Anthem Part 1

Anthem.

by Ayn Rand.

INTRODUCTION

Ayn Rand's working t.i.tle for this short novel was Ego. "I used the word in its exact, literal meaning," she wrote to one correspondent. "I did not mean a symbol of the self-but specifically and actually Man's Self."1 Man's self, Ayn Rand held, is his mind or conceptual faculty, the faculty of reason. All man's spiritually distinctive attributes derive from this faculty. For instance, it is reason (man's value judgments) that leads to man's emotions. And it is reason which possesses volition, the ability to make choices.

But reason is a property of the individual. There is no such thing as a collective brain.

The term ego ego combines the above points into a single concept: it designates the mind (and its attributes) considered as an individual possession. The ego, therefore, is that which const.i.tutes the essential ident.i.ty of a human being. As one dictionary puts it, the ego is "the 'I' or self of any person; [it is] a person as thinking, feeling, and willing, and distinguishing itself from the selves of others and from the objects of its thought." combines the above points into a single concept: it designates the mind (and its attributes) considered as an individual possession. The ego, therefore, is that which const.i.tutes the essential ident.i.ty of a human being. As one dictionary puts it, the ego is "the 'I' or self of any person; [it is] a person as thinking, feeling, and willing, and distinguishing itself from the selves of others and from the objects of its thought."2 It is obvious why Ayn Rand exalts man's ego. In doing so, she is (implicitly) upholding the central principles of her philosophy and of her heroes: reason, values, volition, individualism. Her villains, by contrast, do not think, judge, and will; they are second-handers, who allow themselves to be run by others. Having renounced their minds, they are, in a literal sense, selfless.

How does this novella about man's ego, first published in England in 1938, relate to The The Fountainhead Fountainhead (1943)? (1943)? Anthem Anthem, Miss Rand wrote in 1946, is like "the preliminary sketches which artists draw for their future big canvases. I wrote [Anthem] while working on The The Fountainhead Fountainhead-it has the same theme, spirit and intention, although in quite a different form."3 One correspondent at the time warned Miss Rand that there are people for whom the word ego is "too strong-even, immoral." She replied: "Why, of course there are. Against whom do you suppose the book was written?"4 Although the word ego remains essential to the text, the t.i.tle was changed to Anthem Anthem for publication. This was not an attempt to soften the book; it was a step that Ayn Rand took on every novel. Her working t.i.tles were invariably blunt and unemotional, naming explicitly, for her own clarity, the central issue of the book; such t.i.tles tend to give away to the reader too much too soon and too dryly. Her final t.i.tles still pertain to the central issue, but in an indirect and evocative way; they intrigue and even touch the reader while leaving him to discover for himself the book's meaning. (As another example, for publication. This was not an attempt to soften the book; it was a step that Ayn Rand took on every novel. Her working t.i.tles were invariably blunt and unemotional, naming explicitly, for her own clarity, the central issue of the book; such t.i.tles tend to give away to the reader too much too soon and too dryly. Her final t.i.tles still pertain to the central issue, but in an indirect and evocative way; they intrigue and even touch the reader while leaving him to discover for himself the book's meaning. (As another example, The Strike The Strike became in due course became in due course Atlas Shrugged.) Atlas Shrugged.) The present novel, in Miss Rand's mind, was from the outset an ode to man's ego. It was not difficult, therefore, to change the working t.i.tle: to move from "ego" to "ode" or "anthem," leaving the object celebrated by the ode to be discovered by the reader. "The last two chapters," Miss Rand writes in a letter, "are the actual anthem."5 The rest is the build-up to it. The rest is the build-up to it.

There is another reason, I think, for the choice of anthem anthem (as against "ode," say, or "celebration"). Anthem is a religiously toned word; its second definition is "a piece of sacred vocal music, usually with words taken from the Scriptures." (as against "ode," say, or "celebration"). Anthem is a religiously toned word; its second definition is "a piece of sacred vocal music, usually with words taken from the Scriptures."6 This does not mean that Ayn Rand conceived her book as religious. The opposite is true. This does not mean that Ayn Rand conceived her book as religious. The opposite is true.

Ayn Rand explains the point in her Introduction to the Twenty-fifth Anniversary Edition of The The Fountainhead. Fountainhead. Protesting religion's monopoly in the field of ethics, she writes, in part: Protesting religion's monopoly in the field of ethics, she writes, in part: Just as religion has preempted the field of ethics, turning morality against against man, so it has usurped the highest moral concepts of our language, placing them outside this earth and beyond man's reach. "Exaltation" is usually taken to mean an emotional state evoked by contemplating the supernatural. "Worship" means the emotional experience of loyalty and dedication to something higher than man. "Reverence" means the emotion of a sacred respect, to be experienced on one's knees. "Sacred" means superior to and not-to-be-touched-by any concerns of man or of this earth. Etc. man, so it has usurped the highest moral concepts of our language, placing them outside this earth and beyond man's reach. "Exaltation" is usually taken to mean an emotional state evoked by contemplating the supernatural. "Worship" means the emotional experience of loyalty and dedication to something higher than man. "Reverence" means the emotion of a sacred respect, to be experienced on one's knees. "Sacred" means superior to and not-to-be-touched-by any concerns of man or of this earth. Etc.But such concepts do name actual emotions, even though no supernatural dimension exists; and these emotions are experienced as uplifting or enn.o.bling, without the self-abas.e.m.e.nt required by religious definitions. What, then, is their source or referent in reality? It is the entire emotional realm of man's dedication to a moral ideal....It is this highest level of man's emotions that has to be redeemed from the murk of mysticism and redirected at its proper object: man.It is in this sense, with this meaning and intention, that I would identify the sense of life dramatized in The Fountainhead The Fountainhead as as man-worship. man-worship.7 For the same reason, Ayn Rand chose the esthetic-moral concept "anthem" for her present t.i.tle. In doing so, she was not surrendering to mysticism, but waging war against it. She was claiming for man and his ego the sacred sacred respect that is actually due not to Heaven, but to life on earth. An "anthem to the ego" is blasphemy to the pious, because it implies that reverence pertains not to G.o.d, but to man and, above all, to that fundamental and inherently selfish thing within him that enables him to deal with reality and survive. respect that is actually due not to Heaven, but to life on earth. An "anthem to the ego" is blasphemy to the pious, because it implies that reverence pertains not to G.o.d, but to man and, above all, to that fundamental and inherently selfish thing within him that enables him to deal with reality and survive.

There have been plenty of egoists in human history, and there have been plenty of worshipers, too. The egoists were generally cynical "realists" (a la Hobbes), who despised morality; the worshipers, by their own statement, were out of this world. Their clash was an instance of the fact-value dichotomy, which has plagued Western philosophy for many centuries, making facts seem meaningless and values baseless. Ayn Rand's concept of an "anthem to the ego" throws out this vicious dichotomy. Her Objectivist philosophy integrates facts with values-in this instance, the actual nature of man with an exalted and secular admiration for it.

The genre of Anthem Anthem is determined by its theme. As an anthem, or hymn of praise, the novel is not typical of Ayn Rand in form or in style (although it is typical in content). As Miss Rand has said, is determined by its theme. As an anthem, or hymn of praise, the novel is not typical of Ayn Rand in form or in style (although it is typical in content). As Miss Rand has said, Anthem Anthem has a story, but not a plot, i.e., not a progression of events leading inexorably to an action-climax and a resolution. The closest thing to a climax in has a story, but not a plot, i.e., not a progression of events leading inexorably to an action-climax and a resolution. The closest thing to a climax in Anthem Anthem, the hero's discovery of the word I, I, is not an existential action, but an internal event, a process of cognition-which is, besides, partly accidental (it is not fully necessitated by the earlier events of the story). is not an existential action, but an internal event, a process of cognition-which is, besides, partly accidental (it is not fully necessitated by the earlier events of the story).8 Similarly, Anthem does not exemplify Ayn Rand's usual artistic approach, which she called "Romantic Realism." In contrast to her other novels, there is no realistic, contemporary background and relatively little attempt to re-create perceptual, conversational, or psychological detail; the story is set in a remote, primitive future and told in the simple, quasi-biblical terms that befit such a time and world. To Cecil B. De Mille, Ayn Rand described the book as a "dramatic fantasy."9 To Rose Wilder Lane, in answer to a question, she cla.s.sified it officially as a "poem." To Rose Wilder Lane, in answer to a question, she cla.s.sified it officially as a "poem."10 She held the same view of the book in regard to its adaptation to other media. To Walt Disney, she wrote in 1946 that if a screen version were possible, "I would like to see it done in stylized drawings, rather than with living actors."11 Then-in the mid-1960s, as I recall-she received a request from Rudolf Nureyev, who wanted to create a ballet based on Anthem. Anthem. Ordinarily, Miss Rand turned down requests of this kind. But because of the special nature of Ordinarily, Miss Rand turned down requests of this kind. But because of the special nature of Anthem Anthem (and because of her admiration for Nureyev's dancing), she was enthusiastically in favor of his idea. (Unfortunately, neither a movie nor a ballet ever materialized.) (and because of her admiration for Nureyev's dancing), she was enthusiastically in favor of his idea. (Unfortunately, neither a movie nor a ballet ever materialized.) The point is that animation or ballet can capture a fantasy-but not Soviet Russia or the struggles of Roark or the strike of the men of the mind.

Anthem was initially conceived in the early 1920s (or perhaps a bit earlier) as a play. At the time, Ayn Rand was a teenager in Soviet Russia. Some forty years later, she discussed the work's development with an interviewer. was initially conceived in the early 1920s (or perhaps a bit earlier) as a play. At the time, Ayn Rand was a teenager in Soviet Russia. Some forty years later, she discussed the work's development with an interviewer.

It was to be a play about a collectivist society of the future in which they lost the word "I." They were all calling each other "we" and it was worked out as much more of a story. There were many characters. It was to be four acts, I think. One of the things I remember about it is that the characters couldn't stand the society. Once in a while, someone would scream and go insane in the middle of one of their collective meetings. The only touch of this left is the people who scream at night.12 The play was not specifically anti-Russian: I wasn't taking my revenge on my background. Because if it were that I would have been writing stories laid in Russia or projecting them. It was my intention to wipe out that kind of world totally; I mean I wouldn't want to include Russia or have anything to do with it. My feeling toward Russia at that time was simply an intensified feeling that I've had from childhood and from before the revolutions. I felt that this was so mystical, depraved, rotten a country that I wasn't surprised that they got a Communist ideology-and I felt that one has to get out and find the civilized world. I wasn't taking my revenge on my background. Because if it were that I would have been writing stories laid in Russia or projecting them. It was my intention to wipe out that kind of world totally; I mean I wouldn't want to include Russia or have anything to do with it. My feeling toward Russia at that time was simply an intensified feeling that I've had from childhood and from before the revolutions. I felt that this was so mystical, depraved, rotten a country that I wasn't surprised that they got a Communist ideology-and I felt that one has to get out and find the civilized world.13 Ayn Rand got out to the United States in 1926, at the age of twenty-one. But she didn't think of writing Anthem here-until she read in the Sat.u.r.day Evening Post Sat.u.r.day Evening Post a story laid in the future: a story laid in the future: It didn't have any particular theme, only the fact that some kind of war had destroyed civilization, and that there is a last survivor in the ruins of New York who rebuilds something. No particular plot. It was just an adventure story, but what interested me was the fact that it was the first time I saw a fantastic story in print-rather than the folks-next-door sort of serials. What impressed me was the fact that they would publish such a story. And so I thought that if they didn't mind fantasy, I would like to try Anthem. Anthem.I was working on the plot of The Fountainhead The Fountainhead at that time, which was the worst part of any of my struggles. There was nothing I could do except sit and think-which was miserable. I was doing architectural research, but there was no writing I could do yet, and I had to take time off once in a while to write something. So I wrote Anthem that summer of 1937. at that time, which was the worst part of any of my struggles. There was nothing I could do except sit and think-which was miserable. I was doing architectural research, but there was no writing I could do yet, and I had to take time off once in a while to write something. So I wrote Anthem that summer of 1937.14 What followed was a long struggle to get it published-not a struggle in England, where it was published at once, but in America, where intellectuals, intoxicated by Communism, were at the height (or nadir) of the Red Decade: I intended Anthem Anthem at first as a magazine story or serial ... but I think my agent said it would not be for the magazines, and she was probably right. Or if she tried them, she didn't succeed. She told me that it should be published as a book, which I hadn't thought of. She submitted it simultaneously to Macmillan in America, who had published at first as a magazine story or serial ... but I think my agent said it would not be for the magazines, and she was probably right. Or if she tried them, she didn't succeed. She told me that it should be published as a book, which I hadn't thought of. She submitted it simultaneously to Macmillan in America, who had published We The Living We The Living and whom I had not left yet, and to the English publisher Ca.s.sell. Ca.s.sell accepted it immediately; the owner said he was not sure whether it would sell but it was beautiful, and he appreciated it literarily, and he wanted to publish it. Macmillan turned it down; their comment was: the author does not understand socialism. and whom I had not left yet, and to the English publisher Ca.s.sell. Ca.s.sell accepted it immediately; the owner said he was not sure whether it would sell but it was beautiful, and he appreciated it literarily, and he wanted to publish it. Macmillan turned it down; their comment was: the author does not understand socialism.15 For the next eight years, nothing was done about Anthem Anthem in the United States. Then, in 1945, Leonard Read of Pamphleteers, a small conservative outfit in Los Angeles that published nonfiction essays, decided that in the United States. Then, in 1945, Leonard Read of Pamphleteers, a small conservative outfit in Los Angeles that published nonfiction essays, decided that Anthem Anthem had to have an American audience; Read brought it out as a pamphlet in 1946. Another conservative house with a meager audience, Caxton, took the book over as a hardcover in 1953. At last, in 1961, about a quarter of a century after it had been written, New American Library issued it as a ma.s.s-market paperback. had to have an American audience; Read brought it out as a pamphlet in 1946. Another conservative house with a meager audience, Caxton, took the book over as a hardcover in 1953. At last, in 1961, about a quarter of a century after it had been written, New American Library issued it as a ma.s.s-market paperback.

By such agonizingly drawn-out steps, the country of individualism was finally allowed to discover Ayn Rand's novel of individualism. Anthem Anthem has now sold nearly 2.5 million copies. has now sold nearly 2.5 million copies.

For the first American edition, Ayn Rand rewrote the book. "I have edited [the story] for this publication," she said in her 1946 Foreword, "but have confined the editing to its style.... No idea or incident was added or omitted.... The story remains as it was. I have lifted its face, but not its spine or spirit; these did not need lifting."16 Until her late thirties, when she had mastered English and finished writing The Fountainhead, Fountainhead, Ayn Rand was not completely satisfied with her command of style. One problem was a degree of overwriting in her earlier work; she was still uncertain at times, she told me once, as to when a point (or an emotion) had been communicated fully and objectively. After 1943, when she was an a.s.sured professional both in art and in English, she went back to Ayn Rand was not completely satisfied with her command of style. One problem was a degree of overwriting in her earlier work; she was still uncertain at times, she told me once, as to when a point (or an emotion) had been communicated fully and objectively. After 1943, when she was an a.s.sured professional both in art and in English, she went back to Anthem Anthem and (later) to and (later) to We The Living, We The Living, and revised them in accordance with her mature knowledge. and revised them in accordance with her mature knowledge.

In editing Anthem, Anthem, she said years later, her main concerns were: she said years later, her main concerns were: Precision, clarity, brevity, and eliminating any editorial or slightly purple adjectives. You see, the attempt to have that semi-archaic style was very difficult. Some of the pa.s.sages were exaggerated. In effect, I was sacrificing content for style-in some places, simply because I didn't know how to say it. By the time I rewrote it after The Fountainhead, Fountainhead, I was in full control of my style and I knew how to achieve the same effect, but by simple and direct means, without getting too biblical. I was in full control of my style and I knew how to achieve the same effect, but by simple and direct means, without getting too biblical.17 For those who want some idea of how in their own work to achieve "precision, clarity, brevity"-and, I might add, beauty, the beauty of a perfect marriage between sound and meaning-I am including as an Appendix to this edition a facsimile of the original British edition of Anthem, Anthem, with Ayn Rand's editorial changes for the American edition written on each page in her own hand. If (ignoring the concrete issue of biblical style) you study her changes and ask "Why?" as you proceed, there is virtually no limit to what you can learn about writing-Ayn Rand's or your own. with Ayn Rand's editorial changes for the American edition written on each page in her own hand. If (ignoring the concrete issue of biblical style) you study her changes and ask "Why?" as you proceed, there is virtually no limit to what you can learn about writing-Ayn Rand's or your own.

Ayn Rand learned a great deal about her art (and about much else, including the applications of her philosophy) during the years of her hard-thinking life. But in essence and as a person, she was immutable. The child who imagined Anthem Anthem in Russia had the same soul as the woman who edited it nearly thirty years later-and who was still proud of it thirty-five years after that. in Russia had the same soul as the woman who edited it nearly thirty years later-and who was still proud of it thirty-five years after that.

A small example of Ayn Rand's constancy can be found in a publicity form she had to fill out for We The Living The Living in 1936, a year before she wrote in 1936, a year before she wrote Anthem Anthem. The form asked authors to state their own philosophy. Her answer, at the age of thirty-one, begins: "To make my life a reason unto itself. I know what I want up to the age of two hundred. Know what you want in life and go after it. I worship individuals individuals for their highest possibilities as individuals, and I loathe humanity, for its failure to live up to these possibilities...." for their highest possibilities as individuals, and I loathe humanity, for its failure to live up to these possibilities...."18 When I come across such characteristic Ayn Rand entries dating as early as 1936 (and even earlier), I think irresistibly of a comment made about Roark by his friend Austen h.e.l.ler: I often think that he's the only one of us who's achieved immortality. I don't mean in the sense of fame and I don't mean he won't die someday. But he's living it. I think he is what the conception really means. You know how people long to be eternal. But they die with every day that pa.s.ses.... They change, they deny, they contradict-and they call it growth. At the end there's nothing left, nothing unreversed or unbetrayed; as if there had never been an ent.i.ty, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out of an unformed ma.s.s. How do they expect a permanence which they have never held for a single moment? But Howard-one can imagine him existing forever.19 One can imagine it of Ayn Rand, too. She herself was immortal in the above sense-and she achieved fame, besides. I expect her works, therefore, to live as long as civilization does. Perhaps, like Aristotle's Logic, Logic, they will even survive another Dark Ages, if and when it comes. they will even survive another Dark Ages, if and when it comes.

Anthem, in any event, in any event, has has lived-and I am happy to have had the opportunity to introduce its fiftieth anniversary edition in America. lived-and I am happy to have had the opportunity to introduce its fiftieth anniversary edition in America.

Some of you reading my words will be here to celebrate its hundredth anniversary. As an atheist, I cannot ask you to "keep the faith" in years to come. What I ask instead is: Hold on to reason.

Or, in the style of Anthem: Anthem: Love thine Ego as thyself. Because that's what it is. Love thine Ego as thyself. Because that's what it is.

-Leonard Peikoff Irvine, California October 1994

AUTHOR'S FOREWORD

THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN IN 1937.

I have edited it for this publication, but have confined the editing to its style; I have reworded some pa.s.sages and cut out some excessive language. No idea or incident was added or omitted; the theme, content and structure are untouched. The story remains as it was. I have lifted its face, but not its spine or spirit; these did not need lifting.

Some of those who read the story when it was first written, told me that I was unfair to the ideals of collectivism; this was not, they said, what collectivism preaches or intends; collectivists do not mean or advocate such things; n.o.body advocates them.

I shall merely point out that the slogan "Production for use and not for profit" is now accepted by most men as a commonplace, and a commonplace stating a proper, desirable goal. If any intelligible meaning can be discerned in that slogan at all, what is it, if not the idea that the motive of a man's work must be the need of others, not his own need, desire or gain?

Compulsory labor conscription is now practiced or advocated in every country on earth. What is it based on, if not the idea that the state is best qualified to decide where a man can be useful to others, such usefulness being the only consideration, and that his own aims, desires or happiness should be ignored as of no importance?

We have Councils of Vocations, Councils of Eugenics, every possible kind of Council, including a World Council-and if these do not as yet hold total power over us, is it from lack of intention?

"Social gains," "social aims," "social objectives" have become the daily bromides of our language. The necessity of a social justification for all activities and all existence is now taken for granted. There is no proposal outrageous enough but what its author can get a respectful hearing and approbation if he claims that in some undefined way it is for "the common good."

Some might think-though I don't-that nine years ago there was some excuse for men not to see the direction in which the world was going. Today, the evidence is so blatant that no excuse can be claimed by anyone any longer. Those who refuse to see it now are neither blind nor innocent.

The greatest guilt today is that of people who accept collectivism by moral default; the people who seek protection from the necessity of taking a stand, by refusing to admit to themselves the nature of that which they are accepting; the people who support plans specifically designed to achieve serfdom, but hide behind the empty a.s.sertion that they are lovers of freedom, with no concrete meaning attached to the word; the people who believe that the content of ideas need not be examined, that principles need not be defined, and that facts can be eliminated by keeping one's eyes shut. They expect, when they find themselves in a world of b.l.o.o.d.y ruins and concentration camps, to escape moral responsibility by wailing: "But I didn't mean this this!"

Those who want slavery should have the grace to name it by its proper name. They must face the full meaning of that which they are advocating or condoning; the full, exact, specific meaning of collectivism, of its logical implications, of the principles upon which it is based, and of the ultimate consequences to which these principles will lead.

They must face it, then decide whether this is what they want or not.

-Ayn Rand April 1946

I

IT IS A SIN TO WRITE THIS. It is a sin to think words no others think and to put them down upon a paper no others are to see. It is base and evil. It is as if we were speaking alone to no ears but our own. And we know well that there is no transgression blacker than to do or think alone. We have broken the laws. The laws say that men may not write unless the Council of Vocations bid them so. May we be forgiven!

But this is not the only sin upon us. We have committed a greater crime, and for this crime there is no name. What punishment awaits us if it be discovered we know not, for no such crime has come in the memory of men and there are no laws to provide for it.

It is dark here. The flame of the candle stands still in the air. Nothing moves in this tunnel save our hand on the paper. We are alone here under the earth. It is a fearful word, alone. The laws say that none among men may be alone, ever and at any time, for this is the great transgression and the root of all evil. But we have broken many laws. And now there is nothing here save our one body, and it is strange to see only two legs stretched on the ground, and on the wall before us the shadow of our one head.

The walls are cracked and water runs upon them in thin threads without sound, black and glistening as blood. We stole the candle from the larder of the Home of the Street Sweepers. We shall be sentenced to ten years in the Palace of Corrective Detention if it be discovered. But this matters not. It matters only that the light is precious and we should not waste it to write when we need it for that work which is our crime. Nothing matters save the work, our secret, our evil, our precious work. Still, we must also write, for-may the Council have mercy on us!-we wish to speak for once to no ears but our own.

Our name is Equality 7-2521, as it is written on the iron bracelet which all men wear on their left wrists with their names upon it. We are twenty-one years old. We are six feet tall, and this is a burden, for there are not many men who are six feet tall. Ever have the Teachers and the Leaders pointed to us and frowned and said: "There is evil in your bones, Equality 7-2521, for your body has grown beyond the bodies of your brothers." But we cannot change our bones nor our body.

We were born with a curse. It has always driven us to thoughts which are forbidden. It has always given us wishes which men may not wish. We know that we are evil, but there is no will in us and no power to resist it. This is our wonder and our secret fear, that we know and do not resist.

We strive to be like all our brother men, for all men must be alike. Over the portals of the Palace of the World Council, there are words cut in the marble, which we repeat to ourselves whenever we are tempted: "We are one in all and all in one.

There are no men but only the great WE, One, indivisible and forever."

We repeat this to ourselves, but it helps us not.

These words were cut long ago. There is green mould in the grooves of the letters and yellow streaks on the marble, which come from more years than men could count. And these words are the truth for they are written on the Palace of the World Council, and the World Council is the body of all truth. Thus has it been ever since the Great Rebirth, and farther back than that no memory can reach.

But we must never speak of the times before the Great Rebirth, else we are sentenced to three years in the Palace of Corrective Detention. It is only the Old Ones who whisper about it in the evenings, in the Home of the Useless. They whisper many strange things, of the towers which rose to the sky, in those Unmentionable Times, and of the wagons which moved without horses, and of the lights which burned without flame. But those times were evil. And those times pa.s.sed away, when men saw the Great Truth which is this: that all men are one and that there is no will save the will of all men together.

All men are good and wise. It is only we, Equality 7-2521, we alone who were born with a curse. For we are not like our brothers. And as we look back upon our life, we see that it has ever been thus and that it has brought us step by step to our last, supreme transgression, our crime of crimes hidden here under the ground.

We remember the Home of Infants where we lived till we were five years old, together with all the children of the City who had been born in the same year. The sleeping halls there were white and clean and bare of all things save one hundred beds. We were just like all our brothers then, save for the one transgression: we fought with our brothers. There are few offenses blacker than to fight with our brothers, at any age and for any cause whatsoever. The Council of the Home told us so, and of all the children of that year, we were locked in the cellar most often.

When we were five years old, we were sent to the Home of the Students, where there are ten wards, for our ten years of learning. Men must learn till they reach their fifteenth year. Then they go to work. In the Home of the Students we arose when the big bell rang in the tower and we went to our beds when it rang again. Before we removed our garments, we stood in the great sleeping hall, and we raised our right arms, and we said all together with the three Teachers at the head: "We are nothing. Mankind is all. By the grace of our brothers are we allowed our lives. We exist through, by and for our brothers who are the State. Amen."

Then we slept. The sleeping halls were white and clean and bare of all things save one hundred beds.

We, Equality 7-2521, were not happy in those years in the Home of the Students. It was not that the learning was too hard for us. It was that the learning was too easy. This is a great sin, to be born with a head which is too quick. It is not good to be different from our brothers, but it is evil to be superior to them. The Teachers told us so, and they frowned when they looked upon us.

So we fought against this curse. We tried to forget our lessons, but we always remembered. We tried not to understand what the Teachers taught, but we always understood it before the Teachers had spoken. We looked upon Union 5-3992, who were a pale boy with only half a brain, and we tried to say and do as they did, that we might be like them, like Union 5-3992, but somehow the Teachers knew that we were not. And we were lashed more often than all the other children.

The Teachers were just, for they had been appointed by the Councils, and the Councils are the voice of all justice, for they are the voice of all men. And if sometimes, in the secret darkness of our heart, we regret that which befell us on our fifteenth birthday, we know that it was through our own guilt. We had broken a law, for we had not paid heed to the words of our Teachers. The Teachers had said to us all: "Dare not choose in your minds the work you would like to do when you leave the Home of the Students. You shall do that which the Council of Vocations shall prescribe for you. For the Council of Vocations knows in its great wisdom where you are needed by your brother men, better than you can know it in your unworthy little minds. And if you are not needed by your brother men, there is no reason for you to burden the earth with your bodies."

We knew this well, in the years of our childhood, but our curse broke our will. We were guilty and we confess it here: we were guilty of the great Transgression of Preference. We preferred some work and some lessons to the others. We did not listen well to the history of all the Councils elected since the Great Rebirth. But we loved the Science of Things. We wished to know. We wished to know about all the things which make the earth around us. We asked so many questions that the Teachers forbade it.

We think that there are mysteries in the sky and under the water and in the plants which grow. But the Council of Scholars has said that there are no mysteries, and the Council of Scholars knows all things. And we learned much from our Teachers. We learned that the earth is flat and that the sun revolves around it, which causes the day and the night. We learned the names of all the winds which blow over the seas and push the sails of our great ships. We learned how to bleed men to cure them of all ailments.

We loved the Science of Things. And in the darkness, in the secret hour, when we awoke in the night and there were no brothers around us, but only their shapes in the beds and their snores, we closed our eyes, and we held our lips shut, and we stopped our breath, that no shudder might let our brothers see or hear or guess, and we thought that we wished to be sent to the Home of the Scholars when our time would come.

All the great modern inventions come from the Home of the Scholars, such as the newest one, which we found only a hundred years ago, of how to make candles from wax and string; also, how to make gla.s.s, which is put in our windows to protect us from the rain. To find these things, the Scholars must study the earth and learn from the rivers, from the sands, from the winds and the rocks. And if we went to the Home of the Scholars, we could learn from these also. We could ask questions of these, for they do not forbid questions.

And questions give us no rest. We know not why our curse makes us seek we know not what, ever and ever. But we cannot resist it. It whispers to us that there are great things on this earth of ours, and that we can know them if we try, and that we must know them. We ask, why must we know, but it has no answer to give us. We must know that we may know.

So we wished to be sent to the Home of the Scholars. We wished it so much that our hands trembled under the blankets in the night, and we bit our arm to stop that other pain which we could not endure. It was evil and we dared not face our brothers in the morning. For men may wish nothing for themselves. And we were punished when the Council of Vocations came to give us our life Mandates which tell those who reach their fifteenth year what their work is to be for the rest of their days.

The Council of Vocations came on the first day of spring, and they sat in the great hall. And we who were fifteen and all the Teachers came into the great hall. And the Council of Vocations sat on a high dais, and they had but two words to speak to each of the Students. They called the Students' names, and when the Students stepped before them, one after another, the Council said: "Carpenter" or "Doctor" or "Cook" or "Leader." Then each Student raised their right arm and said: "The will of our brothers be done."

Now if the Council has said "Carpenter" or "Cook," the Students so a.s.signed go to work and they do not study any further. But if the Council has said "Leader," then those Students go into the Home of the Leaders, which is the greatest house in the City, for it has three stories. And there they study for many years, so that they may become candidates and be elected to the City Council and the State Council and the World Council-by a free and general vote of all men. But we wished not to be a Leader, even though it is a great honor. We wished to be a Scholar.

So we waited our turn in the great hall and then we heard the Council of Vocations call our name: "Equality 7-2521." We walked to the dais, and our legs did not tremble, and we looked up at the Council. There were five members of the Council, three of the male gender and two of the female. Their hair was white and their faces were cracked as the clay of a dry river bed. They were old. They seemed older than the marble of the Temple of the World Council. They sat before us and they did not move. And we saw no breath to stir the folds of their white togas. But we knew that they were alive, for a finger of the hand of the oldest rose, pointed to us, and fell down again. This was the only thing which moved, for the lips of the oldest did not move as they said: "Street Sweeper."

We felt the cords of our neck grow tight as our head rose higher to look upon the faces of the Council, and we were happy. We knew we had been guilty, but now we had a way to atone for it. We would accept our Life Mandate, and we would work for our brothers, gladly and willingly, and we would erase our sin against them, which they did not know, but we knew. So we were happy, and proud of ourselves and of our victory over ourselves. We raised our right arm and we spoke, and our voice was the clearest, the steadiest voice in the hall that day, and we said: "The will of our brothers be done."

And we looked straight into the eyes of the Council, but their eyes were as cold blue gla.s.s b.u.t.tons.

So we went into the Home of the Street Sweepers. It is a grey house on a narrow street. There is a sundial in its courtyard, by which the Council of the Home can tell the hours of the day and when to ring the bell. When the bell rings, we all arise from our beds. The sky is green and cold in our windows to the east. The shadow on the sundial marks off a half-hour while we dress and eat our breakfast in the dining hall, where there are five long tables with twenty clay plates and twenty clay cups on each table. Then we go to work in the streets of the City, with our brooms and our rakes. In five hours, when the sun is high, we return to the Home and we eat our midday meal, for which one-half hour is allowed. Then we go to work again. In five hours, the shadows are blue on the pavements, and the sky is blue with a deep brightness which is not bright. We come back to have our dinner, which lasts one hour. Then the bell rings and we walk in a straight column to one of the City Halls, for the Social Meeting. Other columns of men arrive from the Homes of the different Trades. The candles are lit, and the Councils of the different Homes stand in a pulpit, and they speak to us of our duties and of our brother men. Then visiting Leaders mount the pulpit and they read to us the speeches which were made in the City Council that day, for the City Council represents all men and all men must know. Then we sing hymns, the Hymn of Brotherhood, and the Hymn of Equality, and the Hymn of the Collective Spirit. The sky is a soggy purple when we return to the Home. Then the bell rings and we walk in a straight column to the City Theatre for three hours of Social Recreation. There a play is shown upon the stage, with two great choruses from the Home of the Actors, which speak and answer all together, in two great voices. The plays are about toil and how good it is. Then we walk back to the Home in a straight column. The sky is like a black sieve pierced by silver drops that tremble, ready to burst through. The moths beat against the street lanterns. We go to our beds and we sleep, till the bell rings again. The. sleeping halls are white and clean and bare of all things save one hundred beds.

Thus we lived each day of four years, until two springs ago when our crime happened. Thus must all men live until they are forty. At forty, they are worn out. At forty, they are sent to the Home of the Useless, where the Old Ones live. The Old Ones do not work, for the State takes care of them. They sit in the sun in summer and they sit by the fire in winter. They do not speak often, for they are weary. The Old Ones know that they are soon to die. When a miracle happens and some live to be forty-five, they are the Ancient Ones, and children stare at them when pa.s.sing by the Home of the Useless. Such is to be our life, as that of all our brothers and of the brothers who came before us.

Such would have been our life, had we not committed our crime which changed all things for us. And it was our curse which drove us to our crime. We had been a good Street Sweeper and like all our brother Street Sweepers, save for our cursed wish to know. We looked too long at the stars at night, and at the trees and the earth. And when we cleaned the yard of the Home of the Scholars, we gathered the gla.s.s vials, the pieces of metal, the dried bones which they had discarded. We wished to keep these things to study them, but we had no place to hide them. So we carried them to the City Cesspool. And then we made the discovery.

It was on a day of the spring before last. We Street Sweepers work in brigades of three, and we were with Union 5-3992, they of the half-brain, and with International 4-8818. Now Union 5- 3992 are a sickly lad and sometimes they are stricken with convulsions, when their mouth froths and their eyes turn white. But International 4- 8818 are different. They are a tall, strong youth and their eyes are like fireflies, for there is laughter in their eyes. We cannot look upon International 4-8818 and not smile in answer. For this they were not liked in the Home of the Students, as it is not proper to smile without reason. And also they were not liked because they took pieces of coal and they drew pictures upon the walls, and they were pictures which made men laugh. But it is only our brothers in the Home of the Artists who are permitted to draw pictures, so International 4-8818 were sent to the Home of the Street Sweepers, like ourselves.

International 4-8818 and we are friends. This is an evil thing to say, for it is a transgression, the great Transgression of Preference, to love any among men better than the others, since we must love all men and all men are our friends. So International 4-8818 and we have never spoken of it. But we know. We know, when we look into each other's eyes. And when we look thus without words, we both know other things also, strange things for which there are no words, and these things frighten us.

So on that day of the spring before last, Union 5-3992 were stricken with convulsions on the edge of the City, near the City Theatre. We left them to lie in the shade of the Theatre tent and we went with International 4-8818 to finish our work. We came together to the great ravine behind the Theatre. It is empty save for trees and weeds. Beyond the ravine there is a plain, and beyond the plain there lies the Uncharted Forest, about which men must not think.

We were gathering the papers and the rags which the wind had blown from the Theatre, when we saw an iron bar among the weeds. It was old and rusted by many rains. We pulled with all our strength, but we could not move it. So we called International 4-8818, and together we sc.r.a.ped the earth around the bar. Of a sudden the earth fell in before us, and we saw an old iron grill over a black hole.

International 4-8818 stepped back. But we pulled at the grill and it gave way. And then we saw iron rings as steps leading down a shaft into a darkness without bottom.

"We shall go down," we said to International 4-8818.

"It is forbidden," they answered.

We said: "The Council does not know of this hole, so it cannot be forbidden."

And they answered: "Since the Council does not know of this hole, there can be no law permitting to enter. And everything which is not permitted by law is forbidden."

But we said: "We shall go, nonetheless."

They were frightened, but they stood by and watched us go.

We hung on the iron rings with our hands and our feet. We could see nothing below us. And above us the hole open upon the sky grew smaller and smaller, till it came to be the size of a b.u.t.ton. But still we went down. Then our foot touched the ground. We rubbed our eyes, for we could not see. Then our eyes became used to the darkness, but we could not believe what we saw.

No men known to us could have built this place, nor the men known to our brothers who lived before us, and yet it was built by men. It was a great tunnel. Its walls were hard and smooth to the touch; it felt like stone, but it was not stone. On the ground there were long thin tracks of iron, but it was not iron; it felt smooth and cold as gla.s.s. We knelt, and we crawled forward, our hand groping along the iron line to see where it would lead. But there was an unbroken night ahead. Only the iron tracks glowed through it, straight and white, calling us to follow. But we could not follow, for we were losing the puddle of light behind us. So we turned and we crawled back, our hand on the iron line. And our heart beat in our fingertips, without reason. And then we knew.

We knew suddenly that this place was left from the Unmentionable Times. So it was true, and those Times had been, and all the wonders of those Times. Hundreds upon hundreds of years ago men knew secrets which we have lost. And we thought: "This is a foul place. They are d.a.m.ned who touch the things of the Unmentionable Times." But our hand which followed the track, as we crawled, clung to the iron as if it would not leave it, as if the skin of our hand were thirsty and begging of the metal some secret fluid beating in its coldness.

We returned to the earth. International 4-8818 looked upon us and stepped back.

"Equality 7-2521," they said, "your face is white."

But we could not speak and we stood looking upon them.

They backed away, as if they dared not touch us. Then they smiled, but it was not a gay smile; it was lost and pleading. But still we could not speak. Then they said: "We shall report our find to the City Council and both of us will be rewarded."

And then we spoke. Our voice was hard and there was no mercy in our voice. We said: "We shall not report our find to the City Council. We shall not report it to any men."

They raised their hands to their ears, for never had they heard such words as these.

"International 4-8818," we asked, "will you report us to the Council and see us lashed to death before your eyes?"