In these duplicitous times it's not surprising to find Nineteen Eighty-Four cited in various contexts and in support of numerous, often opposed positions.
In Airstrip One, where Winston Smith lives and pursues his miserable, haunted existence and which had once, he is fairly sure, been called England or Britain, WAR IS PEACE; FREEDOM IS SLAVERY; IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH — a Nineteen Eighty-Four equivalent of a Tweet with plenty of character space left to add insults, boasts or incantation.
In the world of Nineteen Eighty-Four, all facts are alternative, as in the breaking news, 'Oceania is at War with Eurasia', which becomes within minutes and before your very eyes, 'Oceania has never been at war with Eurasia.' It is not difficult to see how Orwell's gloomy prescience can be a reference for our present-day turmoil and Winston Smith-like bewilderment.
But for events and imbroglios closer to home, what Orwell called a 'Fairy Story' — Animal Farm — is perhaps disturbingly apposite. When the animals rebel, overthrow Mr Jones the farmer and rename Manor Farm 'Animal Farm', they are led by the pigs who 'had taught themselves to read and write from an old spelling book which had belonged to Mr Jones's children'.
The most powerful and influential of the pigs, Napoleon, Snowball and Squealer, propose the principles of Animalism in the form of seven commandments, the first three of which are, 'Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy', 'Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend' and 'No animal shall wear clothes'. The seventh is, 'All animals are equal'.
The replacement of Mr Jones by Napoleon and Squealer (Snowball became persona non grata, although for a while he continued to snipe from the sidelines) was greeted with relief by the animals and had seemed full of promise, yet as time passed the expected improvement did not eventuate.
'Somehow it seemed as though the farm had grown richer without making the animals themselves any richer — except of course for the pigs and [their supporters] the dogs. Perhaps this was because there were so many pigs and so many dogs.
'It was not that these creatures did not work, after their fashion. There was, as Squealer was never tired of explaining, endless work in the supervision and organisation of the farm ... the pigs [Squealer said] had to expend enormous labours every day upon mysterious things called 'files', 'reports', 'minutes' and 'memoranda'. These were large sheets of paper which had to be closely covered with writing, and as soon as they were so covered they were burnt in the furnace.
"There was our Prime Minister, belying his reputation for urbanity and civility, unleashing an extraordinary and confected display of teeth-baring abuse on his opponent."
'This was of the highest importance for the welfare of the farm, Squealer said. But still, neither pigs nor dogs produced any food by their own labour; and there were very many of them and their appetites were always good.
Eventually the day comes when the animals are stunned to see Squealer 'walking on his hind legs'. He is quickly joined by Napoleon 'majestically upright' and carrying a whip. The sheep, having been secretly taught for weeks by Squealer, chant a new slogan: 'Four legs good, two legs better!' and the seven commandments are replaced by one: 'All animals are equal but some are more equal than others.' The pigs raid Mr Jones' wardrobe and dress in his clothes. Tiptoeing up to the Manor House windows to peer in, the animals are shocked to see 'half a dozen farmers and half a dozen of the more eminent pigs' fraternising and 'completely at ease' with each other.
Anyone watching from the Visitors Gallery of Parliament House on 7 February would have had a similar experience to that of the inquisitive animals, except that it would have been in reverse. There was our Prime Minister, belying his normally impeccable dress and reputation for urbanity and civility, unleashing an extraordinary and thoroughly confected display of uncontainably righteous anger and teeth-baring abuse on his opponent. And there was his deputy, face unrecognisably contorted, flushed and bulbous, as he hooted at what were apparently the funniest things he'd ever heard in his life. And there was another front bench colleague simpering genteely — not quite endorsing the frothy slaver of personal vilification yet carefully not distancing himself from it either.
Many of the Prime Minister's party and some members of the press welcomed this transforming effusion of invective as signifying some prime ministerial muscle till now absent. But others noted how abysmal must be our parliamentary performers when a leader so desperately needing his party's support and reassurance pretends to convictions he once scorned and opposed.
In this age of populism and ritual debasement, even abuse is cautiously derivative, rehearsed, lamely theatrical. When Alexander Pope — whose lifelong spinal tuberculosis did not rob him of actual or metaphoric backbone — went on the attack, he did it like this: 'Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings / This painted child of dirt that stinks and stings / Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys / Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'r enjoys'.
That's telling 'em. They were the days.
Brian Matthews is honorary professor of English at Flinders University and an award winning columnist and biographer.