In October 1945, George Orwell responded to a letter from Mr J. Stewart Cook in the leftwing weekly newspaper Tribune calling for more science education.
The call can hardly have come as a surprise. War had brought science and engineering to the fore – from the Spitfire fighter plane and radar to Bletchley Park’s codebreakers – and now that war was over, many thought it was time to build a brave new world. Science had won the war; the view was that it should build the peace.
Only the week before, in the same newspaper, Orwell had warned of the dangers posed by the atomic bomb. He was not a pacifist – far from it. But he started off by saying how likely it was that the world would “be blown to pieces by it within the next five years”, and ended with a stark warning against big science.
The bigger and more scientific the weapons, Orwell argued, the bigger and more authoritarian the state. And the bigger and more authoritarian the states that held those weapons, the greater the likelihood that an unstable stand-off between them would run and run, until the unthinkable happened.
Given this scenario, which he was the first to call a “cold war”, Orwell wanted to know exactly what Mr Cook meant by asking for more science education: did he want more scientists in laboratories, or did he want more people in general trained to think more scientifically?
If it was a call for more scientists in lab coats, Orwell pondered whether there was any plausible reason for expecting it to be in the public interest. Chemists might think so, clearly, but what about the rest of us? Why more chemists over more historians, say, or more writers, or philosophers, or economists?
In Orwell’s view, scientists at war had shown themselves to be just as self-interested, just as nationalist, just as Nazi, and just as politically illiterate and mistaken as everybody else. A few million more was not going to make things better – and maybe worse.
He wrote: “The fact is that a mere training in one or more of the exact sciences, even combined with very high gifts, is no guarantee of a humane or sceptical outlook. The physicists of half a dozen great nations, all feverishly working away at the atom bomb, are a demonstration of this.”
On the other hand, more science as a way of thinking had Orwell’s full support. In his Tribune response (republished in the third volume of his collected essays), he defined this as “a rational, sceptical, experimental habit of mind”.
Only, Orwell averred, you don’t have to be a scientist to think like this. And away from the test tubes and reactors, a scientist might not think like this. An illiterate peasant could be just as rational, just as sceptical and just as experimental, in his own domain at least. Yet no one, least of all a fellow of the Royal Society, was going to call him a “scientist”.
The whole argument, Orwell feared, might end up dropping the notion of more scientific thinking across the population, and “simply boil down to” more physics, less literature, and a narrowing of thought all round.
Orwell leaves it there. Not very profound, you might think, but in the best Orwellian manner, designed to catch your sleeve and make you think.
The blessings of science
When he was at Eton, Orwell wrote a short story for the school magazine called A Peep into the Future. In it, a mad professor takes over the school to impose a reign of terror based on the “blessings of science”.
Until, that is, one Sunday morning in chapel, a mighty proletarian woman – “massive hands on her hips” – comes striding down the aisle to take a swipe that relieves the professor of his dignity and his position. “A good smackin’ is what you want,” she said. And a good smackin’ is what he got. “He was never seen again … the reign of science was at an end.”
There might be shades of Big Brother in this schoolboy story, except that Orwell’s novel Nineteen Eighty-Four, published in 1949, is not about the reign of science but a reign of terror devoted to the complete eradication of science.
The whole point of the ruling party “Ingsoc” (a left-fascist totalitarian regime) is the destruction of the concept of objective truth, discoverable in nature. Instead of experimentation, there is only manipulation. Instead of reasoning, there is only fear. Instead of facts, there are only lies. It is axiomatic that two plus two equals five and always will, so long as the party says so.
Winston Smith’s interrogator, an intelligent man by most other measures, tells Winston that he (the interrogator) could identify as a soap bubble if he wanted to, and float off. And nobody was going to say he couldn’t. Winston tries and has his brain reprogrammed for the effort.
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Seeing things ‘as they are’
Orwell’s fiction was more concerned with essences than probabilities. As for his non-fiction, although he rarely invoked statistics or empirical research, he operated as near to the general scientific method as possible, given the human condition.
Getting it right, seeing things “as they are”, was one of his four reasons for writing. Orwell is forever at pains to establish the facts, to reason in plain sight, to show due caution, and to experiment in the only way politico-literary criticism can experiment – by imagining the alternatives.
With or without Donald Trump, there are always alternative facts, and writers must search them out. Thomas Hobbes’s view of man in a state of nature is not the same as fellow philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s, and the facts are legion on both sides.
Orwell’s personal library contained a few popular science volumes but was mainly literary. He adhered to the scientific method like the “illiterate peasant” he was at heart – a man who was at his happiest in his garden, eyeing the weather and measuring the soil by instinct and experience.
Let Orwell find a problem, and he would bring the full width of his reasoning to bear. But in the end, words are an art not a science, and there are no rules except a pitch for the truth.
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