Modern Mind: An Intellectual History of the 20th Century

by Peter Watson

  After leaving the police, Blair stayed with his parents for a few months but in the autumn of 1927 found a small room in the Portobello Road, in west London. He tried his hand at fiction and began to explore the East End of the city, living cheek by jowl with tramps and beggars in order to understand how the poor lived, and to experience something of their suffering.72 Having rejected ‘every form of man’s dominion over man,’ he wanted ‘to get right down among the oppressed, to be one of them and on their side against their tyrants.’ Blair worried at his appearance on these visits. He acquired a shabby coat, black dungaree trousers, ‘a faded scarf, and a rumpled cap’. He changed the way he spoke, anxious that his educated accent would give him away. He soon grew to know the seedy area around the West India docks, mixing with stevedores, merchant sailors, and unemployed labourers and sleeping at a common lodging house in Limehouse Causeway (paying nine pence a night). Being accepted in this way, he decided to go ‘on the road’ and for a while meandered through the outreaches of the East End, overnighting in dingy ‘spikes’ – the barracks of local workhouses. These sallies formed the backbone of Down and Out in Paris and London, which came out in 1933. Of course, Orwell was never really down and out; as Michael Shelden says, his tramping was something of a game, one that reflected his ambivalence toward his own background, his ambitions, and his future. But the game was not entirely frivolous. The best way he could help those who were less fortunate was to speak up for them, ‘to remind the rest of the world that they existed, that they were human beings who deserved better and that their pain was real.’73

  In 1929 Orwell went to Paris, to show that the misery wasn’t confined to just one country. There he took a small room at a run-down hotel in the rue du Pot de Fer, a narrow, mean lane in the Latin Quarter. He described the walls of his room as thin; ‘there was dirt everywhere in the building and bugs were a constant nuisance.’74 He suffered a nervous breakdown.75 There were more cheerful neighborhoods not far away, however, in one of which could be found the Ecole Normale Supérieure, where Jean-Paul Sartre was a star pupil and where Samuel Beckett was just beginning to teach. Further on was the place de la Contrescarpe, which Hemingway describes in The Snows of Kilimanjaro, affectionately sketching its mix of ‘drunks, prostitutes, and respectable working folk.’76 Orwell says in the book that he was the victim of a theft that left him almost penniless.77

  The book was published by Victor Gollancz, who had begun his company in 1929 with offices in Covent Garden. Gollancz was a driven man, a canny bargainer, and soon his business was thriving. He paid his authors small advances but spent much larger sums on advertising. He published all kinds of books, but politics was his first love, and he was a passionate socialist. Orwell’s book was as much sociological as political, but it appealed to Gollancz ‘as a powerful statement against social injustice.’78 Published at the beginning of January 1933, it was an immediate success, widely praised in the press (by, among others, Compton Mackenzie). Orwell realised that no quick or glib remedy for poverty could possibly work. What he was after was a change in perception, so that poverty would no longer be regarded ‘as a kind of shameful disease which infects people who are incapable of helping themselves.’79 He emphasised the point that even many charity workers expected ‘some show of contrition, as though poverty signified a sinful soul.’ This attitude, he felt, and the continued existence of poverty were linked.

  Down and Out was followed by three novels, Burmese Days, A Clergyman’s Daughter, and Keep the Aspidistra Flying. Each of these examined an aspect of British life and helped establish Orwell’s reputation. In 1937 he returned to his reportorial/sociological writing with The Road to Wigan Pier, which arose out of his heightened political awareness, the rise of Hitler and Mussolini, and Orwell’s growing conviction that ‘Socialism is the only real enemy Fascism has to face.’80 Gollancz had asked him to write a book about unemployment – the scourge of the 1930s since the great crash. It was hardly an original idea, and indeed Orwell had himself refused an almost identical proposal from the News Chronicle some months before.81 But feeling that he had to be more politically engaged, he agreed. Starting in Coventry, he moved north to Manchester, where he boarded with a trade union official who suggested that Orwell visit Wigan.82 He found lodgings over a tripe shop, sleeping in shifts, and in his room he found no sign that anyone had bothered to clean or dust ‘in ages’; he was told by other lodgers ‘that the supplies of tripe in the cellar were covered with black beetles’. One day he was ‘disconcerted’ to find a full chamberpot under the table at breakfast.83 According to Shelden, he spent hours at the local library compiling statistics on the coal industry and on unemployment, but most of the time he spent travelling, inspecting housing conditions, the canals, and the mines, interviewing workers and unemployed. He later described Wigan as a ‘dreadful place’ and the mines as a ‘pretty devastating experience.’ He had to go to bed for a day to get over it.84 ‘He had not realised that a man of his height could not stand upright in the mine, that the walk from the shaft to the coal face could be up to three miles and that this cramped combination “was enough to put my legs out of action for four days.” Yet this walk was only the beginning and end of the miner’s work day. “At times my knees simply refused to lift me after I had knelt down.” ‘85

  Figures Orwell obtained in the library – available to anyone – established that miners suffered an appalling rate of accidents. In the previous eight years, nearly 8,000 men had been killed in the mines; one miner in six was injured. Death was so common in the mines it was almost routine: ‘A shilling was deducted from the men’s pay whenever a fellow-miner was killed – and the money contributed to a fund for the widow. But this deduction, or “stoppage,” occurred with such grim regularity that the company used a rubber stamp marked “Death stoppage” to make the notation on the pay-checks.’86 After two months in the north, Orwell was on the train home when he had one final shocking image of the cost exacted by the town’s grim reality. He noticed a young woman standing at the back of her house, trying to unblock a pipe with a stick. ‘She looked up as the train passed, and I was almost near enough to catch her eye. She had a round pale face, the usual exhausted face of the slum girl who is twenty-five and looks forty, thanks to miscarriages and drudgery; and it wore, for the second in which I saw it, the most desolate, hopeless expression I have ever seen. It struck me then that we are mistaken when we say that “It isn’t the same for them as it would be for us,” and that people bred in the slums can imagine nothing but the slums…. She knew well enough what was happening to her – understood as well as I did how dreadful a destiny it was to be kneeling there in the bitter cold, on the slimy stones of a slum backyard, poking a stick up a foul drain-pipe.’87

  Orwell had been made so angry by his experiences that he wrote the book in two parts. In the first he let the harsh facts speak for themselves. Part 2 was an emotional polemic against the capitalist system and in favour of socialism, and the publishers entertained some doubts about its merit.88 Many critics found little sense of remedy in this section, its prose vague and overwrought. But the stark details of part I were undeniable, as shaming for Britain as Johnson’s were for America. The Road to Wigan Pier caused a sensation.

  Criticism of a very different aspect of civilisation came from the writer Lewis Mumford, part of a coterie who gathered around the photographer Alfred Stieglitz in New York. In the early 1920s Mumford had taught architecture at the New School for Social Research in Manhattan, and was then taken on as architecture correspondent for the New Yorker. His growing fame led to more lecturing at MIT, Columbia, and Stanford, which he published as a book, Technics and Civilisation, in 1934.89 In this work he charted the evolution of technology. In the eotechnic phase, society was characterised by machines made of wood, and driven by water or wind power.90 In the palaeotechnic phase, what most people called the first industrial revolution, the main form of energy was steam and the main material iron. The neotechnic age (the second industr
ial revolution) was characterised by electricity, aluminum, new alloys, and synthetic substances.91

  For Mumford, technology was essentially driven by capitalism, which needed continued expansion, greater power, greater reach, faster speeds. He thought that dissatisfaction with capitalism arose because although the neotechnic age had arrived by the 1920s, social relations were stuck in the palaeotechnic era, where work was still alienating for the vast majority of people in the sense that they had no control over their lives. A neat phrasemaker (‘Robbery is probably the greatest labour-saving device ever invented’), Mumford posed as a solution ‘Basic Communism,’ by which he didn’t mean Soviet communism so much as the municipal organisation of work, just as there was the municipal organisation of parks, fire services and swimming pools.92 Mumford’s book was remarkable for being one of the first to draw attention to the damage capitalist enterprises were doing to the environment, and how consumerism was being led, and misled, by advertising. Like many others, he saw World War I as the culmination of a technological race that met the needs of capitalists and militarists alike, and he thought the only way forward lay in economic planning. Cannily, Mumford predicted that the industrial proletariat (Orwell’s subject) would disappear as the old-style factories became obsolete, and he thought the neotechnic industries would be spread more evenly across countries (less congregated around ports or mines) and across the world. He forecast that Asia and Africa would become market and neotechnic forces in years ahead. He predicted that biology would replace physics as the most important and contentious science, and that population would become a major issue of the future. The immediate dangers for Americans, however, arose from a ‘purposeless materialism’ and an unthinking acceptance that unbridled capitalism was the only organising principle for modern life. In this Basically optimistic book (there was a section on the beauty of machines), Mumford’s criticisms of Western society were ahead of their time, which only makes them more impressive, for with the benefit of hindsight we can say that he was right far more than he was wrong.93

  Four years later, Mumford published The Culture of Cities, which looked at the history of the city.94 Beginning around 1,000 AD, when Mumford said the city revived after the Dark Ages, he defined cities according to the main collective dramas they played out. In mediaeval cities this was the market, the tournament, and the church’s processionals. In the Baroque city, the court offered the best drama, and in the industrial city the station, the street, and the political meeting were what counted.95 Mumford also distinguished six phases of city life: eopolis – village communities, domestication of animals; polis – an association of villages or blood groups, for defence; metropolis – the crucial change to a ‘mother city,’ with a surplus of regional products; megalopolis – beginning of decline, mechanisation, standardisation (a megalopolis was characterised by the lack of drama, replaced instead by routine); tyrannopolis – overexpansion, decadence, decline in numbers; nekropolis – war, famine, disease. The two last stages were predictions, but Mumford thought that megalopolis had already been reached in several cases, for example, New York.96 Mumford believed that the answer to the crisis of the alienation and poverty that characterised cities was to develop the regions (although he also considered garden cities). Here too Mumford was prescient; the last chapter of his book is almost wholly devoted to environmental and what we would now call ‘quality of life’ issues.

  Despite his focus on the environment and the effects of technology on the quality of life, Mumford was not anti-science in the way that some others were. Even at the time that people like Freud and Mead and Johnson thought science could provide answers to society’s ills, sceptics thought that every advantage of science was matched by a corresponding disadvantage. That was what gave it such a terrible beauty. Also, religion may have taken a battering at the hands of science, but it had not gone away, not by a long chalk. No doubt chronic unemployment had something to do with the scepticism toward science as a palliative, but as the 1930s progressed, religion reasserted itself.

  The most extraordinary element in this reaffirmation of religion was a series of lectures given by Ernest William Barnes, the bishop of Birmingham, and published in 1933 as Scientific Theory and Religion.97 Few readers, picking up a book by a bishop, would expect the first 400 pages to consist of a detailed discussion of advanced mathematics. Yet Ernest Barnes was a highly numerate scientist, a D.Sc., and a Fellow of the Royal Society. In his book he wanted to show that as a theologian he knew a great deal about modern science and was not afraid of it. He discussed all the recent developments in physics as well as the latest advances in geology, evolution, and mathematics. It was a tour de force. Barnes without exception endorsed the advances in particle physics, relativity, space-time, the new notions of an expanding universe, the findings of geology about the age of the earth and the record of life in the rocks. He was convinced of evolution.98 At the same time, he dismissed various forms of mysticism and the paranormal. (Incidentally, despite its panoramic survey of recent twentieth-century science, it made not a single mention of Freud.)

  So what would the bishop say about God? His argument was that there is a Universal Mind which inhabits all matter in the universe, and that the purpose of the universe is to evolve consciousness and conscience in order to produce goodness and, above all, beauty. His view on immortality was that there is no such thing as a ‘soul,’ and that the goodness and beauty that people create lives on after them. But he did also say that he personally believed in an afterlife.99

  A copy of the book was sent to another eminent theologian, William Ralph Inge, dean of St Paul’s and the man who had quoted Rupert Brooke’s poems during his sermon on Easter Sunday, 1915. When he received Barnes’s book, Inge was already correcting the proofs of a book of his own, God and the Astronomers, which was published later that same year, 1933. It too had started life as a series of lectures, in Inge’s case the Warburg lectures, which he gave at Lincoln’s Inn Chapel in London.100 As well as being dean of St Paul’s, Inge was a fellow of Jesus College, Cambridge, and Hertford College, Oxford, and well known as a lecturer, writer, and intellectual. His provocative views on contemporary topics had already been published as Outspoken Essays. God and the Astronomers tackled the second law of thermodynamics, entropy, and evolution. For Inge these fields were linked fundamentally because each was about time. The idea of a universe being created, expanding, contracting, and disappearing in a final Götterdämmerung, as he put it, was clearly worrying, since it raised the idea that there is no such thing as eternity.

  The chief effect of evolution was to demote ideas in the past, arguing that more modern ideas had ‘evolved’ beyond them.101 Inge therefore deliberately made widespread use of the ancient philosophers – mainly Greek – to support his arguments. His aim was to show how brilliant their minds were, in comparison to those of the present. He made several references to ‘dysgenic’ trends, to suggest that evolution did not always produce advances. And he confessed that his arguments were intuitive, insisting (much as the poets were doing in Weimar Germany) that the very existence of intuition was a mark of the divine, to which science had no real answer.102 Like Henri Bergson, Inge acknowledged the existence of the élan vital and of an ‘impassable gulf between scientific knowledge and God’s existence. Like Barnes, he took as evidence for God’s existence the very concept of goodness and the mystical experiences of rapture that, as often as not, took place during prayer, which he said could not be explained by any science. He thought that civilisation, with its pressures and pace, was distancing us from such experiences. He hinted that God’s existence might be similar to the phenomenon that scientists call ‘emergent property,’ the classic example here being molecules of water, which are not themselves liquid in the way that water is. In other words, this was a scientific metaphor to support the argument for God.103 Inge, unlike Barnes, was unable to accept recent scientific advances: ‘It is a strange notion that God reveals himself more clearly and more directly in in
animate nature than in the human mind or heart…. My conclusion is that the fate of the material universe is not a vital question for religion.’104 Like Barnes, Inge made no reference to Freud.

  A year after Barnes and Inge had their say, Bertrand Russell published a short but pithy book, Religion and Science. Russell’s relationship with religion was complicated.105 He had a number of friends who were religious (in particular Lady Ottoline Morrell), and he was both envious of and irritated by them. In a letter written in January 1912 he had said, ‘What we know is that things come into our lives sometimes which are so immeasurably better than the things of everyday, that it seems as though they were sent from another world and could not come out of ourselves.’106 But later he added, ‘Yet I have another vision … in this vision, sorrow is the ultimate truth … we draw our breath in pain … thought is the gateway to despair.’107