Animal Farm by George Orwell, born Eric Arthur Blair, comes in layers. At least seemingly. Every time you read the twentieth century fictional tale, you are more likely than not to discover a deeper meaning or two obscured within and amongst its ninety odd pages (mine was published by Select Classics, some run over one hundred and ten pages). Betwixt and between the lines of Animal Farm therefore lie tales that might otherwise evade the not-so-discerning reader. On the face of it, though, the book seems to be a humorous (spoiler alert: at times ghastly) story of anthropomorphic animals that overthrow the self-serving lord of a manor farm, taking ownership of the place with pride.
The novella, which might initially overwhelm the reader on account of its having very many animal characters, begins by depicting the farm, rich with power play and chitter-chatter, where many animals abide together, albeit not peacefully. Oppressed and overburdened with work, they stage a revolution under the leadership of Old Major, a boar. They eventually succeed in appropriating the land; the human owner is shooed away, and what begins as a founding of a peaceful animal community ends with an ending that comes across as much more tyrannical and oppressive than what it used to be during the human owner’s presence.
More Than a Fable, More Than a Satire
In what may also aptly be called a fairy story, animals convene regularly, turning intense and deliberative at times, a promulgation of seven commandments occurs, each of which undergoes fine-tuning with time to feed the needs of the ruling pigs, and even a key song entitled ‘Beasts of England’ symbolising home and the fight for freedom that is oft-repeated initially gets pronounced forbidden as the plot advances. Hypocrisy is part of the leitmotif, for Napoleon, the celebrated pig that eventually exclusively gets to rule the farm, after having a fallout with its comrade Snowball, another pig, steadily goes on to reduce its sightings in public and is almost always worshipped by its protective guards, i.e., dogs and an obsequious pig named Squealer. The other animals add colour to the story, but their brainlessness and utter tolerance seem to tell the reader what could go wrong if one ended up accepting whatever was hurled at them.
You might finish reading Animal Farm in one sitting without realising what you read was a masterpiece, wondering if there was some hidden meaning, nay meanings, only to later probably either accidentally or purposefully figure out for yourself that it was a satirical take on Stalin’s regime that began in the late 1920s. What you should be able to figure out in the first read is this: Power corrupts. Absolute power absolutely corrupts, irrespective of whether humans or animals hold it. I do not quite remember how many years ago I first gave Animal Farm a read. What I do remember nonetheless is that I flipped through it more like a fable, blissfully ignorant of the historical context and completely unaware of the rise of Stalinism in the then Soviet Union.
Where Symbolism Reigns Supreme
I decided to reread the book two weeks ago, for I had to discuss it with my students, who I am given to understand are well-read. Only this time around, I was wiser. I did my research, read about Orwell and arrested the fact that the book was a chastising of sorts of the Communist rule in the Soviet Union, especially under its controversial ruler Stalin. I discovered with conviction that it is an allegory, a stark political satire that comes with a deep, moral message.
The animals’ revolt could not just be a symbolic representation of the revolt that led to the establishment of the Stalin regime in the then USSR but also a depiction of how any individual seeking power is not immune to corruption. Perhaps the power-seeking individual himself hardly realises he may end up corrupted and oppressive? I leave you with that question to ponder. And this quote from the book: ‘Some animals are equal, but others are more equal than others.’