Darkness at Noon

Arthur Koestler

The sound of a bugle woke Rubashov from a contented, dreamless sleep. "I suppose some might think it highly unnatural to have fallen asleep so easily at a time of great stress," he thought to himself, "yet as the whole purpose of this book is to framework the ruthless deterministic inevitability of a totalitarian regime then you will see there is no cause for anxiety when you know you will be shot on page 210."

He stretched out and surveyed his cell. A picture of Number 1 hung over his bed. The face looked at once both familiar yet unfamiliar, Rubashov mused. In a certain light, it could have been mistaken for Stalin yet that could not be so for No 1 was not merely a representation of a Soviet five-year plan of upper-lip facial growth, but a symbol of the repressive nature of moustaches in general.

The recognition of this triggered a toothache of equal symbolism and Rubashov allowed the pain of memory to wash through him. As a younger Party apparatchik, had he not expediently expelled a young German, called Richard, from the Party whilst on one of his visits overseas, thereby condemning him to death?

And as his toothache worsened, had he also not been implicated in Little Loewy's suicide when he had forced him to break the year-long strike and allow Soviet weapons into fascist Italy? Rubashov had done it unquestioningly for the good of the Party, but now as he allowed the grammatical fiction of the capitalist first person to penetrate his consciousness a stirring of bourgeois guilt emerged.

A tapping on the pipes disturbed the silence. It was no 406 sending a message. A-R-S-E. Rubashov tapped back urgently. D-O-N-T Y-O-U M-E-A-N A-R-I-S-E? There was a moment's pause before the answer cam back. T-H-E-R-E I-S N-O I I-N S-O-C-A-L-S-M Y-O-U A-R-S-E. Here is the dialectic flaw of vowellian communist fiction, Rubashov thought. Since when was there an I in EGO?

The cell door opened and a guard led him down the corridor. Was this the moment of death? He was taken into a brightly-lit room, where his old Party colleague, Ivanov, was sat behind a desk.

"We have evidence that you have been engaged in counter-revolutionary activities and have been plotting the death of Number 1," Ivanov said.

"You know that's nonsense," Rubashov replied. "I have always been a loyal member of the Party."

"We have ways and means of dealing with false consciousness," Ivanov smiled gently. "But because you are my friend and to make the point that totalitarian regimes can also distort the truth without recourse to violence, we won't be torturing you."

I am very worried you may not have noticed this is a serious critique of totalitarianism so in the guise of Rubashov's diary this chapter explores the moral relativism of authoritarianism whereby the end always justifies the means.

The grammatical fiction of personal guilt prompted another toothache, in the course of which Rubashov recalled how he had betrayed Arlova, his mistress and librarian, when the First Secretary had decided her judgment was untrustworthy. Had he not as effectively condemned her to death as surely as he himself was soon bound to be?

"Enough of this capitalist sophistry," Ivanov declared at Rubashov's next interrogation. "Surely you have worked out by now that none of this is personal. Totalitarianism can only survive in a climate of fear and mistrust and for that we need an enemy from within as well as one without. Today it's your turn. You are muggins. Just confess to a lesser charge and you'll be out in five years."

"OK, then," Rubashov replied. "But you didn't need to do anything so crude as to let my old friend Bogrov be shot outside my door to force my hand. Totalitarianism is so much more subtle than many believe and I would have confessed anyway."

"I'm sorry that was the idea of Gletkin. He doesn't have the nous of us old Party members."

I am still very worried you may not have noticed this is a serious critique of totalitarianism so in the guise of Rubashov's diary this chapter explores the moral relativism of authoritarianism whereby the end always justifies the means.

Rubashov relaxed as the guard took him for his final interrogation session. Today he would shake Ivanov's hand and sign the deal that would save his life.

"I'm afraid we've had to shoot Ivanov for not being on message," said Gletkin.

"Oh dear," Ivanov sighed. "I suppose that means we've got at least another 50 pages on the duplicity and amorality of repression and that you are going to present me with mountains of flimsy evidence and witnesses who have deliberately misunderstood my jokes which will conclusively prove my guilt, while maintaining that embryonic totalitarian regimes are not bound by the same legalistic niceties as mature democracies because the importance of their survival transcends an objective truth.

"Indeed," said Gletkin. "And you will come to realise that you are definitely guilty of something – if not the crimes with which you are accused – and will decide you cannot avoid the totalitarian inevitability and that it is better for you to accede to the state – thereby showing how triumphantly repressive it in fact is – than to risk damaging it with a futile challenge.

"You are so tight. I am guilty of everything."

"In which case, for the charge of going on and on about the evil of authoritarianism long after everyone has got the point, this court sentences you to death."