of the ways God has designed to torture the human body and the human mind. There must be a conscious mind behind all this cruelty. This level of wickedness necessitates a creator. Truly some of these physical afflictions are the envy of sadists, mass murderers and the secret police around the world. The question is, will you worship such a creator for your own personal benefit? What kind of a person does it take to worship, love, praise such a creator just for the sake of their own continued personal pleasure? I would rather go to hell than worship such an evil. I guess other people are entitled to do otherwise and prioritize their own well-being over justice but not to claim that it is a virtue. But maybe that isn’t why they worship God but rather through the practice of some classic doublespeak they are able to at once believe that the creator of everything is somehow not creator of evil. At any rate God appears to be an entity that preys on people’s ignorance and powerlessness so he can play with them and then kill them in a creative manner. And some people are fine with being someone’s toy as long as they are treated more favourably than the other toys. Maybe this is why that so many stories that have to do with little children and their toys coming to life can be so creepy. The reason that I want to believe in God though I would hate him is because I want someone to blame for all the wickedness, suffering, selfishness, that even someone with no empathy and no interest in other people is aware of. In the end it’s nothing more than ego trip to make myself feel good by feeling self-righteous and not actually doing anything to ameliorate the suffering that I constantly whine about but you see I often feel that there is no solution, that progress is temporary, that the scale of my actions is so insignificant I might as well mind my own business and try to serve myself instead, that no one has any control of history, that there is no authority I can appeal to for justice, that people are a jumbled mess of selfishness, hypocrisy and lies and that politics is in fact just a microcosm of that and so changing politics alone is not enough. That Salvation through politics is a lie. That it simply isn’t a tug war between ‘reaction’ and ‘progress’ where if one constantly supports progress one will get the correct outcome, sometimes the wrong kind of people have the right opinions on the key issues. All my life I have searched for a way I can serve others, searched for that one solution that would end all issues thereafter I could dedicate myself for my own sake, there had got to be one after all God is just and history itself is predetermined to a ‘good end’ that was what I was always taught, we had been taught that we had learned all that there is to learn from history and so we could make no mistake, we were on the righteous path riding the tides of progress towards justice and morality. At any rate that is the impression I got from all the history books I was given in school, they all said that the past was a place full of unimaginable evil that must never be repeated and that all traces of the past must therefore be erased except as a reminder of what we must not be, in Catechism I was essentially taught that ‘God is in his heaven and all is fine with the world’ there is nothing to worry about, God is looking out for you and those that you love and eventually those who are suffering poverty, war, starvation and disease too once humanity finds a solution for those but for now let’s pray for them. ‘God saves those who save themselves.’ There was both in my secular and religious environment a hammering onto our minds that a vast number of innocent people, no different from us, who were oppressed and needed and that our help mattered and that now that we had learned everything from history we were morally superior to our past we had the hope that it would all change with one final effort where-after we would never have to worry about politics at all forever. That we were the last generation who would have to live with the guilt saddled onto us by the innumerable injustices of the past. We no longer had to think of ourselves as mere Italians, our European brothers and sisters would stand side by side with us in the good times and in the bad ones until justice and prosperity and love would be spread all over Europe and then the world. It all sounds so stupid and glib now and I find it hard not to insert the word ‘glorious’ somewhere sarcastically. But that was the educational curriculum for seven to eight year old children in rich Northern Italy in the early 2000s and I suspect that the same was the case in most of rich liberal Northern Europe. I don’t know if there was deliberate effort to make propaganda for children but there was certainly a remnant of a burgeoing optimism in the teaching material that perhaps did not exactly reflect reality but it did not defy it. All of this ended for most Italians in the 2008 financial crisis. And ever since then our European brothers and sisters in the North seem to be taking care of themselves rather than sacrificing themselves for our sake. I know it sounds arrogant to say that but exactly because it sounds arrogant there was nothing real about it in the first place. In the end I felt betrayed, cheated and lied to by both man and God. If God was in his heaven well he sure wasn’t doing anything to help us when many needed it the most, and all those European politicians and bureaucrats all seemed to be doing pretty well while the rest of us were having our prospects destroyed, in a way it seemed as if God was on the side of the politicians, the corrupt and the crooks who all in effect coincidentally seemed to be the same group of people. But even when all this had failed the project must still continue and that’s when we realized that just as those Europeans in the North are not the same us because they did not share our fate and our values those poor people suffering in poverty, war etc.. are also different from us. And to rediscover who we already are we have to examine our own dreaded maligned ailing past. No matter how much many tried to ignore this simple truth the material well-being to pretend that there is no such thing as national interest simply is gone. There is a danger that the pendulum might swing too far and so much caution must be practised in surgically exactly extracting what is important to us as a people. Unfortunately only once those national interests will be fulfilled will we be free to act in a humanitarian manner towards other peoples. The country first needs to properly look after its own people for no other reason than pure self-interest and self-preservation.

The most striking thing about my education to care about the wretched people of the world was that I would always nod in agreement and truly believe that I must care about other people more than I cared about myself but in effect I was indifferent to the suffering of others. I guess I was born a Tory. We all are. And then some of us become decent human beings. The political choice is always one’s own well-being and those of others, I know that many conservatives would say that they are in favour of voluntary charity instead of state enforced taxation to help the poor, but realistically, in practice, can charity collect more funds than taxation? Because that is what matters, that is what has an effect in this world instead of just making oneself feel good for being a charitable person. I think liberty means the freedom to not be a decent human being if one wishes to. I guess my intention is to blow up a ton of dynamite beneath the position of decent human beings. And I guess my motive is that I don’t want to be a decent human being and the best apologetics is an attack and what better target than those internet hectoring moralists with their blogs who I can only picture hovering above in the sky sitting on chairs with their keyboards and computer screens in front of them on their desks. Even above them in the exosphere of course we have the reddit philosophers orbiting the globe tipping their fedoras down at us mere mortals and our inferior morality and intellectualism, the academics who don’t believe in truth have transcended to another plane of existence entirely where reason, evidence and probability do not exist the less said about them the better. It seems that moral-fagging and pretentious overthinking(with no evidence to back any claim because evidence is invalid) has become a surrogate for any actual tangible material achievement. The pushback against this tendency of course is the cringe-fest of shit-posting, the so-called ‘irony’ and the endless ocean of sarcastic self-deprecating humour in the forms of memes cooked up in 4chan, that assortment of anonymous basement dwellers and ‘wizards’(middle-aged virgins who have achieved supernatural powers through their virginity, it’s that kind of joke) where ‘human decency’ goes to die, or in other words the self-deprecating ‘humour’ too is just another replacement for actual progress, a lot of these ‘jokes’ they come up with are about themselves, while this kind of self-criticism is probably preferable to the aforementioned ‘human decency’, ‘intelligence’ and ‘Morality’ displayed in pixels on a screen but it does NOT actually change or produce anything and it is only a matter of time, actually it has already happened, that politics is introduced into the fray and people start pretending to care about things that they and who else is more susceptible to this than some loser whose only identity is to try and make some funny joke for some other losers, how much more attractive it is to be part of a force for good against some evil and politics provides plenty of evil to rail against, they can only hide in the shadow of their past ‘humour’ so long and say that they are not really serious, that ‘it’s just a meme’. There is nothing wrong with going against what one believes to be evil but they, nay we must understand that it’s not going to make them, us happy. Material success may feel hollow after a point to some (it is hard to say as someone who hasn’t had any) but what’s even more hollow is politics.


Basically, this is what happened.

 

Whatever political ideology or outcome or system they can manage to pass will not change human beings for the better although I admit that human beings can change markedly for the worse. At any rate although there is a lot of wrong that can be corrected in politics although I think that those who frequent ‘pol’ are barking at the wrong tree just as the left-wing academics with their cringe-worthy grimaces who we so fervently and correctly criticize for trying to transform human society into a society of ‘decent human beings’ who can only ever speak and think in two or three of the valid talking points or else lose their jobs and be effectively censored if not worse. To be honest I think that the extreme progressive left begets the ‘alt-right’ and other assorted ‘identity politics’(‘as a woman’, ‘as a black woman’ or some other self-loving pointless descriptor) dissociating politics from reason and attaching it to some sort of identity, or in other words the validity of an argument ceased to matter and what matters instead is who made the proposition and who benefits from it. Ironically those who sought to eliminate the perceived differences between groups have succeeded in making them ever more striking or in other words they have failed(assuming that their intentions were pure to begin with), and this can be proved from the poll that matters and are an objective assessment of public opinion, at the ballot box. The progressives were intern a reaction to the extreme right-wing Christians in America. Yes, it is true that the ideologies related to the Frankfurt school were brewing in the background in the universities and had regained some sort of legitimacy all over western Europe especially after the fall of the Soviet Union when a morally necessary enemy was taken from us by Gorbachev but this shit-show all started with a bang on 9/11 with the right-wing reaction to it and then the left-wing reaction to the right-wing. I guess someone who is on the right would say that the reaction to 9/11 was left-wing but that is beside this point because at any rate the left perceived it to be a right-wing reaction. I am not saying that maintaining an interest in politics is a bad thing, but I am suspicious of all these movements ‘taking it to the man’ may actually be phoney self-contained bubbles that will do more harm to the individuals in them rather than any good for society. I am starting to wonder what those who participate in this stuff will have left for themselves when all bubbles will inevitably burst, just ask the Japanese, although I doubt it would be something of such proportions, rather it will all mellow down to nothing leaving nothing for those who were in it for the greater good, think of the Japanese student protests in the 60s, what is their legacy? Nothing, that’s what I am talking about, and let’s be honest the alt-right and other movements are even more marginal than that. I am not saying that this could not change. I am just asking whether that is what we really want or if we are pretending that it is what we want because we can’t get what we want in our own lives. We are dissatisfied with our own lives, and while politics is a piece in this puzzle, it is not the only piece, most people in real life, that mysterious dangerous realm, do not spend their time talking about politics, or race, or gender or any other of those topics, is it because people are superfluous and would rather talk about silly inconsequential piffle rather than what really matters, or is it because what matters the most in life to them is the other things in life other than politics? I hate to be a relativist, but I feel that most people who want to talk about higher topics only want to do so to feel superior to other people who don’t have an interest in those topics. I am not saying that those topics don’t have their place, but the dogged obsession with politics that I have seems to be down to an inability to maintain an interest in other people, I can only pretend to care about what someone says for so long, the righteousness and certainty that one can feel writing about politics on the internet is also a major attraction, the stakes in politics always are high so it also attracts that part of us that wants to achieve something, and to top it off there is a community you can be a part of and a community who can be the enemy of, it’s almost like a game where you get virtue points for simply having the right opinions. I think contained within the injunction to ‘get a life’ is the solution to this simple and yet difficult problem, a simple conundrum. In the internet, where all of us can weave our own personas more freely ideological purity becomes the only test for virtue and that is by the way quite convenient for some of us who have nothing to show for ourselves other than ideological purity. When I use the word virtue, I use it in a Christian sense, that is to say totally devoid of glory, and pertaining to good things done when no one is looking(which by the way is impossible if God is watching you). In my opinion a good person should do good things prepared to go to hell for them, go to hell for them forever and only then will it be proven that he was actually good. Anything less than that is virtue-signalling. If goodness is eventually rewarded and done with this intent then it is not actually goodness, is it? No, that is business as usual, a transaction, a long term investment, a bet to impress someone, and nothing more. This is the reason I find Jihad unconvincing. I know this is considered an unpopular opinion (which is not why I hold it and is beside the point because it really isn’t ‘unpopular’ in the sense of its commonness) but it is considered to be an unpopular opinion by the journalists and academics living in their ‘safe-spaces’, echo-chambers and mini-ironcurtains but I don’t think that terrorists are cowards at all. Many people also don’t believe this but it’s not a nice thing to say, it’s not that I am brave for saying this because no can seriously be considered to be brave for publishing anything in a free country like England, all I have got is a little bit more leeway because I can’t be fired for wrongthink as I am unemployed and my reputation can’t be tarnished because I haven’t got any. I don’t see anything wrong in conceding bravery to these terrorists(it is pointless calling them names, they are not politicians and they are dead, they won’t be affected), bravery is a virtue that because it gives value to all other virtues but bravery itself means nothing. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that for these Jihadis sacrificing themselves killing a whole lot of innocent people is the moral equivalent to that of sacrificing oneself to save a lot a lot innocent people, how should I say this, they have got different cultural values. But even if I grant them the morality of their actions, it still is nothing more than a transaction, a barter, for every drop of infidel blood spilled they will be forgiven a pint of beer that they had consumed in their godless degenerate lives, since the criteria to get into heaven is unknowable people will make up their own, this is all they have done. What I am trying to say is that (in the presence of God) only if the bribe would be replaced by a punishment, no less than an eternal punishment, then the self-serving motive could be eliminated. What about in the absence of God? Well, in that case, everything is more or less random or determined, at any rate the consequences of your actions can only be gauged in the short term, well your life is short, relatively, relative to what? History. So what? Never-mind eternity and try to be happy in your life? If you are going to sacrifice yourself for the sake of others then you must do it for the sake of others and not so that you can get happiness in some indirect manner? So virtue in the form of selflessness goes un-rewarded? Not always but yes mostly, selflessness is even punished often and that’s what makes it virtue? People can only sacrifice themselves for each other because they care about each other and not for some external reward, for some peddling meddler, some interlocutor, some middle-man between the bonds of human beings? Is this real selflessness? It is as real as it gets without devolving into unbridled narcissism and histrionics? But then perhaps selflessness is unbridled narcissism and histrionics. Or perhaps not. There’s no way I would know. This is pure speculation. Everywhere I looked for good, for ‘decency’ all that I encountered was one disorganized festering shit-fest of shrieking fraud after another assembly of mass organized hypocrisy. That’s a lot of buzzwords for exactly not referring to anything in particular but not enough sound bites for effect. I thought I had become better at this after spending years on the internet where everyone and their dog spends day and night trying to come up with sound bites and while most do fail the few that succeed are regurgitated until they become transparently derivative. There was a time when only journalists and politicians could lie to mass audiences but not any more, now everyone has got that power- to a certain degree. One would think that as more people have the ability to make their perspective known things would become clearer but on the contrary it has become almost impossible to differentiate truth from fiction, this may sound strange to someone who only watches Tv news or only reads the papers, but on the internet you’re only one click away from the political views of your opponents unless you artificially close off yourself in safe-spaces/mini-iron-curtains. I seldom talk about these topics because Orwell has already done it and I couldn’t possibly improve on that, besides sometimes I hardly see the point in saying these things, ‘don’t believe in what others are saying because they are lying but… believe in me?’, 1984 and Animal Farm have become world best-sellers and some people have bothered to read Orwell’s much better essays but what has changed? Has journalism become more honest? Is the truth more transparent and easy to find? Well yes and no, Orwellian I know, the past may have become more clearer but I wouldn’t say entirely clear as I often see the left-wing intelligentsia doctoring the past in schools to portray themselves as the force for good, and to portray the conservative as the force for evil-by-any-other-name. But the records are still there and anyone bothered to find the truth beyond wikipedia can go to the libraries and lazy fucks like me can often find *legal* digital copies on the internet too. What I am really worried about, what I find ‘problematic’ in progressive newspeak, is the coverage of I have really got a talent of going off on a tangent, contrary to what it may seem like, I find it distasteful to talk about myself at length. I hate writing CVs fortunately I have got very little to write in them.


Real Communism

Don’t the people who say that the country is over and done with, secretly want the country to be over and done with so they at least don’t have to watch it going down at least?

During the civil war in Sri Lanka hundreds and thousands of people were being murdered just a few miles from where I lived and I had no idea, most people had no idea because the journalists wouldn’t say anything. That is the power of journalism, or should I say of lying.

I have a feeling that if I had a life I wouldn’t care so much about politics or history. Somehow I find political behaviour to be relaxing in its repetitive lack of any ‘decency’ because I can always advocate for ‘decency’ and nothing more even when I know it is useless and then remain calm or act surprised and indignant when it is useless. There was a time I could genuinely be angry but now I can’t be bothered, because it is so ineffective. I just haven’t got anything better with my time than to feign hatred. Which is really just a form of targeted virtue-signalling towards whatever group with whatever affiliations I am trying to appeal to, to get virtue-points from. The rhetoric is so repetitive it so easy to mimic. This may sound exeedingly cynical but I believe it is something most people do when they are commenting in the outlet of another ideology.

Maybe I would go to an atheist forum and pretend to be a Christian and write that we should fully restore Christianity’s power over the English people because God is, so to speak, the devil we know. What has Christianity been replaced by? Politics(i.e. the worship of power, generally not the will to power) where the people petition governments for miracles and when these fail to manifest they turn to populist politicians(who atheists hate) who will promise them the moon and when that fails to materialize, you see where I am going with this. Oh God it’s so easy to piss off atheists, Christians on the other hand have gotten so used to getting called out and ridiculed that it is becoming harder to get a reaction from though if I press the right buttons at the right time I can still piss them off too. The most effective method with Christians is to point out what hypocrites they are, Christians(and leftists) are very sensible to this although Muslims don’t seem to care when they are exposed as hypocrites and liars that seems to be part and parcel of their deal, unlike Christians they don’t pretend to be decent people. The general rule is that Christians are phoney(BEHOLD AT MUH MORAL(ITY)TM-grandstanding AND MUH VIRTUE-signallling), Atheists are self-aggrandizing ass-holesTM(BEHOLD AT MUH INTELLECTUAL MAGNIFICENCE), and Muslims are phoney self-aggrandizing assholes (RESPECT MUH PROPHET OR WE WILL KILL YOU AND RAPE YOUR SISTER, MOTHER but not your father because we are not western degenerarts), obviously I am generilizing and atheists, Chritians and Muslims come in all shapes and sizes. But then what about the Jews who started it all? The less said about them the better, just kidding, things would be much less entertaining without them around. Once you start to view humanity as one great comedy it will loosen your partisan rectum a bit rather than be morally constipated(1), obviously too much of anything is bad, you wouldn’t want to spill your guts(and your heart and your brain) out of your anus.

(1)Moral Constipation (aka Moral Faggotery) is a serious and widespread epidemic afflicting millions of people of the internet. Symptoms include Virtue Signalling and Moral Superiority Complex(e.g. “You murderous swine how dare you eat meat! You MYSOGYNIST pig how dare you wank to naked beautiful women, you should wank to women based on muh personality! You CUCK how dare you betray muh race by wanting to fuck non-white(including Jewish) women! How dare you NOT GO YOUR(our) OWN WAY and marry a woman who you love, don’t you know that most women are hypergamous whores!? YOU SELFISH PRICK How dare you want to own property, don’t you want ‘the people’ to own your computer? YOU RACHIST PEDO-NAZI how dare you defend the freedom of speech for yolocaust deniers, lolicons and cartoonists? etc….”)

It makes sense that the far left would side with Islam, after all and before all, both groups can only see power.

I have come to think of feminists as the new class of clergy, with all their prudishness and moralizing.

go to an ‘alt-right’ website and suggest that the society they wanted and their views about women were not that different from those that the Islamists want and that maybe they should they should cooperate with each other to get rid of the jews or better yet why don’t they become muslims after all Islam has got a better track record at “fighting the degeneracy of the west.”

or go to a Trotskyist website just to see which leftist they are bashing for his or her lack of ideological purity and then suggest that maybe it wouldn’t make a difference who the soviet leadership consisted of and that maybe Trotsky would have fared worse than Stalin with his dream of an international revolution, that is enough to make them light up in righteous fury.

I tried to go to Muslim forums and say that what I find disgusting about their faith at first sight is not their violence but their pornographic displays of piety and virtue-signalling followed and preceded by copious hypocrisy(both organized and disorganized). But this was ineffective because Muslims don’t share the same queasiness about hypocrisy, public displays of piety and virtue that Christians feel when you point out to them that they are a bunch of hypocrites who cherry-pick from scripture to tell others what to do and to do whatever they feel like. The Muslims, well at any rate the Muslims I have talked to on the internet(I wouldn’t speak about Islam in public in Britain for my safety not just from Muslims but from the state and the institutions) were for the most part uninterested

On the internet this kind of content is called ‘bait’ or ‘trolling’ and those who recognize it will warn others with ‘Don’t take the bait’ or ‘Don’t feed the troll.’ To be effective all these insults need to delivered with a certain mock humility/innocense and if possible by using their own rhetoric/language against them. It’s not hard to pull it off but you need to be patient, it’s a bit like fishing and like in all debate a certain amount of arrogance unwarranted faith in one’s own convictions is necessary although though these need to be hidden for as long as long possible imitating the talking points of one’s opponent and then displaying their stupidity in short spurts and then going back and reiterating their talking point in a mock serious manner. It is great fun if you if you haven’t got anything else better to do although I believe it also takes a certain genuine anger to get through with it, to be bothered enough to do it consistently thouthoughout in a way that you even if you are called out on it you can point out that what you have said could be interpreted in a totally innocuous manner and that they are they ones that are actually being <insert the accusation levied against you>. For example if it’s with a Christian, hold God against his own measure and then call Him a hypocrite but effectively claim that it’s okay because He has the power to do whatever he wants and say that those who follow Him are actually clever tactful hedonists instead of gullible fools that atheists paint them to be, insult them while heaping praise on them for their cleverness, insulting them while pretending to be one of them is fine too, speak seriously in farcical terms. Although a downside of this method is that signals how powerless, ineffective and out of touch with the consensus you actually are for having to resort to it. Another disadvantage of this is that it is too easy to become a moralist (or a improvisation of a moralist) lambasting literally everything in his sight, and has got something snarky to say about everyone but has got no suggestions to offer, or makes no attempt to offer any suggestions because he has no power to implement them. The highest form of this is the professional whiner who is able to make a living out of complaining. I am not saying that criticism is unnecessary but I do not want to vie for it as many do although I may end up as one. Yeah, yeah I am plagiarising Orwell’s essay on Dickens specifically here, although I do not in any way compare myself to Dickens, my criticism is always too crude, petty, vindictive, attempting to score points, and angry to ever come off as well-meaning. Sometimes I am afraid that the whole of political discourse at any rate in public is being turned into a sort of sport of hypocrisy fishing between moralists where nothing constructive ever gets directly said. A sort of on-going ad-hoc morality play between moralists that normal people can occasionally watch for entertainment and to feel that they are right and not do anything about it.

I think that someone needs to call out these people, I am not saying that it will me but I have got nothing better to do so I might as well get a laugh at the expense of the anger of those who take politics seriously revelling in their own self-importance in every nook and cranny of the internet. It is petty and pathetic but then again that’s what I am. It may seem like a good thing that so many people are discussing politics but in reality it is a few people who talk like they are moral guardians of society, that if it wasn’t for their contribution and the contribution of their ideological group then the whole of society would degenerate into no less than murder, rape, genocide and all the nice stuff. I have already been banned from over fifty forums for wrongthink, for telling these people what they don’t want to hear. Some of them, especially the Muslims react by telling me that they are going to kill me, rape my mother and sister(to which I always say that I have a brother in which case they would go to hell for sodomy). Many of these ‘threats’(come on it’s over the internet what are these ‘keyboard-warriors’ gonna do) are written in extremely poor grammar and spelling(even by my standards), so I have a standard reply I send to such ‘threats’ titled ‘How To Make a Proper Death Threat: The Basics” hoping that they will be able to read it of course, one of them actually sent me a reply taking my corrections into consideration, well at least I taught someone some basic English even if they voiced an intent to kill me. I have gotten over a hundred death threats via email, I publish them on my blog under the ‘what others say about this blog’ section and rate them from one to five starts (there is one five star death threat, a five page essay arguing that he wanted to do me a favour by killing me, he wanted to reduce my time in hell as I would sin less even going as far as to calculate how much time less I would be spending in hell according to the Islamic texts of his sect and asking me for my address so that he could kill me for my own good and sending me his London address so that I could go to him if I found it more convenient of course, the politeness and clarity in that one was priceless, to this day I can’t say whether he was taking the piss, I really would like to know but I don’t think it’s worth risking my life over it), your cherry hasn’t been popped yet if you haven’t been threatened to be killed at least once on that wonderful of cross-cultural interaction that is the internet. The thing I find most surprising is that some people on the internet find what I say so important that they would want to kill some silly lazy fat totally ineffective slob like me. I have never being that important. And I guess that the only way for me to remain that important is to keep saying what’s on my mind so… I will say MORE of what I think just for those who want to censor me by sending me death threats. Even if my opinion does not matter enough to change anything as long as it will matter enough that people want to censor me, well I will write for the sake of those who want to censor me if for nothing else. I guess that’s one thing I do for the sake of others. I have had an ability to piss off people by inadvertently saying inappropriate things without even meaning to. The kind of fool who would say that the emperor has no clothes not because of his bravery or innocence but because he is a tactless fool! And then he is surprised when and wonders why some people are looking at him strangely and with cross faces. The simple kind of person who would be the second to be killed in totalitarianism or taken to the mad house if in Romania. I am not exactly that kind of fool but it’s the kind of fool I try to act like because I am not brave (I often whine about there being no objective record about the war in Syria but would I put my life in risk for the sake of the objective truth (that is oh so sacred to me as I always bring up Orwell, the apologist for truth) and nothing more by going to where the alleged massacres happen and to the battle field if the opportunity would make itself available? No, I would rather just whine and hope someone else will do it, and that’s how most moral grandstanding on the internet works, I am so full of shit I could work in Marketing(i.e. manipulating the markets)). And besides what’s the difference between childish innocence and being a ‘tactless fool’? I guess it would be a waste not to put to use my one ‘talent’(to piss off ideologues of every colour and creed) for the public good. Maybe I should piss them off until one of them realizes that I won’t shut up unless they actually kill me and actually kills me. Sometimes I find the ways they would like to kill me funny (for example when the right-wingers say that that I ought to be given ‘a free helicopter ride’ like they used to do in Argentina, to be honest though the far right on the internet has a better sense of humour than the far left, this doesn’t make them right of course but it’s more than I expected from them, from Pepe memes to ‘Hitler didn’t die for this’, ‘Say it with me kids ‘ONLY A DEAD RED IS A GOOD RED’’, ‘Hitler did nothing wrong’, ‘the 14 words: To secure the well-being of my race and a future for white children’ their provocative edginess is entertaining, by comparison the left in the recent past has only managed very crude political caricatures, just look at that play where Donald Trump gets stabbed(the headline for the story in The Granuiad did not say this by the way although if it were the other way around… COMMENT IS FREE but fact is sacred but then again only if they are convenient, I am not someone with high expectations about anything but very few things can disappoint me like reading The Guardian, it’s one of the few things I think actually could be much better), or again that ‘comedian’ with a prop of Trump’s severed head or the text heavy cartoons in the likes of The Economist screaming ‘Propaganda’, that is just pathetic, it used to be the other way with stand up comedians like George Carlin but I suppose irony sides with those who at least have a slight point to make at that time) and just kill me. It would be a win-win situation, they would get virtue-points for murdering me (and get their 72 virgins or whatever pathetic motive revealing justification their ideology peddles) and I would be put out of my misery, unless they are right and there is such a thing as hell, in which case I suppose the fun only begins when I am dead. Why would God create someone like me? Was it to fill the quota for people in hell? Not exactly wicked but not exactly good, indifferent to be exact, distant and yet always there, it turns out God is a bit like the European Union. Well the EU has at least the excuse of not being omnipotent. I fear for England because God is unjust. An obvious just anomaly in history is bound to be blown away clean off the surface sooner rather than later.

The truth is I don’t want to think about politics, but when you are on a sinking ship your thoughts will be on sinking ships. And I can only write what I think about, even if I try to write what I want to write – silly romantic comedies with loose plots, eccentric characters(not caricatures), happy endings, random shenanigans and plenty of immature sexual and slapstick humour for the entire family imitating Rumihiko Takahashi(well her lighter less edgy stuff anyway) what I am really thinking about seeps through my fingers onto the page. I do not for a moment think that my contributions to political discourse will be missed, I am not a public intellectual, nor a private one, I am just some guy in front of a keyboard with too much time on his hands(though it might be less than I think) but despite this I have, and I use this word very tentatively, some ‘hope’ that I might actually say something insightful sometime.

I have often tried to be like some sort of autistic Buddha and literally stop caring about everything as cowardly as it is I would have some peace in my mind at last, what I soon found out was that could only pretend not to care, act as if I did not care, stop listening or caring about the news, about what all the pundits I listen to have to say about politics, writing, humour and art, just stop caring about any of it was to practice being dead while I am alive in preparation for death. And this was as effective as telling me that I should care about other people or in other words it didn’t work. I would even think more about these things when I couldn’t listen to what other people had to say about these things. But the happiness I could gain from an interesting turn of phrase was not enough for me, it only lasted a few seconds or minutes and perhaps it might delight me later if I will recall it.

After my experience in media exposure in Sri Lanka during the end of the civil war I cringe away in doubt whenever I hear a politician speaking in jubilant language. It’s a pity that it took that much to get that reaction from me. I hope (as always in vain) that other people are not as daft and gullible as I am. Politics can become a form of idolatry, it is hard to get rid of all of one’s hope, I would have killed myself a long time if it were that easy, and so many turn to politics and petition miracles from the state, the state which is made of human beings as reprehensible and opportunistic as ordinary will then devolve into a populist fiesta where more and more and promises that cannot be kept are made to the point where it all becomes pretty fantastic even to the ear of the dumbest listener and the only thing that keeps the political parties alive is the hatred of the other party. Reason and evidence play no part in any of this though rhetoric, sophistry and role-playing-as-statesmen are the snake oil that keeps the party machines and the legitimacy of the state running. I do not think that this is sustainable, something will give, even in Britain, there is the danger that someone who actually means what they are promising will get into power and this could be worse than any of the liars. In politics the worse thing than not getting what you wished for is getting what you wished for. The soviet union used to use similar forms of subversion in the states they wanted to convert to communism but then at least they had the courtesy to kill off the utopian political movements that they had at first pumped money into to subvert the states they wanted to annex once the tanks had moved in.

Contrary to what it may sound like I haven’t got a giant raging hate boner against Christianity, on a personal level I find some of its teaching not bad, for example the parable of the good Samaritan, those who cast the first stone is a bit autistic and impractical but I get the point. On an historical level it is hard to determine whether its effect was overall good or bad because it was pervasive, I could point out examples where it has stifled progress like Galileo, where it added fuel to hatred through anti-semitism and the hatred that the different sects of Christianity used to share with each other. I can appreciate that it has had a positive effect on people’s morality and behaviour on an individual level and that this must have had a positive effect that is not quite so easy to measure. It isn’t even that straightforward that our liberties were given to us through Christianity because there have been too many instances that our liberties had to be earned in opposition to the Christian forces, references(cherrypicking) of scripture that support liberal ideals are useless because scripture (and interpretation of scripture) does not supersede historical fact (no not ‘historical interpretation’ it’s not a fucking painting Christians please don’t start to use relativist sophistry too.). I am sure that there are better arguments out there to defend the historical usefulness of Christianity but don’t expect me to be fair even if I try to be and even if I say I try to be. However going to a Trinity Church mass yesterday reminded me everything that I hate about Christianity and why Christianity is being displaced by Islam in Britain (please don’t blame the atheist Kabbal, Christians take some responsibility just like you like telling other people to), it was a disgusting sight, they were parading around some mentally disabled children to declare how virtuous they were. I have always found PR practices of charities distasteful but this effect was doubled, no quadrupled. All they did was talk about how it benefited them that those children were mentally retarded suggesting that God made them mentally retarded so that Christians could feel good about themselves by helping them. Oh god the utter selfishness of these people was revolting. The final spit in my face was when a speaker unironically said that God loved (those) mentally ill children. I got up and left with a Scrooge-like frown on my face. But in the end I was virtue-signalling too, trying to score points, from the moment I sat there to my attempt at a dramatic departure, what have I done to help those mentally ill children? Nothing. Those children were nothing more than a platform to catapult my self-approval by stripping away the dignity of the Christian Humanitarian’s act. Is there dignity in falsity? If not then my initial point still stands but the problem is, would they still be compelled to do good if their self-serving fraud was exposed when I am myself not compelled enough to do good to actually do good? Bullshit is the glue that holds us together. Properly speaking there is no such thing as decency, there is only social exchange; carried out throughout the nation in a currency not unlike the sterling pound, i.e. every act of virtue is purely symbolic even more than the ink on a bank note or the pixels on the ATM screen when you check your balance and the 1s and 0s of the data in the computers in banks. A consequentialist who happily ignores all side-effects of faith would say that the illusion is good enough so long as it delivers the desired results in the form of good behaviour and harmony in the community but there is some truth that what prevents people like me from shutting up is a nagging sense of contentment derived from telling people they are wrong in a confrontational manner rather than a genuine sense of well-meaning concern for the effect that our dialectic may bring on the community. Actually it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that I have come to hate the word ‘community’ for the same reason that I hate the word ‘consensus’ for its blatant disregard of the very concept of objective truth through collective solipsism. For example when the media uses the consensus of the ‘Muslim community’ as an argument, as if it were an argument for or against anything, it shows that they do not believe that there are actually any arguments for or against anything. Of course it may be dressed up in the language of ‘compromise’, ‘feasibility’, ‘cohesion’ but all that’s left really is the language of power, or to be more precise group power and so group-think, liberal principles and the individual be damned. Its not that I am only interested in society insofar as it affects me, I know it is hard to believe but I can occasionally sympathize with others, but it would be a lie to say that I am not concerned with my own well-being PRIMARILY and then secondarily with that of others, for example the reason I am so worried about the erosion of liberties in Britain is PRIMARILY because it will affect my ability to say what I want to say and secondarily for the sake of others, I am not upholding a principle primarily for the sake of upholding it. But what’s the difference between saying ‘secondarily’ and ‘not at all’? Isn’t that another empty screen to hide my selfishness? Perhaps so but it also serves another purpose – to note the reverse connection between my well-being and that of others. Or in other words no man is an island yada yada. But how is this any different from what the Christian’s were doing? It was the falsity of their selflessness and their assumption that there is someone who could actually fix things but wont because… ‘reasons’ but other people’s suffering doesn’t matter to them as long as they are assured a future existence without pain, there is nothing wrong with this, everyone primarily cares for themselves, that is normal, but if they could only admit that they do are in it for the bribes and that they do not really care about the evil that afflicts others if it will get in the way of them getting into heaven because it would mean having to hold their prospective benefactor morally accountable for his (in)action thus sabotaging their own prospects in their afterlives for the sake of what is right. What is the solution? There is no problem.

Christianity in England is a dead horse (a joke) and so the criticism of Christianity is beating a dead horse.. That doesn’t mean that there isn’t some pleasure to be had in gouging and defiling its carcass. I am an agnostic, although I doubt that God would take that into consideration when He court martials me into hell for my lack of ideological-purity(faith). But my issue is not with society or with Christians, they are mostly civilized people, but with God, who is a callous savage.

The indirect message of today’s manga and anime (and if you insist light novel trash and visual novel porn games) to otaku is a clear, straightforward and simple one, of the kind that the electorate will never get from a politician, it is this: ‘ You and I are both aware that women won’t touch you with a ten foot pole and you and I both know that that’s with good reason. Above all do not get involved in politics because we both know it’s not society’s fault, it’s your fault, you were never suited to live the life of a human being to begin with, well in fact you should be grateful that society is compassionate enough to tolerate you, in any other era you would have been dead long before you could reach your dreadful, wretched state(perhaps society isn’t as compassionate as it claims to let you live), you are still a citizen even if you are a pathogen. You are worthless and you shall always be, so here is a doll(all those cute 2D anime girls) that you can play with and play-pretend to be a human being. Just stay away from little girls please. Acceptance is the first step to enlightenment. There is no salvation.’ All idealism is dead. I think that the gates to this cynicism was to make losers the protagonists, pioneered (or at any rate popularized) by Rumiko Takahashi’s Urusey Yatsura and Maison Ikkoku, previously most protagonists were brave, sucessful and behaved themselves like idealistic boyscouts, they also had platonic girlfriends so that little children did not think that the main characters were all gay for all their talk about friendship and camaraderie with each other. At any rate some of those children kept on watching anime into their adulthood and many of them are losers, at any rate having the protagonists as losers naturally pushed out the boyscout morals from TV anime and in came the edgelord protagonists and the final blow to the integrity of anime came in the form of moe. All of this was bad enough already but it was greatly exarcebated by KyoAni’s The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya. Alongside the moe abomination grew another form anime at the opposite end of the self-insert character and self-indulgent fantasy settings, with Sword Art Online, with its deliberately over-powered protagonists protected by tons of plot armor and convenience but also invariably introduced as poor otaku whose true potential is not recognized by society and so he needs to go to some generic fantasy setting where he is appreciated for his true hidden greatness. How can anyone with any self-respect watch this self-indulging horse-shit? Well, at any rate, that should explain why I watch it. ‘But it’s just an anime’ won’t cut it, we cannot afford to ignore the effects that fiction have on us, least of all otaku whose entire being revolves around fiction. But is there some way to objectively measure the effect that fiction has in a generalizable way that can be statistically gauged? I fear not. Such broad questions will only invite imprecise answers and so the methodology is bound to favour the desired outcome of the researcher. There are just too many variables that could affect the outcome other than fiction, is there even such a thing as the one size fits all otaku? What is an otaku? It is the slavish devotion to some form of being or art that Orwell was for and Dickens against(for others). Were Orwell and Dickens otaku? It doesn’t matter, it wouldn’t say a damned thing about the rest of ‘us(?)’ even if they were otaku, or proto-otaku.

I think that 1984 is the archetypical male dystopia and Brave New World is the archetypical female dystopia. They are variations of the same thing – the end of the individual who thinks for himself by the stern-father or the smothering mother. That doesn’t mean we could not design the worst of both worlds- a republic of lies where there is damnation but where sweet relief can be bought by telling yourself any lie you want to hear in the free market of lies where there are more lies than there are people. The otaku were just the first to enter, no to escape into this republic to be damned but at least not in permanent pain (relief through death doesn’t count as there is no one to feel the relief for there to be any of it) living in a sort-of self-imposed pauperism through their own fear.

Some people say that we live in a post-modern era, well I would argue that we live in the bullshit era, or if you are a moral-fag the post-truth era, you can choose to believe whatever lie you want to believe in or you can even believe in believe in multiple contradiction lies, it’s all bullshit anyway, convenient bullshit, but bullshit nonetheless, whatever it is you want to believe in your news streams will be tailored to you individually through social media, it will be, who am I kidding, it is, like living in an echo-chamber of one- with you in it and no else.

What would Orwell say? Why do I want to know? There is nothing sacred, least of all the words of some (dead) journalist. But why do I still want to know? Because there might be some truth in it. Why did Orwell think the truth matters? Because the cause of progress, if there is such a thing, should be served through objective facts? Can’t convenient lies do the same just better? Animal Farm. Why shouldn’t inconvenient facts be hidden? 1984. Aren’t those just too extreme, hasn’t there ever being a single occasion in which hiding the truth and making up lies has led to public good? Many. Then why shouldn’t journalists lie to advance their cause? Because they might get caught lying. But what if they are clever or lucky and are not found out? Dangerous precedent. Oh come on that ‘dangerous precedent excuse’ is only used to prevent those people from doing what they think is the right thing to do now because they might have to do the same thing in a similar situation in the future but every body lies, right? Not everybody. Yes, but you can’t know whether they are lying to you or not a lot of times because it is a second hand account, so why not make up shit that promotes moral causes? But the pursuit of truth…. Does the pursuit of truth always intersect with the pursuit of morality? Most of them time, it does. But if it’s not always wrong for a journalist to lie, then when must a journalist lie? Never because there’s no way to predict whether lying will lead to a better outcome. Really? Let’s say that for example a journalist gets a hold of the crime records that state that a certain ethnic group is responsible for a disproportionate amount of crime, now let’s say that publishing the statistics as they are may lead to retributional crime towards members of that ethnic group, should that journalist covertly falsify the record and the statistics and thus prevent those crimes or should he tell the whole truth and allow those crimes against innocent people(to not publish the statistics is not an option due to the statistics needing to be made public legally very soon)? That’s a hard one. No shit. In the long run telling the truth is bound to be beneficial as the crime problem within that ethnic group will not be solved unless it is acknowledged first. So those victims are just causalities of the truth? No, they are victims of the criminals. Yes, but in effect they are sacrificial lambs for the long term good of society, yes? Ye-ah. Journalists wield a disproportionate amount of power, they determine what is considered to be reality and so shape the truth in their own image. To-day we are all journalists. The line between consumers and producers of news is wearing thin on the internet. We are all Winston Smith, working in a cubicle with our devices voting on which stories and which narratives ought to be seen and which ought to be hidden- that is why Orwell, the apologist for objective truth, matters. 1984 is an apologia for the utility of truth more than a criticism of totalitarianism but perhaps the two are the same thing. Since the 20th century we have reached a point where apologia for simple straightforward journalistic truth needs to be written. But why? Because all interested parties have realized the power of consensus and how to affect it to an extent, so if you will remain silent even if you have got nothing to say, then the other party will steer society towards its way, every public act has been politicised and become an ideological-purity test, leading to rampant virtue-signalling(most prominently in the form of shaming political opponents), we are all willingly informers to each others and to ourselves because through social media we can construct our own political image and those on your side of history will watch what you say – and your choice will be to say what is acceptable or to say nothing about politics, naturally those who have nothing to show for themselves will latch onto politics to validate themselves through public shows of virtue and mindless hatred towards the enemy, there is no need for Big Brother (though the state might eventually create him because they can), when the readily available way to feel pleasure (without guilt)is to engage in orgies of political hatred towards political enemies while being in echo-chambers of one, watching each others mouths, then that is what the majority will do.

I do not want to engage in political thought, I would rather live an aesthetic life, the life of an artist rather than a politician, but every time I try to concentrate on art something happens that makes me feel a pulse in my political artery. Sadly my time is limited so every-time I engage in day-to-day politics time is lost that would otherwise have been used to ponder at the eternal beauties of art. Or in other words I know that I have a responsibility to society to live as if my political opinion mattered, but it hardly matters in a direct way that I could control its outcome and there is this nagging thought (there are too many thoughts in my head) that my life is slipping through my fingers like sand when I don’t do what I love, and am always angry at this or that political commentator or at this or that political event – it all seems so futile, 0 and zero adding up to nothing, leading nowhere, running in circles – I am just angry and worried all of the time, writing some angry comment or reply trying to act cool-headed and patiently explaining to people why they are wrong all day, and night – thinking all day and night how to prove someone wrong and then generally being rewarded with nothing, either because I was wrong or more often because the victory feels hollow, like winning in some-kind of word game rather than an actual moral dispute – it wasn’t always like this I used to learn new things everyday but now I am having the same conversation with too many people – the reason that I turned to the internet in the first place was to avoid this. I have made up my mind about some things and I am just defending and tinkering them and many things have simply remained unanswered. I simply don’t seem to make any progress well in fact I might be regressing as some things I long held to be certain simply aren’t, some would say that this is progress, but is being in a state of permanent ambiguity ultimately good? Isn’t it to dispel this state in the first place that we learn, discuss and debate or is it the opposite and I was misinformed?

The British government has a long and shameful history of censorship. The latest manifestation of which is the censorship of most internet porn under the guise of child protection, the children are being brought up fine by their parents, in my humble opinion the state should just fuck off. Obviously there is no level that these people will not degrade themselves to (and in the process degrade the nation to) including using children as the front cover (and terrorists on the back covers) for their pamphlets to justify their censorship tarnishing the opponents of censorship as terrorist and child abuse enablers. I can only hope there is an hell for those politicians who try to be our parents to go to. Sometimes I wish we had something like the first amendment(and the second too). Parliament has too much power in Britain- it is free to do absolutely anything, and frankly I have lost my trust in parliament. Speaking of liberty or lack thereof in Britain, why the hell should I carry around identification inside the country? The police and even hotels want to know who I am. Why? Passports are annoying as it is, needing the permission of the state to leave the country even if I haven’t done any crime? A few years ago I was travelling on a plane to Poland on a trip to Auschwitz and next to me was a Ukranian who could barely speak a word of English proudly wielding around his British passport, that is when I realized that it is a meaningless document only meant to let us know who the masters of our fate really are. Let me give you a hint: It’s not us. I believe that those who advocate censorship ought to be censored into oblivion, only when they have a good taste of their own medicine will they comprehend this elementary point, and hopefully break free of their self-righteous pseudo-paternalistic illiberal-ism. Unfortunately no one with two brain cells to put together would ever advocate for censorship when they are not the one’s in power, after all if things that are ‘harmful to the youth’ ought to be hidden then it naturally follows that the opposition ought to censored – what else can there be more harmful to the youth? Nothing. What I am trying to get at is that there is no liberal opposition in parliament and that is why it has failed. Every one has got these schemes of how society ought to be and how it ought to be achieved, but no one wants to stand up for the simple principles of freedom, no party wants people to live their own lives- they know better than the individual what he really needs is. The individual is wrong to want to live his life however he wants so he needs to be monitored and be guided to the righteous path like Pavlov’s dog with a stick, a carrot and now a blindfold too by the British state.

Honestly I am feeling outraged about many things that I already knew and was not outraged by (to this extent) when I was a child, which makes me question the basis for my outrage more and more everyday. Things used to be more simple, I thought that all I needed to do was to advocate the rational solution, the moral cause, and puff the problem would be gone, there was only one rational solution of course – the one that I advocated for, there were no contradictions(that I could see), I wasn’t a totalitarian but I thought that if The rational solution was explained to others that would be all that it took. I was naively condescending(I didn’t mean to be). Am I really a rational being? I know I wasn’t then but what about now? Well, I am rational enough to know I was irrational then. But could it be possible that I was right then and I am wrong now? Yes. This creeping uncertainty seems to be nothing more than a distraction but from what? From reality. What reality? Do I even need to ask that question, my reality as an individual of course, society may be too late to pray for but the individual human being might yet be saved is what Orwell says that Dickens thinks but is Dickens right to-day? Was he then? I grapple with this at all because I want to save myself first but I feel guilty of doing nothing for others, it is all about me of-course, directly or indirectly, from the start, at the end and in between- me, me, me. But I digress…Was Dickens right? Well, society has been saved from some ills but what should the politician do? Should he stand aside and let things run their course and try to intervene as much as possible? By ‘stand aside’ I mean try to maintain long term stability with no radical change to allow society to change as organically as possible, or should he intervene and break and make things as he sees fit (and I don’t mean just economically but culturally too)? But before I answer that question, is this just a distraction from my life? Does it matter to me as an individual what the answer to it will be? Should I be a politician (someone whose chief concern is how other people live their lives)? I am a member of society and so I should care about what happens in it but a politician is different from a normal human being in that he is forced to look at the bigger picture, it is not enough for him to just look at his own situation, by this I don’t mean that he is self-less, far from it, but he has to consider all the major interest groups in the country and to devise and advocate something that works for most of them, that is unless he has only got sway in one interest group and so has to pander to it or if a few interest groups have sway over him. No. I will not be a politician but it still interests me so I want to know- long-term stability is good overall most of the time.

I don’t like anything and I hate a lot of things. Maybe I should just kill myself and be done with it, but then if someone for some reason decided to give my carcass an enema, would it be possible to bury me in a shoebox or a matchbox or would there be nothing left?

I am a man of ideas not a man of action. Now as to whether those ideas are sound, that is another question entirely, I know that they are not original but that hardly has any bearing as to whether they are right, and anyway as far as effect is concerned presentation is king for example the problem with modern art is that it tries too hard to be original when execution is all that matters, even a story that has been told time and again can seem fresh, than a botched original premise – just look at Japanese light novel anime adaptations, so many good premises ruined by shit-tier writing (Someone who can write should plagiarize them). Let me put it another way, modern art is lazy, there just doesn’t seem to be enough elaboration going on, and if the themes of a particular piece of art have to be explained to the audience, if they don’t get it by simply looking at it and need further elaboration after the piece has been completed, then that piece of art has failed(not the audience). This is the reason that that children in Britain ought to be taught at least a literary understanding of the bible, without that a lot of art (especially poetry) in Britain is just going to become garbage(it may already be that except in the eyes of bookish people, of those who pretend to be bookish and of those who think they are bookish people). I don’t know maybe the bible must be read in English literature class (And maybe the book of common prayers too). Will it work? I don’t know. But I digress, I am not an active person, nor am I reactive, I barely respond to any need that must be satiated. I always was a lazy slob and being an author is a carrot on a stick for me.

Living is not mere survival, there are things worth dying for, and killing for. The other view is that there is nothing worth more than human life. And then there are those who hold the latter view for themselves and the former for others. Everyone is afraid to die, that is normal, but there are those who are willing to sacrifice themselves despite their cowardice, which is what gives value to their sacrifice, if they themselves placed no value on their own lives then their sacrifice would be worthless other than whatever tactical gain it may provide.

Now I am most certain that I am the most envious little git on earth that anyone could have the misfortune of meeting, never ceasing to covet what others have not even in my dreams and going on little hateful diatribes every-waking-thinking moment against the injustices of fate which are in fact thinly veiled diatribes against the injustice of my fate, but even someone as blinded by envy as I am can see the consequences of a politics of envy from a thousand miles away, or perhaps it is because I am blinded by envy that I can see it so clearly. Well, I mean that I and for that matter every other individual deserves nothing, and simply have what we have, that is the natural order of things, now I could come up with some fairy tale with some saviour leading us to utopia but I am neither naive or cynical enough to do that and besides many others have done that already although I want to illustrate this with the example I know the most, in more light-novels that I bothered to name, okay I will name a few, The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, Hyouka, My Youth Romantic Comedy is Wrong as I Expected, Welcome to the NHK and some manga like Oyasumi Punpun the protagonist is always a bland self-insert who every other character seems to like for no reason made for the otaku to snuggle in and feel comfortable, I am part of the demographic it panders to, but somehow I do not feel pandered to at all, in fact I find it extremely immersion breaking, at any rate it is not the mediocre every-male protagonists that are the saviours but rather the idealized female characters who are intelligent, charismatic, proactive and beautiful and of course for no logical reason have an interest in saving the male protagonists, to guide them, even when they are reluctant to the place that the male protagonist(i.e. the reader) wants to be in as an individual and socially – all other characters to a lesser extent also serve this purpose as well, there is a more or less inimitable synchrony between the few main characters – the team, the club, the friends, etc… – and of course between the male protagonist and the female saviour. It is so self-indulgent that I find it revolting, but what has any of this got to do with politics? Well, the otaku have more or less given up on reality, they have more or less comprehended their position in nature and so have chosen to inhabit the republic of lies – a place where by the way the ideals of the American declaration of independence hold true, and are thus (not just) politically impotent, the otaku are often demeaned for their indulgence in these illusions but at least they know that their perfect caring female saviours are a lie with no basis in reality whatsoever, the motives of the otaku are openly selfish and disgusting like many of them are, and in fact correctly consider themselves to be, the honesty of their baseness is somewhat to be lauded but then again considering that they have nothing to hide behind it is not that impressive, they are the lowest specimens of the human race and they know it. And yet they are tolerated because they are necessary to be looked down upon, and it is perfectly justifiable to look down on them too, and the fact that they exist also goes to show how society is tolerant enough even to let the most useless of them all to go on about their self-destructive behaviour. The otaku are not harmful to society, because they are impotent, and they may even have the slightest positive effect given their regular cultural contributions. The otaku are an envious bunch but they know that they are just being envious and that there is no reason that they should have what they want other than that they want it. Unfortunately the prudish puritanical hypocritical moral-faggots lack the self-awareness of the otaku to see this and are under the misapprehension that they are on a moral crusade for social justice against the selfish ruling elite&race&gender and for the magically selfless oppressed class&race&gender. The moral-faggots are beyond saving and society needs to be saved from them but who will save society? The otaku of course. The otaku have always been in and out of the mud and so are the most suitable to get in the mud to fight with the pigs. What I mean by this is that the otaku are dirty, they smell, they are human trash and have no reputation in society to safeguard and can therefore freely say what everyone else is thinking, to say (and draw) the things that no one else would else would dare to say. to these moral busybodies, without any qualms about their own appearances because trash doesn’t have any qualms about its appearance. We need to fight bullshit with trash. The otaku by indulging in and perpetuating their perversions and other disgusting behaviour are in fact (till now mostly unwittingly)guaranteeing personal freedom (the liberty and right to fuck off and be as useless to society as one wishes to be or in other words to have a life outside politics and virtue-signalling- this is more important than the right to vote and the otaku have made full use of this right) for the rest of society by continuously pushing the envelope higher and testing the bounds of liberty while having no qualms about opposing the virtue-signalling illiberal censorious perverted moral-grandstanding inquisitors and their shaming virtue-signalling rhetoric and illiberal tactics that get in their way because the otaku have no shame (or pretend to be shameless to get what they want). Only the otaku can defend simple straightforward principles and say that it is for selfish ends without batting at eye. But who will save the otaku? The Otaking. Someone who will organize otaku and give them a platform to create their greatest artistic and literary creations while also incorporating the desires and so perversions of otaku, the aesthetics and finally also the otaku ideal, of a team of attractive individuals bound together by love and necessity to bring the best out of each other. The problem is that otaku are alone and unproductive, but their many and varied obsessions (including but not limited to anime and manga) have the potential to be developed, as they have been on several occasions into something truly beautiful and ecstatic and this is what those joyless joykiilers do not comprehend, that it is more important to create pleasure and beauty than to minimize pain, what they wish for through self-lessness and painlessness is really nothing more than a secret desire for death and otaku too need to realize this again, and instead of using anime merely to escape from reality, we should use it to enhance reality. And what are pleasure and beauty in their freest sense? Why, nothing more than popular entertainment. THAT is the extent of salvation that anime and manga and other otaku activities can provide – THE BACKGROUND – is all that the Otaking can provide by allowing for the act of the creation of art to flourish, of the perfection of a hobby into an art, but to materialize that social ideal or some inferior variation of it most likely, for example the people may not be as attractive or as interesting, but at any rate enough to be able to care about them enough to try to change them and for them to care about you enough to try to change you. The otaku have nothing to lose, not even their chains(which they have put on themselves to begin with). But what is the Otaking? The Otaking is a conductor.

The United Kingdom is a prop, and its ruling class are merely puppets on strings acting the last part of its final act – in what is bound to be an anti-climax – on the stage that is called history, every battle has been fought and lost, all that is left of the trappings of a nation are its penny-counting managerial class, before long the entire thing is bound to disappear up and collapse on the weight of its own contradictions, and yet I wish for this lunatic parade to hold together at least until the United States faces its own Suez Canal. But isn’t that vindictive(and petty)? Did someone call me?

Libertarians are usually silly and American, which often means the same thing, but I wouldn’t trust someone without a libertarian bone in them to run an animal farm let alone England(which is why I don’t trust our ruling class). For if liberty does not include the liberty to be selfish then it is meaningless, nothing more than a euphemism to pay lip service to, to acquire the power over other people’s lives by telling them sweet nothings about freedom. The Chinese communist party does this all of the time, speaking about freedom and democracy, only as they see it, never as an individual sees it, after all parents(i.e. the state) need to protect children(i.e. adult citizens) from themselves, for example by taking away their weapons, only then will they be set free (in the playground). The same disgusting infantilizing attitude is replicated and taken to an even higher level in Iran. Not even George Orwell could quite pull off his analogy of the nation as a family, family is family, the state can fuck off out of private and family life thanks. The problem is that there are so many moral busybodies in the state who want to know everything after all the modern British state is nothing more than an oversized nursery. That is the difference between say Iran/China and Britain, while all of these states treat their people like children, the Chinese and Iranian leadership are portrayed as parents while the British state is portrayed more as an adult daycare centre and its leadership are pretty much treated like the managers of a daycare centre. And the British citizen too, well the British ‘subject’, has learned to act more and more like a child, I have never failed to notice that the relationship between the official class and the ordinary people, is akin to that between a stern headmaster (but not a stern-father) eyeing a naughty child and I would rather much prefer the relationship between a customer and a seller to that, yes I know that that businesswoman’s smile is fake but the very fact that she bothers and does not treat me like some yet-to-be-proven criminal, leech or a moron is a vast improvement. And the reason for this is simple, it is simply assumed by the public that those who work for the government are ‘doing a service’ rather than trying to sell you something so you should respect them and not the other way around. It is also quite common to see people throw a tantrum at public servants but that is acceptable, Britain is but a 24-hour/365 days open adult day-care centre with over 60million children enrolled so it is tolerated, self-respect is not necessary in this country, after a child ought to act like a child, and those children that do have it, by for example not wanting their internet porn history recorded in a state database, just seem haughty.

China is not converging with the west, the west is converging with China. Liberalism is dead, and that joke called ‘liberalism’ is the bread and butter of the reactionary, nothing more, once every law in England has been eroded in order to chase out the ‘devils’ of the past, when the devil turns on them there will be nowhere left to hide, neither for the reactionaries nor for the ‘liberals’.

The harem anime protagonist is a self-insert OP MC (Over Powered Main Character), basically a combination of a Mary Sue and a lobotomised ask-man. While a Buddhist monk may try to the end the self through abstinence, an otaku will try to end the self through self-indulgence. They are both trying to get to the same thing, nothing, through different means, because they cannot be satisfied by anything. In a way the otaku are more honest because abstinence is the highest form of self-indulgence(The monk’s view ‘There is NOTHING in this world that can satiate my desire therefore I would rather have nothing than anything at all’). There is no pretence of ‘virtue’ or ‘moral superiority’ in the otaku it is all naked open self-indulgence which is more than that can be said about most people. It’s as George Carlin put it about Bill Clinton, they are full of shit but at least they are honest and upfront about it (or better put they cannot hide it, their shit is in plain view for all to see unlike the majority of people who simply gobble it back up as fast they can hoping to that no one notices it, the otaku carry their bullshit upfront). The otaku is a marionette that can see its own strings, the strings of biology and culture, of causality, unlike the monk he knows that he can’t cut them no matter how much enlightened he becomes and so instead he proceeds to deceive his own aesthetic sense through moe and art, what is remarkable of this culture however, is that there is no pretence of moral superiority as one would see in the clergy or in the intellectual, it is pure transparent escapism, this is the reason why the moral intellectuals, the brave new clergy, despise otaku culture and want to see it censored because it possess the honesty that they lack thus exposing their own fraudulent sense of moral-intellectual superiority for the self-indulgent empowerment fantasy that it is. Those large eyes of moe characters reflect the content of the moralist, or in other words they are empty, vacuous, based on nothing but mere assertion – a lust for power heavily tarted-up as a tautological ‘morality’.

I am equally sexist towards both women and men, just like I am racist towards all races equally, I assume the absolute worst in human beings and occasionally I am pleasantly surprised, this way I have saved myself a lot of grief. To be unfair but impartial (like the British courts used to be – now they are not impartial either) I judge myself by the same measure I judge others and assume the absolute worst in myself in any situation. What is the benefit of this? Predictability. Is it a form of a self-fulfilling prophesy? Maybe but at least it gives me certainty and trust (through distrust). If I assumed the best in others, and believed in them, as I did, I would end up, as I have, with neither certainty nor trust.

The choice is always between this world and the next, as Orwell put it (rightly as usual- Why do I need to say ‘as usual’ to myself? Because ‘Orwell is always right’ is something straight out of animal farm.)

Intentions matter because circumstances change. A mutually beneficial set-up can only ever be temporary. Take the European Union for example, it was all milk and honey as long as the ‘free’ cash kept flowing but once the inter-continental ponzi scheme that the monetary union was revealed to be, so too did everyone retreat to their national interests. I don’t think that society or the nation let alone the state can be likened to a family, not even Orwell could pull that off though he came quite close to it and it is hard not to feel some tingling in my chest as some do when they hear the national anthem (I don’t feel anything even though I would like to, actually I may feel more when listening to some silly pop love songs than when I listen to and sing God Save The Queen, it’s not because I am a republican, I am not that petty, though I prefer Jerusalem), I am a patriot but in any case calling your nation ‘motherland’ or ‘fatherland’ seems to only undermine both the case for patriotism and for the family as scruple-less people will no doubt hijack those feelings for their own agendas and to gerrymander reality. Orwell’s ‘Big Brother’ is an exceotllent illustration of this perversion of familial ties. As Peter Hitchens puts it, it may said that the nation-state is the largest unit where it is possible to be effectively unselfish but ‘effectively unselfish’ is not the same as ‘self-less.’ When you pay taxes you are being ‘effectively unselfish’ by being forced to pay a tribute to the state with the threat of violence of the state, it is sort of like protection money but in a well-functioning state you will get something more than mere protection (from the state), at any rate Google is not being selfless when they occasionally pay taxes because they have to pay them, it is not charity. A few do of course selflessly sacrifice themselves for the nation, for what she stands for, and yes, for our national interests, but that doesn’t say a damned thing about the rest of us, theoretically speaking our leaders are our servants too rather than our masters but that doesn’t seem to be the case to me at least.

  • Donate blood to the NHS once every two weeks.

  • Write and talk about politics in the most clear, honest and informed manner possible. Try to come up with some reasonable practical suggestions instead of just complaining. Above all do not exaggerate or overstate my case. Or in other words write responsibly as if what I write mattered to society.

  • Stop being a dead weight to my parents and get rid of my idiotic dread and terror of human beings so I can get a job. Any job. They do not deserve this.

  • Donate to a charity for, well, against suicide, prostate cancer and homelessness. Once I get a job of course.

  • That’s it? Yes, that’s it. As I said I am a very selfish person. This should clear my conscience a bit.

The Third Notebook Part Two

ONE MORE FINAL: I NEED YOU

“What doesn’t kill you makes you wish it did.”- Cristian Mihai

Naturally none of Winston’s ‘plans’ worked. Time did not wait for him so he decided he would stop time. Quite simply he should have done this ten years ago saving him all these years of decay and solitude. He was incapable to live the life of a human being and he shouldn’t have tried. The end came and went far easier than he had thought it would.

On a snowy cold morning in July a woman from Saudi Arabia found a corpse of an Indian man in a pool of blood lying on a bench overlooking the parliament. Around him there were several news papers torn into pieces soaked in blood so it was hard to say which was which.

Finally there was a note a note in his trouser pocket which simply read ‘I have solved the human problem.’ The dead man was later identified as Winston Smith by his parents. Dead, finally free of thought and worry, Nirvana, like Orwell’s Winston Smith that was the best he could hope for. All Buddhists should become western atheists, after all atheists by and large believe they will get into Nirvana whether they like it or not. The reason Buddhists won’t do this is because they are more interested in their next life rather than in Nirvana.

Pattern Blue: It’s an angeru!

“With infinite life comes an infinite list of relatives. Grandparents never die, nor do great-grandparents, great-aunts… and so on, back through the generations, all alive and offering advice. Sons never escape from the shadows of their fathers. Nor do daughters of their mothers. No one ever comes into his own… Such is the cost of immorality. No person is whole. No person is free.”

– Alan Lightman, Einstein’s Dreams

‘Winston Smith, my son, was someone who failed to come into his own. He lived vicariously through fiction and political/moral posturing but he believed in nothing and cared for no one least of all himself. He could not live with himself. He hated himself and being around other human beings only reminded him of this which is why he distracted himself with news papers, books, anime and the internet. He was vain but could not justify his vanity so he resorted to moralizing and intellectualizing. He was bored and he could not enjoy a single moment of his life. Immortality would have certainly been an hell to him, an eternity of reading newspapers he hated and whining. Pure hell. Let us all hope that there isn’t an hell for him to go to. Amen.’ said John Smith, Winston’s father to his congregation.

Epilogue

Pattern Red

You are (not) (dis)qualified as a human being Q

‘Are you afraid you won’t see England again?’ a stray thought in his head said to him as he bought a kitchen knife and the last newspapers he would read.

He got into the tube carrying his newspapers in a plastic bag with the knife still in its casing on top of the papers. The game was up. Well, it was good while it lasted. No it was awful. Let’s hope it ends today. So went the thoughts in Winston’s tired head. Where was he headed? To Westminster of course. What place would be more suitable to commit suicide? That is where Winston believed that England committed suicide(or was murdered) and so he should too go out there.

He reached his destination but needed somewhere to sit to read so he walked across the bridge and sat on a bench overlooking the building. He threw his old mobile phone into the river, some onlookers noticed this but didn’t approach him. It’s not like anyone would call him but he wanted to be alone with his papers.

It was nice cool evening like many others, the sky was cloudless and he was in his scruffy slightly oversized suit. He read all of the papers but every line just floated in his eyes and none of it entered into his head. He even read the ‘sports’ section for the first and the last time in his life. He actually liked it, ‘I should have done more often’, he thought. And that thought was enough to bring on an avalanche of regret but below but his resolve was only getting stronger every moment that passed. He tried to care about what his parents would feel to no avail soon he gave up and decided that he had been a narcissist from the very beginning that was very unlikely to change at the very end. He wanted to care, he always did but he couldn’t. He had probably loved Christ, someone who he had never met, more than any other person, but of course the only reason he was able to love Christ was that he hadn’t met him. Speaking of Christ, Winston wondered whether he would wind up (or down) in hell, should ask to be forgiven now? ‘Oh God please forgive for been a psychopath and a fat slob’ he stopped, that was not genuine he was just being opportunistic. ‘Religion hates life in this world and I hate life too so why can’t I get along with religion? Is it the opportunism? The hypocrisy? The wordiness? Ha ha ha Why do I feel more of a Christian now than when I was a Christian? Perhaps it is possible to reconcile my two hatreds for this world and the next. After all why should I want to live in a heaven created by whoever created this festering shithole of evil and decay and misery and pain and humiliation. Ah I am still a Christian and a Leftist at heart. All I can see is pain and I see its removal as my ultimate goal and wish, not joy. That said To hell with God.’

Realizing the pointlessness at getting angry at the mere wind Winston decides to turn his attention to something more beautiful and man-made: Music. He listened to Marta Kubišová’s Magdaléna on his cheap chinese mp3 player. He starts to tear the newspapers into little pieces because he has nothing better to do. It is getting dark and as he waited there were less and fewer souls around him. Winston also listened to some music by Shiro Sagiru and some other music he wanted to listen one last time and as he did he thought of all those beautiful, talented and gifted people and he couldn’t help but be bitter with envy even though he was too tired to be livid any more. Had fate really been so unfair to him? Well, it depends on how one defines fate, could he really go against the temperance and character he was born with or was decided for him by outside forces? Any way was it too late? Why? Any one who could see him could see why, or so he told himself.

He was finally alone. His heart was beating faster than it had ever done. He got up and broke off Kubišová’s voice as he threw the mp3 player into the river. He pulled out the knife and struggled for fifteen minutes to remove the plastic cover with his trembling cold fingers, a grin across his face and tears and snot pouring onto his disgusting face.

When he finally got the knife out of its plastic shell a piece of paper fell off onto the ground along with the deformed plastic. He picked it up and wrote ‘I have solved the human problem.’ and swiftly pressed it in his pocket.

He sat down for another quarter of an hour and chuckeld a bit at his struggle with the plastic cover. He had finally found the solution to the human problem, well assuming that there is no afterlife. He took the knife in his hand, he had often looked at knives how it would feel to stab himself and now he would find out. He didn’t even bother to stand up this time but took one last breath in and showed the knife from below into his neck. He instantly died with no time left for any more thoughts but thinking is all that he had been doing for most of his life and he was sick of it, well now he was sick of it no more. And so Winston Smith lost against himself again.

Writer’s note: Over all this web novel was a failure but it would have been a waste of effort not to post it online after all that effort so I posted it on this blog nobody reads.

 

Why do I watch anime?

27. July 2017

Why do people do anything that they don’t need to do? Because it makes them happy and I suppose anime makes me happy. Different anime make me feel different things but I suppose that what I am seeking for through all of them (even through sadness) is pleasure.  All of this is self-evident but I wrote it down just to be thorough. That said how does anime make me happy? Through:

  1. Sexual titillation. Sometimes there can be too much of it, but then I stop noticing it when I see too much nudity I stop noticing it (like in Kill La Kill) but some things like the occasional boob-bounce never get old. Some people say they find panty-shots in action-scenes distracting, I barely notice them until they are pointed out to me and I am not displeased in any manner to the sexy and cute female characters in anime. Of course, I prefer it when there is something more but the reason that I find some of Hayao Miyazaki’s works like ‘Spirited Away’ to be snore-fests is the lack of sexualization (and the lack of tension, you know you are going to get a happy ending, the good characters are always right). Fan service for the win!
  2. Humour. Anime is often chastised for being edgy and full of gore and violence and so on, but another characteristic is that most anime series have some comedy in them, true a lot of this humour is repetitive and after I had seen the same jokes for the first hundred times or so it got a bit boring (like the guys getting beat up by tsundere in Rumiko Takahashi’s comedies) and sometimes the humour can be misplaced right like in ‘Full-metal Alchemist: Brotherhood’ or in ‘Hellsing Ultimate’ breaking the immersion but occasionally you do get shows like Konosuba, Zetsubou no Sensei and even ecchi shows like MM! appeal to me.  I like dark humour but the cheerful humour that you find in anime is a nice counterbalance to the violence IMO when used correctly.
  3. Aesthetic Appreciation/Beauty, this is much harder to define, okay I like the large anime eyes, the silly high pitched voices of some characters even when they are annoying especially when they are annoying(Tututuru from Steins; Gate), it’s hard to describe but there are certain scenes like the battle scene of Asuka vs. the Eva series in the ‘The End of Evangelion’  and the last thirty minutes of that film that just look beautiful.
  4. Plot – I mean storytelling. Modern anime especially light-novel adaptations are notorious for screwing up good creative premises by forgetting that execution is what matters the most, still when they get the latter right that’s when you get masterpieces.
  5. Anime Characters – ‘Inspirational’ is a word that is being thrown around so much that it doesn’t mean anything much and in the cynic’s mind it sounds like a euphemism for its antonym, ‘let me show you this very very rare phenomenon which proves that the general rule will be suspended in your case’, well let me tell you a word that is also overused but hasn’t lost its meaning, that word is ‘cool’. Many anime characters (excluding almost all self-insert harem protagonists with broken powers) are cool. Characters like Yang-Wenli from Legend Of Galactic Heroes, Ueki Tylor from The Irresponsible Captain Tylor, Hikigaya Hachiman from My Youth Romantic Comedy is Wrong as I Expected are cool. And you may have a different opinion from mine but of course you would be wrong.

But why anime and not some other form of storytelling/art? As a matter of fact, I do sink in enough time in other forms of entertainment not from Japanese otaku culture but I admit that I find it easier to enjoy anime even when the quality of the storytelling isn’t that high whereas I am more strict when it comes to other forms of entertainment.  I think that the reason for this is two-fold, on the one hand, I have been habituated to watching anime from a very long time but if I am allowed to speculate and be pretentious I would say that for me it reaches the nadir between distancing itself from the real world but also not being completely unrecognizable and alienating as I found most stuff from Hollywood and all the crime fiction on TV to be. I don’t know a lot of the stuff on TV felt too self-aware that there were people watching it(like the Simpsons) and the lines they spoke and the way they acted made the whole thing seem fake. Another thing that undoubtedly first got me into anime was that I didn’t feel I was being condescended to as most TV programming for children seems to do. If anime were made in South America or in England I would still watch it if it would still be the same it is today which it wouldn’t but that’s not the point.

My feelings towards anime have not remained constant over the years that have passed and over the hundreds of hours I have spent(or wasted, your pick) on this hobby, at first I was overwhelmed by the sheer diversity of stories in this medium but at the same time felt very attracted to the stereotypical bashful, stoic and honest characters which were set in stark contrast to the reserved manner in which people act in real life. I have never been a ‘weeaboo’, I have never wanted to go and live in Japan and so on and for a long time ‘Japan’ and ‘Anime’ had nothing to do with each other in my mind, that is until I started reading the manga series ‘Detective Conan’ which was firmly set in Japan, as opposed to some fantasy world, in some historical period in Europe(as many anime series for kids on Italian TV like ‘Heidi’ were set), in some urban setting that may have as well being in Europe and even though I watched ‘Ranma’ somehow the slapstick humour and the colourful characters made me unable to concentrate too much on the setting as I was focused on what other shenanigans the characters would get themselves into. The colourful hairstyles and large-eys didn’t really help me to identify it with Japan but that too is a matter of no importance. Anyway, my focus shifted strictly from the characters to the themes and the ideas and so I watched many of the classics and retro anime, Evangelion et al. And right now my focus is on the storytelling and the artwork, composition, script and to a small extent the directing.

Recently I have been watching almost exclusively old anime because the new stuff feels a bit samey – you know there’s the Sword Art Online clone, the Fujoshi bait show, the yandere/loli show  every season and so on, there are a lot of shit-shows from the past too but it’s easier to pick up the good ones when the hypes surrounding the old series has mostly subsided. Watching anime has sort of become a group experience when it comes to ongoing anime, you know watching anime and then commenting and reading blogs and watching youtube vids about it, on the one hand this is good as I get to see what others think but it doesn’t feel as much a ‘special’ hobby anymore and to be honest I have started to have less respect as to what others think of my anime whereas in the past I was very eager to talk to people to share views about anime and see if they matched. That said that communal feeling has certainly helped me keep up with the new anime whether I want to or not and it makes everything easier as far as accessibility to anime is concerned, there is so much info about anime online, sometimes sharing my views seems like a drop in the ocean. Sometimes I wonder how it must have been in the early anime community when there weren’t so many sites about anime and the few people interested visited the same times to talk with the same people to discuss anime. There are plenty of anime blogs with regular content but seemingly no readers taking into account the few comments they get (like on this one).

Having said all this it is impossible to avoid the subject of escapism. Well, I could say that anime is one way I try to enhance reality rather than detract myself from it but that would be sophistry or at best pedantry, the criticism levied against anime, and more specifically those otaku who watch anime is an unambiguous one that we have disconnected ourselves from the obligations and pleasures to be gained by actively engaging with others by instead spending our time and money on fiction. I don’t have a counter-argument to this point. IT IS SPOT ON.

‘It’s just a meme’ – Post-modern Reactionaries – The Alt-Right

21. July 2017

If there is no such thing as progress then there is no such thing as reaction either and so the ONLY difference between progress and reaction is that they are opposed to each other.

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If all that matters is the relative power between groups then naturally universal principles such as freedom of speech or common decency do not matter. In their post-modernist world-view there is simply no reason, for example, not to advocate for the extermination of a group of people just for entertainment. Empathy? Oh, that’s just a primitive human instinct, or a social construct, either way it is bullshit anyway, why pay heed to it? They would say. But if they are a reactionary group, what exactly is it they are reacting to? Shame, the most prominent form of virtue-signalling in this age. This is the reason why they supported such a shameless candidate like Donald Trump to become president of the United States.

I do not actually believe that they are meming just for shits and giggles, there is an overlaying agenda that is quite obvious, if that were not the case then there would not be a definite political partisanship to their memes. The infamous 14 words evoke it quite simply: ‘To secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’

What is the solution?

That is quite simple, stop trying to censor or to shame them and expose their arguments for how fallacious they are, engage them in open moderated debate and question their points. I intend to respond to some of their most prominent arguments in this blog.

On the subject of Moral Faggotery (or Virtue-Signalling

6. July 2017

Most political discourse to-day is escapism, it serves no other purpose than to provide satisfaction in the form of opportunity for people to revel in their own self-righteousness. And so Journalism is misery-porn and frothing at the mouth in righteous indignation.

At some point, the attrition becomes its own purpose and ideologically opposed groups begin to define each other’s orthodoxies. If group A believes in X then group B will believe in Y and if group A starts to believe in Y then group B will believe in X.

I am not claiming that there are no actual differences in opinion but that all proportionality has been lost and spirits are heightened for the most unimportant, inconsequential subjects and non-issues under the auspices of the insinuation that the ‘personal is political.’

I have got nothing against people devoting themselves to entertain themselves, people should not be forced to engage in politics if they would rather do something else with their time, after all, it is their time, however when people who dress up their personal grievances as political issues are paraded around most political outlets for entertainment purposes so that they can cajole themselves into thinking that they are doing some kind of service to society, that they are virtuous, that they are making some kind of contribution. This sort of news-entertainment devalues both political discourse and entertainment, it devalues the latter by imposing moral codes on art.

The motive for moral-fagging, virtue-signalling and other associated behaviours is not necessarily cynical, it is the result of something else, of a desire to change things and when a similarly ineffective group of people pose an opposition to this hopeless quest it is easy for them to see themselves as self-sacrificing heroes, failed revolutionaries or perhaps misunderstood prophets when in fact they are just larping(Live-action-role-playing).

It is not that there are no causes worth supporting but those causes have got nothing to do with a person’s identity; Identity in political discourse is a Stalingrad.


The most common types of virtue-signalling on the internet:

  • Shaming is probably the most common form of virtue-signalling, it is volatile and flexible, and it can be applied to almost anyone within or without an ideological group.
  • Ideological Purity Tests ‘I am more virtuous than you are because you see I pass my own arbitrarily set morality test more than you do, so let’s waste some time arguing how morally superior I am to you.’
  • Hypocrisy Fishing ‘On occasion A, you said X, but on a very similar occasion, B, you said Y, therefore X must be wrong.’ Extra virtue-points awarded if used in conjunction with Ideological Purity Tests, i.e. used against your own side.

The Value of Intelligence

6. July 2017

Intelligence is overrated this is why nonsensical terms such as ‘Emotional Intelligence/IQ’ have been injected into the English language when perfectly fine terms such ‘empathy’ and ‘social skills’ are available. Everybody needs to be intelligent because intelligence is clearly identified as a certificate for status but if everybody is intelligent in their own way then term ‘intelligence’ ceases to bear any meaning whatsoever or it would if people actually believed in ‘everybody is intelligent’ piffle which even those who pay lip service to don’t.

The criteria for intelligence is self-evident and those with the cognitive capabilities to prove it are rewarded for it socially and economically if they can harness it in a commercially viable way, i.e. people in the STEM field, some artists and social commentators, basically people with high IQs.

Tradesmen such as builders, electricians, plumbers, carpenters and so on are looked down upon for their apparent lack of intelligence and therefore there is an incentive among young people to pursue university education in subjects that will not get them a job, in the name of ‘dreams’ when in fact it is done out of a misplaced sense of vanity and a disdain for blue-collar work(ers). A similar illness afflicts bookish people.

A sort of ‘I am too good/intelligent for that’ attitude prevails. The problem is that to be a part of let alone advance in these oversubscribed non-STEM field subjects that are considered to be intellectual such law, art, journalism etc… a lot of nepotism is involved because it isn’t as clear as in STEM field subjects what credentials and skills you need to do the actual work.

I believe that the state should play an active role to provide more places and funding to enter those fields for which there is a demand for in the employment market and also perhaps introduce some mandatory counselling for all high school students asking them what their future prospects are leaving school realistically, and telling students to avoid certain subjects depending on their economic situation, for example if the economic situation in the family of a student is not secure then it would hardly make sense to get a degree in philosophy, gender studies etc… Or else when their misplaced sense of vanity in their intelligence is not rewarded they will become bitter and feel that they have not been treated fairly for being placed so low in the pecking order, and in a way they are right because had they been treated right they would not be so ignorant as to assume that their perceived intellectual proficiency would (and should) entitle them to a higher place spot in the food chain. Intelligence is only valuable when it is useful, and unless it is used for some economically productive activity then that intellect will not be rewarded because it does not provide any service to anyone(well at any rate any service that anyone is interested in) to warrant their recognition (and their money).

Someone who is not very cerebral can be very productive and useful too but pretending that they are differently intelligent or some other nonsense is not going to lead to that. Intelligence can be one of the most useful characteristics to have with a dose of self-awareness but without that it is nothing more than a hindrance blunting judgement and fostering a useless sense of superiority over others which often leads to bitterness – when they see less intelligent people doing better than them at life doing some activity that does not involve as much intellectual capabilities they will feel betrayed.

What is the purpose of fiction?

5. July 2017

“All art is propaganda… however not all propaganda is art”- George Orwell

The first purpose of fiction is to entertain. I am very suspicious of fiction made to advance some cause or ideology because it is clear and transparent propaganda that is palatable only if the views being spewed are those of the viewer, and it is often quite boring too.

But does fiction have any value beyond mere entertainment and escapism? Should fiction meet certain criteria of morality beyond what is commercially preferable? Is there any objective standard other than popularity to judge fiction? Should fiction play some sort of civic service? The answer to these questions lies in the extent that fiction affects those who consume it. But such a thing is very hard to measure.

Are the audiences desires reflected in the fiction? Or are the values of fiction imprinted onto the audience? Or in other words, does fiction brainwash people to have certain values or are the fantasies and desires of the audience reflected in the works of fiction they consume? Both of these are true but I think that the latter is truer than the former as the authors try to cater to the fantasies of the audience which are already there in some form or another rather than creating fantasies out of nothing. When it comes to things like anime, manga and video games very often the creators are also consumers. The point I am trying to get at is that most genres of fiction only exist because a demand for them exists and that this demand cannot be entirely manufactured, it is nested in the social conditions as well as in human nature, this natural demand is what allows fragments of truth to exist in what should be fictional, of course it may be a truth that some ideological groups do not want to hear and do not want others to hear but trying to artificially insert what one believes to be true only erases those naturally occurring fragments of truth. This is the reason why politically charged fiction often comes off as pamphlets in novel/film/comic form to those who don’t already agree with what the pamphlet is peddling and that the aesthetic judgement of fiction is irreparably damaged as those who agree with the pamphlet will hail it as an artistic masterpiece.

Fiction must be entertaining and if someone wants to write an opinion piece or commentary then essay form is good enough, using fiction to promote a political view almost seems like a screen to avoid criticism, after all it is not real, even satire can come off as preachy and at worst a satire of itself if overdone when the hatred for the other side simply spills out of every word and with so little justification story-wise. Turning the whole thing into a monologue much more suited to the essay form.

I am also against trying to interpret every story as an allegory for something else, a story has to be fun and nothing else, this sort of psychological analysis (and frankly speculation) can be insightful when applied to a person or event but when applied to a story and the characters in it, it just sucks the life out of the story giving place for a platform for the analyst to catapult the reader’s attention to whatever is on the analyst’s mind, to whatever the analyst wants to peddle, it is a parasitic practice, piggybacking on the already established recognition of well-liked(or disliked) fiction, eventually the actual story flies out of the window but it is implied that if you disagree with whatever the analyst is peddling then you must also disagree with the artistic value of whatever story the analyst is using for his own ends. Actually the only way to make sense of some stories, for example, fairy tales, is to treat them as allegories but that is because children’s fiction(1) is nothing but propaganda, full of platitudes and ideals, one-note characters who are caricatures acting like idealistic boy scouts or as personifications of evil, this is fine to reinforce some basic morals in children’s minds (although the idealism can backfire and can turn children especially boys into little know it all cynics who like to say(or just think) sarcastic things about things like teamwork by the time they are twelve and have realized they have been fed a bunch of platitudes that are only true some of the time although the little cynics may assume that they are just lies though some of them are of course just lies).

But the problem arises when there is a push to treat adults as if they were children, for example when it is said that they shouldn’t be shown certain pictures because those pictures will brainwash them into ardent misogynists, racists, homophobes and pedophiles and if they want to see such stories then it’s because they already are all of those things and their minds  need to be cleansed of sins by watching  counter-propaganda-propaganda, as Peter Hitchens puts it, it’s a bit like a god-less version of the Protestant belief in Justification and salvation through faith alone.

I am sure that most would agree that it is rather distasteful when their political opponents co-opt art to push their agenda but would they also uphold the same standard and principle where their own side does this? I doubt that but it is not impossible.

I am not denying the place that fiction plays in the discussion of morality, but it must do so directly without any need for further extrapolation, to the point where anything can be used to support any moral view. And the discussion of morality in fiction must not be had at the expense of pleasure,  of entertainment, of the aesthetic value derived from fiction. What is aesthetically pleasing is often morally reprehensible but that is the reason why it must be allowed to exist in the realm of fiction rather than in reality. This is the reason that I am against both the prudish consensus of the left-wing and of the right-wing, well let’s be honest, currently, it’s mostly the left.

Unfortunately many do not seem to appreciate the aesthetic value of fiction and furthermore seem unable or unwilling to tell apart reality from fiction leading to idiotic conversations such as How the girl fighters  with superpowers in Boku no Hero beating male fighters twice their size is realistic or why watching female-only screenings of Wonder Woman makes us empowered and not seem like hypocrites, which only make it seem like those involved in such things need their political beliefs to be validated through empowerment fantasies and characters with magical powers, it is quite pathetic. 

Notes:

(1) I know most fairy tales were not originally made for children but now they are mainly consumed by children. Actually, I would make an exception to my claim that children’s fiction is propaganda in regards to some cartoons like Tom and Jerry that cannot be interpreted as having a moral or social message that is without some heavy pretentious overthinking.