Science of the Social Credit Measured in Terms of Human Satisfaction
Christian based service movement warning about threats to rights and freedom irrespective of the label, Science of the Social Credit Measured in Terms of Human Satisfaction

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing"
Edmund Burke

Science of the Social Credit Measured in Terms of Human Satisfaction

The Great Liberal Death Wish



The Great Liberal Death Wish

Speech by the Prime Minister Hon. R. J. Hawke to the Fabian Society Centenary Dinner 1984



The Fabian Society began as an English organisation founded in1884. It is named after a thlrd-century Roman General, QuintüsFabius Maximus, who successfully defeated Hannibal.

The Fabians discovered the secret of the general's strategy: never confront the enemy directly in the open battlefield, but defeat him gradually through a series of small battles, running after each successful foray. Fabius was a successful guerilla fighter using the simple strategy of patient gradualism. He knew that he couldn't defeat the mighty armies of Hannibal with an open confrontation because his armies were outnumbered. He never confronted his enemy directly.

This is the strategy adopted by the Fabian Society. They decided that the forces of the free-enterprise system have a superior philosophy and that their strategy must never be to confront the free-enterprise system head on. They must be content with a series of small victories, the lump sum of which will be a rather stunning victory and the ultimate triumph of Socialism.

Their original symbol was a tortoise, symbolizing the slow, gradual progress of that animal, but this symbol was later changed to that of a wolf in sheep's clothing which George Bernard Shaw (a member of the Fabian Society) had suggested was more appropriate than the tortoise as a heraldic device for the Fabian Society.

The philosophy of the Society was written in 1887 and each member is obliged to support it. It reads:

"It (The Fabian Society) therefore aims at the reorganisation of society by the emancipation of land and Industrial Capital from individual and class ownership...

"The Society accordingly works for the extinction of private property in land..."

The Fabian Society acknowledges the principle tenet of Marxism: the abolition of private property, in this case, the right to own land. They then align themselves with the non-violent arm of Marxism by accepting the non-violent road of patient gradualism to total government.

The entire strategy was detailed by H. G. Wells, the noted science fiction writer, also a member of the Fabian Society, who wrote:
“It [will be) left chiefly to the little group of English people who founded Fabian Socialism to supply a third system of ideas to the amplifying conception of Socialism, to convert revolutionary Socialism to Administrative Socialism. Socialism [will cease) to be an open revolution and will become a plot."

George Orwell, also a member of the Fabian Society, in his novel entitled '1984', had his character O'Brien say: "We know that no one seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes a revolution in order to establish a dictatorship.

* * * * * * * * * * *  


by Malcolm Muggeridge

Malcolm Muggeridge [was] quite simply one of the most delightful, articulate, brilliant thinkers in the world. His career has included journalist and Moscow correspondents for the Manchester Guardian; agent for British Intelligence in Africa during World War II; Liaison Officer with the Free French; Deputy Editor of the Daily Telegraph; Editor of Punch; and Book Reviewer for Esquire.

Mr. Muggeridge has completed two volumes of his memoirs entitled Chronicles of Wasted Time; the third volume is nearing completion. In addition to several anthologies of his own writings, he is a published novelist and playwright. His television career began when television began, and has continued in the United States, the United Kingdom and throughout the English-speaking world. In England he has worked extensively with the B.B.C. He has starred in countless documentary films and in a weekly discussion series that was immensely popular.

Mr. Muggeridge delivered this presentation at Hillsdale College, Hillsdale, Michigan during a Center for Constructive Alternatives seminar in April, 1979 and is reproduced from the May, 1979 issue of their publication Imprimas by permission.

First printing 1979. Published by The Australian League of Rights, Box 1052 GPO, Melbourne Victoria 3001.



by Malcolm Muggeridge

"The Great Liberal Death Wish" is a subject that I've given a lot of thought to and have written about, and it would be easy for me to read to you a long piece that I've written on the subject. But somehow in the atmosphere of this delightful college, I want to have a shot at just talking about this notion of the great liberal death wish as it has arisen in my life, as I've seen it, and the deductions I've made from it. I should also plead guilty to being responsible for the general heading of these lectures, namely, "The Humane Holocaust: The Auschwitz Formula."

Later on I want to say something about all this, showing how this humane holocaust, this dreadful slaughter that began with 50 million babies last year, will undoubtedly be extended to the senile old and the mentally afflicted and mongoloid children, and so on, because of the large amount of money that maintaining them costs. It is all the more ironical when one thinks about the holocaust western audiences, and the German population in particular, have been shuddering over, as it has been presented on their TV and cinema screens.
Note this compassionate or humane holocaust, if, as I fear, it gains momentum, will quite put that other in the shade. And, as I shall try to explain, what is even more ironical the actual considerations that led to the German holocaust were not, as is commonly suggested, due to Nazi terrorism, but were based upon the sort of legislation that advocates of euthanasia, or "mercy killing," in this country and in western Europe, are trying to get enacted.
It's not true that the German holocaust was simply a war crime, as it was judged to be at Nuremberg. In point of fact, it was based upon a perfectly coherent, legally enacted decree approved and operated by the German medical profession before the Nazis took over power. In other words, from the point of view of the Guinness Book of Records you can say that in our mad world it takes about thirty years to transform a war crime into a compassionate act.

But I'm going to deal with that later. I want first of all to look at this question of the great liberal death wish. And I was very delighted that you should have got here for this CCA program the film on Dostoevsky for which I did the commentary because his novel The Devils1 is the most extraordinary piece of prophecy about this great liberal death wish. All the characters in it, the circumstances of it, irresistibly recall what we mean by the great liberal death wish.
You cannot imagine what a strange experience it was doing that filming in the USSR. I quoted extensively from the speech that Dostoevsky delivered when the Pushkin Memorial was unveiled in Moscow, and his words were considered to be, in terms of then current ideologies, about the most reactionary words ever spoken. They amounted to a tremendous onslaught on this very thing that we're talking about, this great liberal death wish, as it existed in Russia in the latter part of the last century.
The characters in the book match very well the cast of the liberal death wish in our society and in our time. You even have the interesting fact that the old liberal, Stephan Trofimovich Verkovensky, who is a sort of male impersonator of Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, with all the sentimental notions that go therewith, is the father of Peter Verkovensky, a Baader Meinhof character, based on a Russian nihilist of Dostoevsky's time, Sergey Nechayef.
To me, it's one of the most extraordinary pieces of modern prophecy that has ever been. Especially when Peter Verkovensky says, as he does, that what we need are a few generations of debauchery - debauchery at its most vicious and most horrible - followed by a little sweet bloodletting, and then the turmoil will begin. I put it to you that this bears a rather uneasy resemblance to the sort of thing that is happening at this moment in the western world.

Now I want to throw my mind back to my childhood, to the sitting room in the little suburban house in south London where I grew up. On Saturday evenings my father and his cronies would assemble there, and they would plan together the downfall of the capitalist system and the replacement of it by one which was just and humane and egalitarian and peaceable, etc. These were my first memories of a serious conversation about our circumstances in the world. I used to hide in a big chair and hope not to be noticed, because I was so interested.
And I accepted completely the views of these good men, that once they were able to shape the world as they wanted it to be, they would create a perfect state of affairs in which peace would reign, prosperity would expand, men would be brotherly, and considerate, and there would be no exploitation of man by man, nor any ruthless oppression of individuals. And I firmly believed that, once their plans were fulfilled, we would realize an idyllic state of affairs of such a nature. They were good men, they were honest men, they were sincere men. Unlike their prototypes on the continent of Europe, they were men from the chapels. It was a sort of spill-over from the practice of nonconformist Christianity, not a brutal ideology, and I was entirely convinced that such a brotherly, contented, loving society would come to pass once they were able to establish themselves in power.

My father used to speak a lot at open air meetings, and when I was very small I used to follow him around because I adored him, as I still do. He was a very wonderful and good man. He'd had a very harsh upbringing himself, and this was his dream of how you could transform human society so that human beings, instead of maltreating one another and exploiting one another, would be like brothers. I remember he used to make quite good jokes at these outdoor meetings when we had set up our little platform, and a few small children and one or two passers-by had gathered briefly to listen. One joke I particularly appreciated and used to wait for even though I had heard a hundred times ran like this: "Well ladies and gentlemen," my father would begin, "you tell me one thing. Why is it that it is his majesty's navy and his majesty's stationery office and his majesty's customs but it's the national debt? Why isn't the debt his majesty's?" It always brought the house down.

Such was my baptism into the notion of a kingdom of heaven on earth, into what I was going to understand ultimately to be the great liberal death wish. Inevitably, my father's heroes were the great intellectuals of the time, who banded themselves together in what was called the Fabian Society, of which he was a member - a very active member. For instance, Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, Harold Laski, people of that sort. All the leftist elite, like Sydney and Beatrice Webb, belonged to this Fabian Society, and in my father's eyes they were princes among men. I accepted his judgment.

Once I had a slight shock when he took me to a meeting of the Fabian Society where H. G. Wells was speaking, and I can remember vividly his high squeaky voice as he said - and it stuck in my mind long afterward - "We haven't got time to read the Bible. We haven't got time to read the history of this obscure nomadic tribe in the Middle East." Subsequently, when I learned of the things that Wells had got time for, the observation broke upon me in all its richness.

Anyway, that for me was how my impressions of life began. I was sent to Cambridge University, which of course in those days consisted very largely of boys from what we call public schools, and you call private schools. Altogether, it was for me a quite different sort of milieu, where the word socialist in those days - this was in 1920 when I went to Cambridge at 17 - was almost unknown. We who had been to a government secondary school and then to Cambridge were regarded as an extraordinary and rather distasteful phenomenon.
But my views about how the world was going to be made better remained firmly entrenched in the talk of my father and his cronies. Of course, in the meantime had come the First World War, to be followed by an almost insane outburst of expectations that henceforth peace would prevail in the world, that we would have a League of Nations to ensure that there would be no more wars, and gradually everybody would get more prosperous and everything would be better and better.
That rather lugubrious figure Woodrow Wilson arrived on the scene, to be treated with the utmost veneration. I can see him now, lantern-jawed, wearing his tall hat - somehow for me he didn't fill the bill of a knight in shining armour who was going to lead us to everlasting peace. Somehow the flavour of Princeton about him detracted from that picture, but still I accepted him as an awesome figure.

My time at Cambridge was a rather desolate time. I never much enjoyed being educated, and have continued to believe that education is a rather overrated experience. Perhaps this isn't the most suitable place in the world to say that, but such is my opinion. I think that it is part of the liberal dream that somehow or other - and it was certainly my father's view - people, in becoming educated, instead of on Sundays racing their dogs or studying racing forms, or anything like that, would take to singing madrigals or reading Paradise Lost aloud. This is another dream that didn't quite come true.

Anyway, from Cambridge I went off to India, to teach at a Christian college there, and I must say it was an extremely agreeable experience. The college was in a remote part of what was then Travancore, but is now Kerala. It was not one of the missionary colleges, but associated with the indigenous Syrian Church, which you may know is a very ancient church, dating back to the fourth century, and now there are a million or more Syrian Christians. In its way it was quite an idyllic existence, but of course one came up against naked power for the first time.
I had never thought of power before as something separate from the rest of life. But in India, under the British raj, with a relatively few white men ruling over three or four hundred million Indians, I came face to face with power unrelated to elections or any other representative device in the great liberal dream that became the great liberal death wish.
However, it was a pleasant time, and of course the Indian nationalist movement was beginning, and Ghandi came to the college where I was teaching. This extraordinary little gargoyle of a man appeared, and held forth, and everybody got tremendously excited, and shouted against Imperialism, and the Empire in which at that time the great majority of the British people firmly believed, and which they thought would continue forever.
If you ventured to say, as I did on the boat going to India, that it might come to an end before long, they laughed you to scorn, being firmly convinced that God had decided that the British should rule over a quarter of the world, and that nothing could ever change this state of affairs. Which again opened up a new vista about what this business of power signified, and how it worked, not as a theory, but in practice. We used to boast in those days that we had an Empire on which the sun never set, and now we have a commonwealth on which it never rises, and I can't quite say which concept strikes me as being the more derisory.

That was India, and then I came back to England and for a time taught in an elementary school in Birmingham, and married my wife Kitty. (I wish she were here today because she's very nice. We've been married now for 51 years, so I am entitled to speak well of her.) She was the niece of Beatrice and Sydney Webb, so it was like marrying into a sort of aristocracy of the Left. After our wedding, we went off to Egypt, where I taught at the University of Cairo, and it was there that the dreadful infection of journalism got into my system.
Turning aside from the honourable occupation of teaching, I started writing articles about the wrongs of the Egyptian people, how they were clamouring, and rightly so, for a democratic setup, and how they would never be satisfied with less than one man one vote and all that went therewith. I never heard any Egyptian say that this was his position, but I used to watch those old pashas in Groppi's cafe smoking their hubble-bubble pipes, and imagined that under their tabooshes was a strong feeling that they would never for an instant countenance anything less than full representative government.
That at least was what I wrote in my articles, and they went flying over to England, and, like homing pigeons, in through the windows of the Guardian office in Manchester, at that time a high citadel of liberalism. That was where the truth was being expounded, that was where enlightenment reigned. In due course I was asked to join the editorial staff of the Guardian, which to me was a most marvellous thing. I may say that the work of teaching at Cairo University was not an arduous job, essentially for three reasons. One was that the students didn't understand English; the second that they were nearly always on strike or otherwise engaged in political demonstrations, and thirdly they were often stupefied with hashish. So I had a lot of leisure on my hands.

Incidentally, to be serious for a moment, it seems to me a most extraordinary thing that at that time you wouldn't have found anybody, Egyptian or English or anybody else, who wasn't absolutely clear in his mind that hashish was a most appalling and disastrous addiction. So you can imagine how strange it was forty years later for me to hear life peeresses and people like that insisting that hashish didn't do any harm to anybody, and was even beneficial. I see that in Canada it is going to be legalized, which will mean one more sad, unnecessary hazard comes into our world.

Anyway, these were the golden days of liberalism when the Manchester Guardian was widely read, and even believed. Despite all its misprints, you could make out roughly speaking what it was saying, and what we typed out was quite likely, to our great satisfaction, to be quoted in some paper in Baghdad or Smyrna as being the opinion of our very influential organ of enlightened liberalism.
I remember my first day I was there, and somehow it symbolizes the whole experience. I was asked, to write a leader - a short leader of about 120 words - on corporal punishment. At some head-masters' conference, it seemed, words had been spoken about corporal punishment and I was to produce appropriate comment. So I put my head into the room next to mine, and asked the man who was working there: "What's our line on corporal punishment?" Without looking up from his type-writer, he replied: "The same as capital, only more so." So I knew exactly what to tap out, you see.
That was how I got into the shocking habit of pontificating about what was going on in the world; observing that the Greeks did not seem to want an orderly government, or that one despaired sometimes of the Irish having any concern for law and order; weighty pronouncement tapped out on a typewriter, deriving from nowhere, and for all one knew, concerning no one.

We were required to end anything we wrote on a hopeful note, because liberalism is a hopeful creed. And so, however appalling and black the situation that we described, we would always conclude with some sentence like: "It is greatly to be hoped that moderate men of all shades of opinion will draw together, and that wiser councils may yet prevail." How many times I gave expression to such jejune hopes!
Well, I soon grew weary of this, because it seemed to me that immoderate men were rather strongly in evidence, and I couldn't see that wiser councils were prevailing anywhere. The depression was on by that time, I'm talking now of 1932-33. It was on especially in Lancashire, and it seemed as though our whole way of life was cracking up, and, of course, I looked across at the USSR with a sort of longing, thinking that there was an alternative, some other way in which people could live, and I managed to manoeuvre matters so that I was sent to Moscow as the Guardian correspondent, arriving there fully prepared to see in the Soviet regime the answer to all our troubles, only to discover in a very short time that though it might be an answer, it was a very unattractive one.

It's difficult to convey to you what a shock this was, realizing that what I had supposed to be the new brotherly way of life my father and his cronies had imagined long before, was simply on examination an appalling tyranny, in which the only thing that mattered, the only reality, was power. So again, like the British raj, in the USSR I was confronted with power as the absolute and ultimate arbiter.
However, that was a thing that one could take in one's stride. How I first came to conceive the notion of the great liberal death wish was not at all in consequence of what was happening in the USSR, which, as I came to reflect afterward, was simply the famous lines in the Magnificat working out, "He hath put down the mighty from their seat and hath exalted the humble and meek," whereupon, of course, the humble and meek become mighty in their turn and have to be put down. That was just history, something that happens in the world; people achieve power, exercise power, abuse power, are booted out of power, and then it all begins again.
The thing that impressed me, and the thing that touched off my awareness of the great liberal death wish, my sense that western man was, as it were, sleep-walking into his own ruin, was the extraordinary performance of the liberal intelligentsia, who, in those days, flocked to Moscow like pilgrims to Mecca. And they were one and all utterly delighted and excited by what they saw there. Clergymen walked serenely and happily through the anti-god museums, politicians claimed that no system of society could possibly be more equitable and just, lawyers admired Soviet justice, and economists praised the Soviet economy. They all wrote articles in this sense which we resident journalists knew were completely nonsensical.

It's impossible to exaggerate to you the impression that this made on me. Mrs. Webb had said to Kitty and me: "You'll find that in the USSR Sydney and I are icons." As a matter of fact they were, Marxist icons.

How could this be? How could this extraordinary credulity exist in the minds of people who were adulated by one and all as maestros of discernment and judgment? It was from that moment that I began to get the feeling that a liberal view of life was not what I'd supposed it to be - a creative movement which would shape the future - but rather a sort of death wish. How otherwise could you explain how people, in their own country ardent for equality, bitter opponents of capital punishment and all for more humane treatment of people in prison, supporters, in fact, of every good cause, should in the USSR prostrate themselves before a regime ruled over brutally and oppressively and arbitrarily by a privileged party oligarchy?
I still ponder over the mystery of how men displaying critical intelligence in other fields could be so astonishingly deluded. I tell you, if ever you are looking for a good subject for a thesis, you could get a very fine one out of a study of the books that were written by people like the Dean of Canterbury, Julian Huxley, Harold Laski, Bernard Shaw, or the Webbs about the Soviet regime. In the process you would come upon a compendium of fatuity such as has seldom, if ever, existed on earth. And I would really recommend it; after all, the people who wrote these books were, and continue to be regarded as, pundits, whose words must be very, very seriously heeded and considered.

I recall in their yellow jackets a famous collection in England called the Left Book Club. You would be amazed at the gullibility that's expressed. We foreign journalists in Moscow used to amuse ourselves, as a matter of fact, by competing with one another as to who could wish upon one of these intelligentsia visitors to the USSR the most outrageous fantasy. We would tell them, for instance, that the shortage of milk in Moscow was entirely due to the fact that all milk was given nursing mothers - things like that. If they put it in the articles they subsequently wrote, then you'd score a point.
One story I floated myself, for which I received considerable acclaim, was that the huge queues outside food shops came about because the Soviet workers were so ardent in building Socialism that they just wouldn't rest, and the only way the government could get them to rest for even two or three hours was organizing a queue for them to stand in. I laugh at it all now, but at the time you can imagine what a shock it was to someone like myself, who had been brought up to regard liberal intellectuals as the samurai, the absolute elite, of the human race, to find that they could be taken in by deceptions which a half-witted boy would see through in an instant. I never got over that; it always remained in my mind as something that could never be erased. I could never henceforth regard the intelligentsia as other than credulous fools who nonetheless became the media's prophetic voices, their heirs and successors remaining so still. That's when I began to think seriously about the great liberal death wish.

In due course, I came back to England to await the Second World War, in the course of which I found myself engaged in Intelligence duties. And let me tell you that if there is one thing more fantastical than news, it is Intelligence. News itself is a sort of fantasy; and when you actually go collecting news, you realize that this is so. In a certain sense, you create news; you dream news up yourself and then send it. But that's nothing to the fantasy of Intelligence. Of the two, I would say that news seems really quite a sober and considered commodity compared with your offerings when you're an Intelligence agent.

Anyway, when in 1945 I found myself a civilian again, I tried to sort out my thoughts about the great wave of optimism that followed the Second World War - for me, a repeat performance. It was then that I came to realize how, in the name of progress and compassion, the most terrible things were going to be done, preparing the way for the great humane holocaust, about which I have spoken. There was, it seemed to me, a built in propensity in this liberal world - view whereby the opposite of what was intended came to pass. Take the case of education. Education was the great mumbo-jumbo of progress, the assumption being that educating people would make them grow better and better, more and more objective and intelligent. Actually, as more and more money is spent on education, illiteracy is increasing. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if it didn't end up with virtually the whole revenue of the western countries being spent on education, and a condition of almost total illiteracy resulting there from. It's quite on the cards.

Now I want to try to get to grips with this strange state of affairs. Let's look again at the humane holocaust. What happened in Germany was that long before the Nazis got into power, a great propaganda was undertaken to sterilize people who were considered to be useless or a liability to society, and after that to introduce what they called "mercy killing."
This happened long before the Nazis set up their extermination camps at Auschwitz and elsewhere, and was based upon the highest humanitarian considerations. You see what I'm getting at? On a basis of liberal-humanism, there is no creature in the universe greater than man, and the future of the human race rests only with human beings themselves, which leads infallibly to some sort of suicidal situation. It's to me quite clear that that is so, the evidence is on every hand.
The efforts that men make to bring about their own happiness, their own ease of life, their own self-indulgence, will in due course produce the opposite, leading me to the absolutely inescapable conclusion that human beings cannot live and operate in this world without some concept of a being greater than themselves, and of a purpose which transcends their own egotistic or greedy desires.
Once you eliminate the notion of a God, a creator, once you eliminate the notion that the creator has a purpose for us, and that life consists essentially in fulfilling that purpose, then you are bound, as Pascal points out, to induce the megalomania of which we've seen so many manifestations in our time - in the crazy dictators, as in the lunacies of people who are rich, or who consider themselves to be important or celebrated in the western world.
Alternatively, human beings relapse into mere carnality, into being animals. I see this process going on irresistibly, of which the holocaust is only just one example. If you envisage men as being only men, you are bound to see human society, not in Christian terms as a family, but as a factory-farm in which the only consideration that matters is the well- being of the livestock and the prosperity or productivity of the enterprise. That's where you land yourself. And it is in that situation that western man is increasingly finding himself.

This might seem to be a despairing conclusion, but it isn't, you know, actually. First of all, the fact that we can't work out the liberal dream in practical terms is not bad news, but good news. Because if you could work it out, life would be too banal, too tenth-rate to be worth bothering about. Apart from that, we have been given the most extraordinary sign of the truth of things, which I continually find myself thinking about. This is that the most perfect and beautiful expressions of man's spiritual aspirations come, not from the liberal dream in any of its manifestations, but from people in the forced labour camps of the USSR. And this is, the most extraordinary phenomenon, and one that of course receives absolutely no attention in the media. From the media point of view it's not news, and in any case the media do not want to know about it. But this is the fact for which there is a growing amount of evidence.
I was reading about it in a long essay by a Yugoslav writer Mihajlo Mihajlov,2 who spent some years in a prison in Yugoslavia. He cites case after case of people who, like Solzhenitsyn, say that enlightenment came to them in the forced labour camps. They understood what freedom was when they had lost their freedom, they understood what the purpose of life was when they seemed to have no future. They say, moreover, that when it's a question of choosing whether to save your soul or your body, the man who chooses to save his soul gathers strength thereby to go on living, whereas the man who chooses to save his body at the expense of his soul loses both body and soul.
In other words, fulfilling exactly what our Lord said, that he who hates his life in this world shall keep his life for all eternity, as those who love their lives in this world will assuredly lose them. Now, that's where I see the light in our darkness.
There's an image I love - if the whole world were to be covered with concrete, there still would be some cracks in it, and through these cracks green shoots would come. The testimonies from the labour camps are the green shoots we can see in the world, breaking out from the monolithic power now dominating ever greater areas of it. In contradistinction, this is the liberal death wish, holding out the fallacious and ultimately destructive hope that we can construct a happy, fulfilled life in terms of our physical and material needs, and in the moral and intellectual dimensions of our mortality.

I feel so strongly at the end of my life that nothing can happen to us in any circumstances that is not part of God's purpose for us. Therefore, we have nothing to fear, nothing to worry about, except that we should rebel against His purpose, that we should fail to detect it and fail to establish some sort of relationship with Him and His divine will. On that basis, there can be no black despair, no throwing in of our hand. We can watch the institutions and social structures of our time collapse - and I think you who are young are fated to watch them collapse - and we can reckon with what seems like an irresistibly growing power of materialism and materialist societies. But, it will not happen that that is the end of the story.
As St. Augustine said - and I love to think of it when he received the news in Carthage that Rome had been sacked: Well, if that's happened, it's a great catastrophe, but we must never forget that the earthly cities that men build they destroy, but there is also the City of God which men didn't build and can't destroy. And he devoted the next seventeen years of his life to working out the relationship between the earthly city and the City of God - the earthly city where we live for a short time, and the City of God whose citizens we are for all eternity.

You know, it's a funny thing, but when you're old, as I am, there are all sorts of extremely pleasant things that happen to you. One of them is, you realize that history is nonsense, but I won't go into that now. The pleasantest thing of all is that you wake up in the night at about, say, three am, and you find that you are half in and half out of your battered old carcass. And it seems quite a toss-up whether you go back and resume full occupancy of your mortal body, or make off toward the bright glow you see in the sky, the lights of the City of God.
In this limbo between life and death, you know beyond any shadow of doubt that, as an infinitesimal particle of God's creation, you are a participant in God's purpose for His creation, and that that purpose is loving and not hating, is creative and not destructive, is everlasting and not temporal, is universal and not particular. With this certainty comes an extraordinary sense of comfort and joy. Nothing that happens in this world need shake that feeling; all the happenings in this world, including the most terrible disasters and suffering, will be seen in eternity as in some mysterious way a blessing, as a part of God's love. We ourselves are part of that love, we belong to that scene, and only in so far as we belong to that scene does our existence here have any reality or any worth.
All the rest is fantasy - whether the fantasy of power which we see in the authoritarian states around us, or the fantasy of the great liberal death wish in terms of affluence and self-indulgence.

The essential feature, and necessity of life is to know reality, which means knowing God. Otherwise our mortal existence is, as Saint Teresa of Avila said, no more than a night in a second-class hotel.


1. Sometimes translated as The Possessed.

2. “Mystical Experience of the Labour Camps," included in his excellent book Underground Notes.

HON. R. (Bob) J. HAWKE


For any association or secular institution to reach its first centuryis noteworthy and, in our times, remarkable enough in itself. Thatalone would be sufficient reason for us to join together tonight in thiscelebration of the centenary of the Fabian Society, brought intoformal existence in London a hundred years ago this month. And,incidentally, I trust it will be noted in the appropriate quarters thatthose of us here tonight associated with the Australian Labor Partyand the Australian Labor Government have been so far able toovercome our notorious prejudices as to celebrate a British institution- indeed in many respects a quintessential British institution.

But seriously, I invite you all to consider the wider and deeper significance of this achievement - because it goes far beyond the Fabian Society's mere survival in the technical and temporal sense. For tonight we are marking the centenary of a Society and an idea which, of its very nature, could not at its birth be thought to have had the chance of survival at all - much less survive into the very end of the 20th century.

For this was, and is, that most difficult things of all to maintain - a POLITICAL association. It was founded as, and remains, a purely voluntary association of like-minded men and women, bound by no dogma or creed or fixed body of doctrine. Unable to offer its members inducement or rewards, or to impose discipline or enforce rules; an association based entirely on moral and intellectual ground and, by the very essence of its nature and purpose, having only the loosest structure and formal organisation.

Further, the century since 1884 has been the most turbulent and eventful in human history, a century of tremendous change in human attitudes and standards, a revolutionary era in which no political, social, or economic assumption made a century ago has gone unchallenged, and few, if any, have not been fundamentally changed. Yet the Fabian Society and its original ideals endure.

That a society so conceived could survive in such a century - and survive with continuing vigour - is surely striking testimony to the enduring strength of the cause with which it has been so closely identified and to which it has contributed so much - the cause of social democracy.

I deliberately use the words 'the cause with which it is identified' because the Fabian Society did not and does not claim to be a cause in itself. Rather, it was called into existence to represent and promote an idea and an ideal - and, most important - a method, an approach by which that idea could best be implemented and by which the ideals of social democracy could be given practical effect.

Almost from the beginning, its founders envisaged that the vehicle would be a labour party - long before the British Labour Party as such existed. Sydney Webb, one of the founders of the Fabian Society and for so long its presiding genius, described the process in this way:

"From 1887, the Fabians looked to the formation of a strong and independent Labour Party. We did all we could to foster and assist, in succession, the Independent Labour Party, then the Labour Representation Committee and then the Labour Party.....but we also set ourselves to detach the concept of socialism from such extraneous ideas as suddenness and simultaneity of change, violence and compulsion, and atheism or anti-clericalism....nor did we confine our propaganda to the slowly emerging labour party, or to those who were prepared to call themselves socialists, or to the manual workers or to any particular class."

So, from the beginning, the society drew its strength from its vision of the future of Labour and the Labour Party. But beyond this fundamental strength, many factors have contributed to the strength and survival of the society.

First, we cannot ignore the personal element - that extraordinary galaxy of political, intellectual and literary talent which made up the firmament of Fabianism the Webbs, Graham Wallan, George Bernard Shaw then later Tom Hann, who helped introduce Fabianism to Australia; then later on again people like Bertrand Russell, G. D. H. Cole, Harold Laski and R. H. Tawney.

Many may think that, in terms of his contribution to Fabian philosophy and social democratic thought, Tawney was the greatest of them all. Certainly his great work Equality stands as the definitive exposition of the true meaning of social democracy, both as an ideal and a practical program.

Another source of the Society's strength was what we may call the METHODOLOGY of fabianism - the primacy given to facts, knowledge, proper research and solid information as the basis for action - whether political, social or economic action. It was the recognition, as Beatrice Webb put it, that: "Reform will not be brought about by shouting. What is needed is hard thinking."

And the third and greatest and most enduring source of the influence of Fabianism was the idea of practical relevance. And this is the very essence of Fabianism. It is the recognition that the commitment to democracy and democratic means is fundamental. It is the recognition that this fundamental commitment imposes on social democrats obligations and restraints in terms of both means and ends. It is the recognition, as I myself put it in the Resolution of Conflict lectures - the Boyer Lectures in 1979 - "of the need for those who would advocate change to temper their fervour with a sense of gradualism".

It cannot be emphasised too strongly or too often, that this approach is not a matter of mere pragmatism. It is equally a matter of principle, it is a principle which follows inexorably from our commitment to democracy. And it is a principle which lies at the very heart, not only of Fabianism, but social democracy throughout the world. It is of course the classic concept of Fabianism - the INEVITABILITY OF GRADUALNESS - and nothing is more widely misunderstood or more frequently misrepresented.

It was never conceived as a justification for opportunism. It was, and is a principle of necessity. The principle was first and best propounded by Sydney Webb himself. Speaking as President of the British Labour Executive at the Party Conference in 1923, be said:

"Let me insist on what our opponents habitually ignore, and, indeed, what they seem intellectually incapable of understanding, namely the INEVITABLE GRADUALNESS of our scheme of change. The very fact that socialists have both principles AND a programme appears to confuse nearly all their critics."

Webb continued:

"If we state our principles, we are told 'that is not practicable'. When we recite our programme the objection is 'That is not Socialism'. But why, because we are idealists, should we be supposed to be idiots? For the Labour Party, it must be plain, Socialism is rooted in democracy; which necessarily compels us to recognise that every step towards our goal is dependent on gaining the assent and support of at least a numerical majority of the whole people. Thus, even if we aimed at revolutionising everything at once, we should necessarily be compelled to make each particular change only at the time, and to the extent, and in the manner, which ten or fifteen million electors, in all sorts of conditions, of all sorts of temperaments, from Land's End to the Orkneys, could be brought to consent to it."

That was Webb in Britain in 1923. It is as relevant and true in Australia in 1984. For it represents an unchanging truth and a fixed principle for the Labor Party and social democrats everywhere. And I repeat and emphasise: It goes beyond pragmatism; it is the principle which flows from fundamental commitment to democracy.

I suppose there is no greater hero in the pantheon of radical reform than Aneurin Bevan, who was also a great Fabian. He was never accused of selling out, or selling the cause short. He was never denounced as an opportunist or derided as a pragmatist.

Thirty years after Webb's analysis which I have just quoted, Bevan wrote this magnificent confession of his faith:

"The philosophy of democratic Socialism is essentially cool in temper. It sees society in its context with nature and is conscious of the limitations imposed by physical conditions. It sees the individual in his context with society and is therefore compassionate and tolerant. Because it knows that all political action must be a choice between a number of possible alternatives it eschews all absolute prescriptions and final decisions.

"Consequently it is not able to offer the thrill of the complete abandonment of private judgement, which is the allure of modern Soviet Communism and of Fascism, its running mate. . . It accepts the obligation to choose among different kinds of social action and in so doing to bear the pains of rejecting what is not practicable or less desirable ....

"It seeks the truth in any given situation, knowing all the time that if this be pushed too far it falls into error . . . . Its chief enemy is vacillation, for it must achieve passion in action in the pursuit of qualified judgements. It must know how to enjoy the struggle, whilst recognising that progress is not the elimination of struggle but rather the change in its terms".

In this brief review, I have said enough to indicate the spirit, ideals, methods and objectives of the society whose centenary we celebrate tonight.

I have so far referred only in passing to the Australian contribution, as part of its general contribution to the cause of Labor and social democracy. But Australian Fabianism and Australian Fabians have made a specific and significant contribution to the Australian Labor movement and the Australian Labor Party.

The circumstances in which the society in Australia has operated have, of course, differed considerably from those of the parent body. So too has its role. The Australian Labor Party is many years older than the British Labour Party. Our Parliamentary success came much earlier and has been much more consistent than that of the British Labour Party. That early and consistent success, combined with our historic origins in the trade union movement, meant an emphasis on practical achievement above theory and doctrine. And indeed, the Australian men and women of the 1890's and the early 1900's had already recognised the inevitability of gradualness and applied it in practice, at a time when, for the British Labour Party, it was merely a statement of principle for future Labour governments, yet to be elected.

A further difference in the role of Fabianism in Australia lay in the nature of our Federal system - and I mean, not only the Federal nature of the Australian Constitution, but the Federal structure of the Australian Labor Party itself. It may even be that the comparative success of the society in Melbourne relative to other capitals reflected something of our colonial past. It certainly established Melbourne in its role as the headquarters of the radical tradition in Australia. But despite the differences, Fabianism has made a valuable and enduring contribution to social democracy in Australia, in both thought and action.

Fabian Societies were formed here as early as 1896. As Frank Crean has recalled, the present society, the - Fabian Society of Victoria - now, I am pleased to say, properly named the Fabian Society of Australia - was formed in 1947. And of course that was a very significant year in the history of the Australian Labor Party and the Australian Labor movement.

I hasten to say that I'm not suggesting that importance derives anything from the fact that 1947 happened to be the year I joined the Labor Party in Perth. But the year 1947 represented both the high tide, and a turning of the tide, for post war Labor, and for the Chifley Labor Government. It was for the movement as a whole a year of great optimism and enthusiasm and achievement. The work of post war reconstruction was going on apace. Full employment was established as a national principle and a national goal.

But 1947 was also a year when the challenge against bank nationisation forced on us a realisation of the restrictions and restraints imposed by the Constitution, and in particular by Section 92. Consequently, this led to a rethinking of our approach. Because, unless the platform was just to stagnate into irrelevance, the search had to be made for alternative means of achieving our objectives.

In that search - and it was a search and a development of policy that went on for more than 20 years - Fabians were in the forefront - Fabians like Frank Crean, Jim Cairns, Kim Beazley, Race Mathews, and not least our own Fabius Maxlinus - Gough Whitlam himself.

Throughout the long years in the wilderness, the society played a valuable role in producing and disseminating information and ideas, and in promoting dialogue. It preserved the Fabian tradition of research as the basis for reform.

There were times in the bitter years after the split when the Fabian Society seemed almost a lone voice for sanity, civility, realism and genuine idealism amongst us in Victoria. But above all, the ongoing importance of Fabianism in Australia has been to help bring to our movement, and our cause, that quality which I said before was the essence of social democracy - the need for a sense of RELEVANCE, in the application of our ideas and our ideals to practical purposes and achievable goals.

In this I gladly acknowledge the debt of my own Government to Fabianism.

Earlier I dealt at some length with the principle of the inevitability of gradualness. There was another important idea - a METHOD more than a principle - which became closely associated with Fabianism. Sydney Webb called it 'permeation'. Today it would be called 'consensus'.

Webb put it this way:

"Most reformers think that all they have got to do in a political democracy is to obtain a majority. This is a profound mistake. What has to be changed is not only the vote that is cast, but also the mental climate in which Parliament and the Government both live and work."

That I find to be an accurate description of the approach I and my colleagues have tried to bring to the affairs of this nation in our first term of office. From the National Summit on, we have attempted to transform the atmosphere of politics - the background, the atmosphere, the shared information and perceptions of common goals, through which decisions can be made, not just by the Government and Parliament but by key groups and interests like business and unions.

Of course there are some who will misunderstand or misrepresent the nature of this approach and the meaning of consensus. It was ever thus.

Beatrice Webb describes in her diary of their Melbourne visit in 1898, a meeting with people whom she only identifies as 'some Victorian socialists' - from her unflattering description clearly not members of the Labor Party - and writes:

"Sydney tried to explain the Fabian policy of permeation, with the result that the chairman, in his concluding remarks, recommended the meeting to adopt Mr Webb's suggestion of taking the capitalist down a back street and then knocking him on the head."

We all have to face the fact that if our Government is to make really great and worthwhile reforms - reforms that will endure, reforms that will permanently change this nation - then it is not enough simply to obtain a temporary majority at an election, or even successive elections. For our reforms to endure, the whole mood and mind and attitudes of the nation must be permanently changed.

Certainly, we are proceeding to implement the policy on which we were elected and the platform of the Party with a thoroughness, I believe, not excelled by any previous Labor Government in our history. But that specific task must go hand in hand with the more general and deeper, longer range task - the task of establishing, in the mood and mind of this nation, permanent acceptance of the naturalness and inevitability of change and reform, as the authentic Australian way of life.

And that, for the first time in our history, is what this Labor Government is attempting.

Let me conclude: an occasion like this serves to bring home to us all, one of the great truths about our cause in Australia - the cause of Labor and social democracy. And that is the CONTINUITY of our movement and the continuity of our role in our nation.

The Party itself is a hundred years old in 1991. The Labor movement is already well over the century. One of the great paradoxes of Australian politics is that the parties and forces of conservatism and reaction - for all their self-proclaimed loyalty to tradition - have no real continuity and no true sense of continuity. And without a sense of continuity - in the case of individuals or parties or movements or nations - there can be no true sense of identity.

I believe it is precisely because our adversaries lack that sense of their own continuity, and in a deep sense, their own identity, they are obliged to seek it outside themselves - in other institutions and even other nations. And that I believe explains, at least in part, much of their current conduct - their lurches, not only in search of a policy, but in search of an identity.

It is, by contrast, our own sense of continuity, as a Government, a movement, a party, a cause which provides us with the stability and strength to overcome the countless setbacks we have suffered and, equally, in the days of triumph, to live up to the motto set for itself by the Fabian Society one hundred years ago:

"For the right moment you must wait, as Fabius did, most patiently, when waning against Hannibal, though many censured his delays; but when the time comes you must strike hard; as Fabius did, or your waiting will be in vain and fruitless."

Further reading: "The Fabian Socialist Contribution to the Communist Advance" by Eric D. Butler

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