Daily Wisdom-isms: That Hideous Strength (The Purpose of War)

Mark finds himself in quite a jam, being falsely accused of a murder. It was all a setup of course. N.I.C.E. is wont to do such things. And it was a setup with purpose. That sinister purpose being inducting Mark into the Inner Circle of N.I.C.E. once and for all. Here, Professor Frost begins Mark’s initiation into the heart of the sinister forces behind N.I.C.E.

“For the moment, I would merely remark that your view of war and your reference to the preservation of the species suggest a profound misconception. They are mere generalizations from affectional feelings,” said Frost.

“Surely,” said Mark, “one requires a pretty large population for the full exploitation of Nature, if for nothing else? And surely war is dysgenic and reduces efficiency? Even if population needs thinning, is not war the worst possible method of thinning it?”

“That idea is a survival from conditions which are rapidly being altered. A few centuries ago, war did not operate in the way you describe. A large agricultural population was essential; and war destroyed types which were then still useful. But every advance in industry and agriculture reduces the number of work-people who are required. A large, unintelligent population is now becoming a deadweight. The real importance of scientific war is that scientists have to be reserved. It was not the great technocrats of Koenigsberg or Moscow who supplied the casualties in the siege of Stalingrad: it was the superstitious Bavarian peasants and low-grade Russian agricultural workers. The effect of modern war is to eliminate retrogressive types, while sparing the technocracy and increasing its hold upon public affairs.”

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About Universal Shift

I am the Sonata Unusual. I coat myself with some obtuse angle too far below zero to become any warmer. I create motivation, activate schemas, moisten gardens with scents of natural honeydew. Construct this meaning, you sleepy flock. Silence your singing—despairing contortions out of tune. Shatter the brittle butterfly glass with your hideous wailing. I am born of my god’s imagination. When I die I shall meet him. For there are many things to discuss over tea…or scotch.

Posted on June 12, 2012, in Author, Fiction, Philosophy, Religion and Spirituality, Spirituality, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

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