Dover Book

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    This is another one of those books that will double as a review and an article, to make sure that my regular article readers read it along with my book review readers because it is SO APPROPRIATE. Ever wonder where the WEF got their sick and demented ideas for the "Great Reset" and "Agenda 2030" (we won't be here for that)? Yep, it's all right here. It appears this might have been their official planning handbook. You will own nothing and you will be happy. Stockholm Syndrome (love your oppressors). Dane used to speak of this frequently on his radio podcasts, in relation to people who won't speak out about those who are harming us. The Wikipedia article, not surprisingly, minimizes the legitimacy of this mental illness. Their article focuses mostly on kidnapping victims and bonding with their captors. But Dane spoke of it in a more general sense. And certainly what we witnessed at the beginning of this plandemic, and the lockdowns imposed on parts of the population, of which many readily complied, reflected an attitude of not exactly bonding, but a surrender of rights without question. If anything good has come out of it all, there certainly has been a shift in the trust people have towards those in authority. I talk to a lot of people, and few see anything good about the general leadership, in the U.S. at least, and most people have nothing good to say about the military either, which is a huge shift from former attitudes. Anyways, back to the review.
    Utter and complete totalitarianism and control of every single move you make. (It is a law that each bite of food must be chewed 50 times before swallowing, so people must count their chews as they dine.) Everything is glass—transparent—so the Guardians can "protect" the Numbers from making an error. (No, they are NOT called people—they are "Numbers.") In other words, non-stop surveillance except during the Sexual Personal Hour, where the curtains are allowed to be dropped. But the people having sex must be registered to each other, and their sexual days are scheduled, which must be accompanied by a pink check. Synthetic food (theirs is made from petroleum). All wear greyish blue "unifs." Remember when I wrote about all cars being the same drab colors? White, black, grey, dark blue? (That is actually beginning to change, as I am seeing baby pinks and greens and funky colors that remind me of the 70s and 80s.)
     We is a satire, written by Zamyatin in 1920-21 about the Communist Party in Russia and was also the first book censored by Soviet Russia. It was translated into English by Gregory Zilboorg in 1924 and published that year in New York. In Zilboorg's Foreword (in the Project Gutenberg edition) he states: "We is, as Zamiatin himself calls it, the most jocular and the most earnest thing he has thus far written." The Russian text was published in 1952, also in New York. It finally appeared in the Soviet Union in 1988. Dover republished Zilboorg's original translation in 2021. As I was researching it, I realized that Project Gutenberg also published the same edition shortly before Dover's release, in 2020. Had I known that, I would not have bought the paper copy, but somehow I missed it. Project Gutenberg isn't always quick to publish translations. I'm glad they did this one, because it makes it so easy to quote, and I have lots to quote. Here is the Project Gutenberg link.
    I read the entire book (way too fast) and gasped the whole way through. I didn't laugh. I set it aside, then read a book of the same number of pages (180)—a children's book about dragons, to erase the horror of this one. Then I re-read it. It really needs to be read twice because you will want to zoom through it the first time. The second time, I remembered it was a satire, and it actually became funny, in a dark and depraved way.
    What isn't funny is that the WEF actually believes they can foist their dystopian nightmare on the entire world. (They can't; it is failing in every respect.) There is so much symbolism here, along with Zamyatin who was—I dunno—gifted perhaps might be the right word—with Synesthesia. Here is the first paragraph from the Wikipedia page.

   Synesthesia (American English) or synaesthesia (British English) is a perceptual phenomenon in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway. For instance, people with synesthesia may experience colors when listening to music, see shapes when smelling certain scents, or perceive tastes when looking at words. People who report a lifelong history of such experiences are known as synesthetes. Awareness of synesthetic perceptions varies from person to person with the perception of synesthesia differing based on an individual's unique life experiences and the specific type of synesthesia that they have. In one common form of synesthesia, known as grapheme—color synesthesia or color—graphemic synesthesia, letters or numbers are perceived as inherently colored. In spatial-sequence, or number form synesthesia, numbers, months of the year, or days of the week elicit precise locations in space (e.g., 1980 may be "farther away" than 1990), or may appear as a three-dimensional map (clockwise or counterclockwise). "Synesthetic associations can occur in any combination and any number of senses or cognitive pathways.

    The thing is, after I read this, I realized that I may possibly be a synesthete, particularly the spatial-sequence type, which I had never heard of before, but I have always known that I perceive things WAAAAY differently than other people. Part of it is the fact that I am a type of mystic, and the two are most likely related, and enhance each other. Many synesthetes are artistic also. In any case, there is an awful lot in this book that I can relate to in a very uncomfortable way. This novel consists of a whole different language to describe "reality," which is another reason it is so effective, and disturbing, to say the least.
    The main character (the book is written in the first person) is D-503, who is the builder of the Integral—more on that in a bit. His sexual partner is O-90. (All the females are vowels.) He sees her as round, pink, rosy—lots of soft Os. But in the dissident—I-330, he sees her face as an X. Hmm. What did I immediately think of?


    Is Musk a dissident? I dunno. I certainly don't like or trust him. But I've never seen his name associated with the WEF. I did some research to see if there was a connection to this book. All I found was that he supposedly supports free speech, which is definitely a dissident behavior, both then and now. Anyways, here's a quote from "Record Thirteen." (I'll explain that in a bit.) He writes this after he's been with I-330, who has also just had him registered to her name for sex. She makes it impossible for him to not fall madly in love with her, in order to use him for the purpose of the revolution. He doesn't know that, but we do. She becomes a sort of "reverse" mind-control agent to him, undoing everything he has believed all his life. She has a whole collection of pink checks for the men that will serve the purpose of the dissidents. But here, D-503 desperately wants to feel "normal" again.

   I awoke at dawn. The rose-colored firmament looked into my eyes. Everything was beautiful, round. "O-90 is to come tonight. Surely I am healthy again. I smiled and fell asleep. The Morning Bell! I got up; everything looked different. Through the glass of the ceiling, through the walls, nothing could be seen but fog,—fog everywhere, strange clouds, becoming heavier and nearer; the boundary between earth and sky disappeared. Everything seemed to be floating and thawing and falling . . . . Not a thing to hold to. No houses to be seen; they all were dissolved in the fog like crystals of salt in water. On the sidewalks and inside the houses dark figures like suspended particles in a strange milky solution, were hanging, below, above,—up to the tenth floor. Everything seemed to be covered with smoke, as though a fire were somewhere raging noiselessly.

    And digital tyranny—did I mention that? Oh! The blurb on the back cover of the Dover edition states that "mathematics is an object of worship . . . ." Everything in the lives of the Numbers is based on mathematics. The Multiplication Tables never lie! There is always an underlying sadness about O-. "Poor, dear, O-90. Her rosy mouth was a crescent with its horns downward." She is ten centimeters too short for the "Maternal Norm," in other words, she's not allowed to have a baby, which she desperately wants. Sounds like eugenics to me.
    We are certainly being lured into the same fate, but again there's a strong backlash working against the plans of the WEF. Have you noticed that more and more people are paying with cash, deliberately? I always mention it when I see it at the registers, and the people doing it are doing it consciously for that purpose. For more on digital tyranny, see my article, Weather Misery and the Collapse of the Agenda.
    Anyways, back to the novel. Here's another familiar quote. As mentioned above, the entire reality of this civilization is ruled by numbers. And mechanical, unliving things, like steel and glass. Below is a quote from "Record Fifteen." Transhumanism? "All seemed one, humanized machine and mechanized humans." The dumbing down of humanity, or what's left of it? "Their cheeks were colored with health, their mirror-like foreheads not clouded by the insanity of thinking."

   The body of the Integral is almost ready; it is an exquisite, oblong ellipsoid, made of our glass, which is everlasting like gold and flexible like steel. I watched them within, fixing its transverse ribs and its longitudinal stringers; in the stern they were erecting the base of the gigantic motor. Every three seconds the powerful tail of the Integral will eject flame and gasses into the universal space, and the Integral will soar forward and higher,—like a flaming Tamerlane of happiness! I watched how the workers, true to the Taylor system, would bend down, then unbend and turn around swiftly and rhythmically like levers of an enormous engine. In their hands they held glittering glass pipes which emitted bluish streaks of flame; the glass walls were being cut into with flame; with flame there were being welded the angles, the ribs, the bars. I watched the monstrous glass cranes easily rolling over the glass rails; like the workers themselves they would obediently turn, bend down and bring their loads inward into the bowels of the Integral. All seemed one, humanized machine and mechanized humans. It was the most magnificent, the most stirring beauty, harmony, music!
   Quick! Down! To them, and with them! And I descended and mingled with them, fused with their mass, caught in the rhythm of steel and glass. Their movements were measured, tense and round. Their cheeks were colored with health, their mirror-like foreheads not clouded by the insanity of thinking. I was floating upon a mirror-like sea. I was reposing. . . . Suddenly one of them turned toward me his care-free face.

    And, since I am doing this "review" in a most uncommon way, let me here give you a brief synopsis of the story. Really, the plot is not the main interest in this book. It is the symbolism of totalitarianism that's important. It is the details of everyday life that are highlighted.
     But what I found most disturbing is that it became for me a window into the minds of men—the Elites (and they ARE mostly men), who mistakenly believe they will succeed in their agenda. Most people cannot perceive such a diabolical mindset as people like Gates and Schwab possess. I am pretty awake and aware, but this novel supplied an even wider lens into the machinery that makes them tick. In fact, I was noticeably disturbed for days. Now, I am simply conscious of another dimension which has been added to my comprehension mechanism. That's why I am focusing on quotes, which I will elaborate upon, concerning my understanding of their current relevance.
    The setting for the story is far into the future—at least a thousand years. D-503 is the engineer who is building the Integral, a spaceship that will scour the Universe, searching for life. The mostly only remaining humans on the planet dwell in a city surrounded by the Green Wall, from which there is no escape, but at this point, few would consider it, as it has been their home and way of life for centuries. Into the spaceship will be included items that give off-planet beings an accurate picture of their civilization. Many are contributing, and D-503's contribution are his "Records,"—a day-to-day summary of events. So each chapter is represented by that day's "Record."
    Incidentally, the Wikipedia article calls the civilization the "One State," but Zilboorg's translation is the "United State." And the purpose of the Integral's adventure? To "rescue other civilizations from the "primitive state of freedom.'" Here's the opening paragraph, taken from that day's newspaper.

   In another hundred and twenty days the building of the Integral will be completed. The great historic hour is near, when the first Integral will rise into the limitless space of the universe. A thousand years ago your heroic ancestors subjected the whole earth to the power of the United State. A still more glorious task is before you,—the integration of the indefinite equation of the Cosmos by the use of the glass, electric, fire-breathing Integral. Your mission is to subjugate to the grateful yoke of reason the unknown beings who live on other planets, and who are perhaps still in the primitive state of freedom. If they will not understand that we are bringing them a mathematically faultless happiness, our duty will be to force them to be happy. But before we take up arms, we shall try the power of words.

    But there is a dissident group who feels otherwise. They have found, or created, an underground passage from the "Ancient House," which is a sort of museum of what houses looked like a thousand years ago (as in, now). Beings are there who escaped being trapped by the Wall. They have evolved into humans that go naked because their bodies are covered with hair. (Wikipedia calls it "fur," but the book calls it "hair," and it doesn't seem like Zamyatin is referring to anything like savage beasts at all.) Anyways, many of the key "Numbers" have gone over to the side of the dissidents. Their plan is to seize the Integral right before take-off, and fill it with their people, break down the Wall, and defeat The Well-Doer, who has been in command of the civilization for over four decades.
     I will spend the rest of this document with quotes that are eerily familiar to us, as totalitarianism is the global goal of the Elites. Of course, Zamyatin wrote it about Communist Russia, but it is perhaps even more relevant now. I continue . . . .
    One of the aspects of Zamyatin's writing is his attention to minute details. Much of the text consists of descriptions of people and things from the perspectives of color, shape and mathematics. Here's one describing the sky. Oh, my! Imagine if he was alive today with 24/7 aerosol dispersions! In that respect, I'd have to agree with his observation!

   But the sky! The sky is blue. Its limpidness is not marred by a single cloud. (How primitive was the taste of the ancients, since their poets were always inspired by these senseless, formless, stupidly rushing accumulations of steam!) I love, I am sure it will not be an error if I say we love, only such a sky—a sterile, faultless sky.

    And here's another praising the beauty and perfection of machinery and its connection to "non- freedom."

   Here is an example: this morning I was on the dock where the Integral is being built, and I saw the lathes; blindly, with abandon, the balls of the regulators were rotating; the cranks were swinging from side to side with a glimmer; the working-beam proudly swung its shoulder; and the mechanical chisels were dancing to the melody of an unheard Tarantella. I suddenly perceived all the music, all the beauty, of this colossal, of this mechanical ballet, illumined by light blue rays of sunshine. Then the thought came: why beautiful? Why is a dance beautiful? Answer: because it is an unfree movement. Because the deep meaning of the dance is contained in its absolute, ecstatic submission, in the ideal non-freedom. If it is true that our ancestors would abandon themselves in dancing at the most inspired moments of their lives (religious mysteries, military parades) then it means only one thing: the instinct of non-freedom has been characteristic of human nature from ancient times, and we in our life of today, we are only consciously—

    Anyways, O-90 has met D-503 for their scheduled walk, which is in lockstep, four abreast—hundreds of thousands of Numbers all together. Oh, my, again. I couldn't help but think of this unsettling video.
"Directed Evolution": In Lockstep Towards the Abyss

   We were down in the street. The avenue was crowded. On days when the weather is so beautiful the afternoon personal hour is usually the hour of the supplementary walk. As always the big Musical Tower was playing with all its pipes, the March of the United State. The Numbers, hundreds, thousands of Numbers in light blue unifs (probably a derivative of the ancient uniform) with golden badges on the chest,—the State number of each one, male or female,—the Numbers were walking slowly, four abreast, exaltedly keeping the step. I, we four, were but one of the innumerable waves of a powerful torrent. To my left, O-90 (if one of my long-haired ancestors were writing this a thousand years ago, he would probably call her by that funny word, mine), to my right, two unknown Numbers, a she-Number and a he-Number.

     And it is during this walk that he first meets I-330—the dissident. He hates her and falls in love with her at the same time. I also want to point out that here begins probably what was for me the most disturbing aspect of the novel, and that is his struggle with the mind-control program. Those of us that are aware, know we are being mind-controlled every minute of our lives now. Most people have no clue that their thoughts and actions are no longer their own, but for those who do know what game is being played with us, we are ever vigilant for signs we are being tampered with, and it is a full-time occupation. Here, D-503, as with most of the other Numbers is completely and totally mind-controlled and brainwashed. His struggle is just the opposite of ours—to keep from waking up. Her presence awakens something in him that terrifies him.

   All this without a smile, even with a certain degree of respect—(she may know that I am the builder of the Integral). In her eyes nevertheless, in her brows, there was a strange irritating X, and I was unable to grasp it, to find an arithmetical expression for it. Somehow I was confused; with a somewhat hazy mind, I tried logically to motivate my laughter.

    He compares her with O-90, and she immediately knows he has been taken by this new woman. She blurts out that he is registered to her. The S at the end of the row is a hunchback, who plays a major role. Is he a spy, or on the dissident's side? Honestly, even after reading it twice, I am still not sure who was whom.

   "Are you sure?" I noticed her brows which rose to the temples in an acute angle,—like the sharp corners of an X. Again I was confused, casting a glance to the right, then to the left. To my right—she, slender, abrupt, resistantly flexible like a whip, I-330 (I saw her number now). To my left, O-, totally different, made all of circles with a child-like dimple on her wrist; and at the very end of our row, an unknown he-Number, double-curved like the letter S. We were all so different from one another. . . .

    At the end of the walk, I-330 tells him to drop into auditorium 112 day after tomorrow. He says he will if he is assigned to that one. She assures him he will be. O- suddenly wants to come to D-503 that evening and drop the curtain, but he reminds her they are not scheduled for sex until the day after tomorrow.
    And here's one on uncontrolled sex! HA! I sort of have to agree with that!

   Further, is it not absurd that their State (they called it State!) left sexual life absolutely without control? However, whenever and as much as they wanted . . . Absolutely unscientific like beasts; and like beasts they blindly gave birth to children! Is it not strange to understand gardening, chicken-farming, fishery (we have definite knowledge that they were familiar with all these things), and not to be able to reach the last step in this logical scale, namely, production of children,—not to be able to discover such things as Maternal and Paternal Norms?

    Anyways, D-503 is shocked to find that, out of the 10 million numbers and 500 auditoriums, he actually is assigned to 112, where he hears a lecture on music. I-330 is there, but he gets distracted and doesn't hear much of the lecture. She, dressed in "ancient" attire plays a grand piano—the music of Scriabin. "Everyone laughs at such silly music. Any deviation from the norm, such as thinking one's own thoughts, is considered an illness—epilepsy. And here he is also beginning to believe he is ill.

    . . . By merely rotating this handle any one is enabled to produce about three sonatas per hour. What difficulties our predecessors had in making music! They were able to compose only by bringing themselves to strokes of inspiration,—an extinct form of epilepsy. Here you have an amusing illustration of their achievements: the music of Scriabin, twentieth century. This black box, (a curtain parted on the platform, and we saw an ancient instrument) this box they called the "Royal Grand." They attached to this the idea of regality, which also goes to prove how their music . . . .
   And I don't remember anything further. Very possibly because . . . I'll tell you frankly, because she, I-330, came to the "Royal" box. Probably I was simply startled by her unexpected appearance on the platform.
   She was dressed in a fantastic dress of the ancient time, a black dress closely fitting the body, sharply delimiting the white of her shoulders and breast and that warm shadow waving with her breath between . . . . And the dazzling, almost angry teeth. A smile, a bite, directed downward. She took her seat; she began to play something wild, convulsive, loud like all their life then,—not a shadow of rational mechanism. Of course all those around me were right; they were laughing. Only a few . . . but why is it that I too, I . . . ?
   Yes, epilepsy, a mental disease, a pain. A slow, sweet pain, bite, and it goes deeper and becomes sharper. And then, slowly, sunshine,—not our sunshine, not crystalline, bluish and soft, coming through the glass bricks. No, a wild sunshine, rushing and burning, tearing everything into small bits . . . .

    And how did the United State come to be? By the winning of the "Two Hundred Years" War. And if THIS doesn't sound familiar, you are NOT paying attention!

   Let me explain: an ancient sage once said a clever thing (accidentally, beyond doubt). He said, "Love and Hunger rule the world. Consequently, to dominate the world, man had to win a victory over hunger after paying a very high price. I refer to the great Two Hundred Years' War, the war between the city and the land. Probably on account of religious prejudices, the primitive peasants stubbornly held on to their "bread." In the 35th year before the foundation of the United State, our contemporary petroleum food was invented. True, only about two-tenths of the population of the globe did not die out. But how beautifully shining the face of the earth became when it was cleared of its impurities!

    In other words, forcing the farmers to give up their land. Substituting real food for synthetic food. And a drastic population reduction.
    Plus clearing the planet of its "impurities." Yes, I do agree with that. Get rid of Gates, Schwab, and his creepy little advisor, Yuval Noah Harari, and the planet would start to smell better immediately. Talk about "useless eaters," as Harari calls the rest of us.
    And when one of the Numbers "wakes up" . . . er . . . I mean, goes insane, a "holiday of Justice" is celebrated. (An execution, of course.)

   I must repeat, I made it my duty to write concealing nothing. Therefore I must point out now that sad as it may be, the process of hardening and crystallization of life has evidently not been completed even here in our State. A few steps remain to be made before we reach the ideal. The ideal (it's clear), is to be found where nothing happens, but here . . . . I will give you an example: in the State paper I read that in two days the holiday of Justice will be celebrated on the Plaza of the Cube. This means that again some Number has impeded the smooth run of the great State machine. Again something that was not foreseen, or forecalculated happened.

    He uses the phrase "it's clear" incessantly, especially as he wavers from his brainwashed state to what is essentially the new mind-control program that I-330 is attempting to instill in him.
     Meanwhile, D-503 has been sneaking off with I-330, and ignoring his schedule. He is obviously becoming seriously ill. She has a doctor friend who writes him excuses. It is the duty of all Numbers to report to the Guardians anyone who breaks the rules, but I-330 knows D-503 won't, because she has him twisted around her little finger. They have a certain number of hours in which to report irregularities, after which they are held as guilty, too.

   I woke up. Soft blue light, the glass of the walls, of the chairs, of the table was glimmering. This calmed me. My heart stopped palpitating. Sap! Buddha! How absurd! I am sick, it is clear; I never saw dreams before. They say that to see dreams was a common normal thing with the ancients. Yes, after all, their life was a whirling carousel: green, orange, Buddha, sap,—but we, people of today, we know all too well that dreaming is a serious mental disease. I . . . . Is it possible that my brain, this precise, clean, glittering mechanism, like a chronometer without a speck of dust on it, is . . .? Yes it is, now. I really feel there in the brain some foreign body like an eyelash in the eye. One does not feel one's whole body but this eye with a hair in it, one cannot forget it for a second. . . .
   The cheerful, crystalline sound of the bell at my head. Seven o'clock. Time to get up. To the right and to the left as in mirrors, to the right and to the left through the glass walls I see others like myself, other rooms like my own, other clothes like my own, movements like mine, duplicated thousands of times. This invigorates me; I see myself as a part of an enormous, vigorous, united body; and what precise beauty! Not a single superfluous gesture, or bow, or turn. Yes, this Taylor was undoubtedly the greatest genius of the ancients. True, he did not come to the idea of applying his method to the whole life, to every step throughout the twenty-four hours of the day; he was unable to integrate his system from one o'clock to twenty-four. I cannot understand the ancients. How could they write whole libraries about some Kant and take notice only slightly of Taylor, of this prophet who saw ten centuries ahead?

    And here he tries to tell the hunchback, thinking he is a Guardian, but he appears to approve of D-503's encounter with the dissident.

   Number S-4711 I saw glittering on his golden badge (that is why I associated him with the letter S from the very first moment: an optical impression which remained unregistered by consciousness). His eyes sparkled, two sharp little drills; they were revolving swiftly, drilling in deeper and deeper. It seemed that in a moment they would drill in to the bottom and would see something that I do not even dare to confess to myself . . . .
   That bothersome eyelash became wholly clear to me. S- was one of them, one of the Guardians, and it would be the simplest thing immediately, without deferring to tell him everything!
    "I went yesterday to the Ancient House . . ." my voice was strange, husky, flat,—I tried to cough.
   "That is good. It must have given you material for some instructive deductions."
   "Yes . . . but . . . You see, I was not alone; I was in the company of I-330, and then. . . ."
   "I-330? You are fortunate. She is a very interesting, gifted woman; she has a host of admirers."
   But he too—then during the promenade. . . . Perhaps he is even assigned as her he-Number! No, it is impossible to tell him, unthinkable. This was perfectly clear.
   "Yes, yes, certainly, very," I smiled, broader and broader, more stupidly, and felt as if my smile made me look foolish, naked.
   The drills reached the bottom; revolving continually they screwed themselves back into his eyes. S- smiled double-curvedly, nodded and slid to the exit.
   I covered my face with the newspaper (I felt as if everybody were looking at me), and soon I forgot about the eyelash, about the little drills, about everything, I was so upset by what I read in the paper: "According to authentic information, traces of an organization which still remains out of reach, have again been discovered. This organization aims at liberation from the beneficial yoke of the State."
   Liberation! It is remarkable how persistent human criminal instincts are! I use deliberately the word "criminal," for freedom and crime are as closely related as—well, as the movement of an aero and its speed: if the speed of an aero equals zero, the aero is motionless; if human liberty is equal to zero, man does not commit any crime. That is clear. The way to rid man of criminality is to rid him of freedom. No sooner did we rid ourselves of freedom (in the cosmic sense centuries are only a "no sooner"), than suddenly some unknown pitiful degenerates. . . . No, I cannot understand why I did not go immediately yesterday to the Bureau of the Guardians. Today, after sixteen o'clock, I shall go there without fail.

    In any case, D-503 feels his world falling apart. There is another character—R-13, who is always described with "Negro lips," so I don't know if he was actually Black or that part of his anatomy just resembled that of many Black people. He is also registered for sex with O-90. The three have been a "triangle" for many years. He apparently spits when he speaks because he is always described as a "fountain." He is a poet, also contributing to the collection of papers that will be sent with the Integral.

   R-13 usually talks very fast: His words run in torrents, his thick lips sprinkle. Every P is a fountain, every "poets" a fountain.

    But that is beginning to break up and O-90 is very sad because she loves D-503. D-503 is beginning to feel himself coming apart at the seams. He thinks he has split off into two different people, and believes that he is very ill. He continues to see the doctor, but the doctor is one of them. He is told that he has a soul.
    The Well-Doer and Guardians know there is an insurgency taking place. So a medical "cure" is "mandated" for the entire population, although many are "hesitant." No, they are not Covid "vaccines." It begins with a lengthy article in the news the following day, telling the people to rejoice. Here it is. It is one of Zamyatin's more "jocular" moments!

For from now on we are perfect!
Before today your own creation, engines, were more perfect than you.
For every spark from a dynamo—is a spark of pure reason; each motion of a piston—a pure syllogism. Is it not true that the same faultless reason is within you?
The philosophy of the cranes, presses, and pumps is finished and clear like a circle. But is your philosophy less circular? The beauty of a mechanism lies in its immutable, precise rhythm, like that of a pendulum. But have you not become as precise as a pendulum, you who are brought up on the system of Taylor?
Yes, but there is one difference:
Did you ever notice a pump cylinder during its work show upon its face a wide, distant, sensuously-dreaming smile? Did you ever hear cranes restlessly toss about and sigh at night, during the hours designed for rest?
Yet on your faces (you may well blush with shame!), the Guardians have seen more and more frequently those smiles and they have heard your sighs. And (you should hide your eyes for shame!) the historians of the United State all tendered their resignations so as to be relieved from having to record such shameful occurrences.
It is not your fault; you are ill. And the name of your illness is
It is a worm that gnaws black wrinkles on one's forehead. It is a fever that drives one to run farther and farther, albeit "farther" may begin where happiness ends. It is the last barricade on our road to happiness.
Rejoice! This Barricade Has Been Blasted at Last! The Road is Open!
The latest discovery of our State science is that there is a centre for fancy,—a miserable little nervous knot in the lower region of the frontal lobe of the brain. A triple treatment of this knot with X-rays will cure you of fancy—

    Much like the Covid "vaccines," the operation has turned its victims into automatons. They surround the engineers.

   As always—four abreast. But the rows did not seem as firm as usual; they were swinging, bending more and more, perhaps because of the wind. There! They seemed to have stumbled upon something at the corner, and they drew back and stopped, congealed, a close mass, a clot, breathing rapidly; at once all had stretched their necks like geese.
   "Look! No look, look—there, quick!"
   "Silence! Are you crazy?"
   On the corner the doors of the auditorium were ajar, a heavy column of about fifty people—. The word "people" is not the right one. These were heavy-wheeled automatons bound in iron and moved by an invisible mechanism. Not people but a sort of human-like tractor. Over their heads, floating in the air—a white banner with a golden sun embroidered on it, and the rays of the sun: "We are the first! We have already been operated upon! Follow us, all of you!"
   They slowly, unhesitatingly mowed through the crowd, and it was clear that if they had had in their way a wall, a tree, a house, they would have moved on with no more hesitation through wall, tree or house. In the middle of the avenue they fused and stretched out into a chain, arm in arm, their faces turned towards us. And we, a human clot, tense, the hair pricking our heads, we waited. Our necks were stretched out goose-fashion. Clouds. The wind whistled. Suddenly the wings of the chain from right and left bent quickly around us, and faster, faster, like a heavy engine descending a hill, they closed the ring and pulled us toward the yawning doors and inside. . . .    Somebody's piercing cry: "They are driving us in! Run!"
   All ran. Close to the wall there still was an open living gate of human beings. Everybody dashed through it, heads forward. Their heads became sharp wedges, so with their ribs, shoulders, hips. . . . Like a stream of water compressed in a firehose they spurted out in the form of a fan,—and all around me stamping feet, raised arms, unifs. . . . The double-curved S- with his transparent wing-ears appeared for a moment close before my eyes; he disappeared as suddenly; I was alone among arms and legs appearing for a second and disappearing. I was running. . . .

    Have you noticed the "human-like tractors" that are walking the Earth today? I am encountering them more and more. At first, I thought nothing of it, but the encounters I've had all display the same quality: inexplicable hostility and aggression, and the immediate strategy of putting the blame on me—whatever the situation. Now when that happens, my first thought is "that person obviously got the jab." First it began with the cashier at Marc's that I had mentioned in one of my recent articles, because I was attempting to return a defective item and when she asked me for my phone number, I told her I did not have a phone. She immediately became hostile. I told her I could give her my registered number, but no one can reach me by phone. By this time she was getting rude to me, so I repeated what I said, at which point she accused me of "yelling" at her and called the manager. I can assure you I have not changed my demeanor. I have never been a soft-spoken person. (HAHA! No, really.) But now I've had a number of people accuse me of "yelling," even though they are the ones behaving aggressively. I had an employee recently follow me around to "help" me when I had not asked for help and certainly didn't need it. After a couple minutes, I reported him to management, but, oh, my—talk about getting creeped out. I also recently had a manager tear into me because I wanted to ask a simple question, and suddenly I became a liar and someone who was trying to rip them off! And this is a place where I've done business for a quarter-of-a-century!! Oh, my. Again. Do I think there is something strange going on? Has anyone else encountered such behavior? Do I think the human species has devolved into something other? Indeed, I do.
    And it's not just aggression, it is stupidity accompanied by the attempt to make me look like the stupid one, and that is happening so frequently, I don't even keep track of it anymore. For instance, I have been stopping in at the library when I go to buy kerosene, to check the weather and a couple other things so I don't have to drag my computer system into the basement on these brutally cold days we've been having. Their computers are really not set up very well, like the ones at the Ravenna library. For instance, there are almost no programs available, and there are things for which I could really use Notepad. So the last time I was there, I asked the person at the desk in the computer center, why Notepad didn't show up. She stared at me, like I was asking about some obscure program. I said, "These computers do use Windows, don't they?" Yes. I said, "Notepad has been one of the basic programs on every version of Windows that I know of. It is what people use who write their own web code." She still had no idea, and I don't know of any other way to write code. Apple has their own version, and I can't imagine any operating system that doesn't come with a code editor, although I know there are some crappy browsers out there, like Brave, that do not have the means for opening code on Notepad, which are obviously NOT meant to be for professionals. Pale Moon and MyPal are my two main browsers, and they have all the features I need. Anyways, after I sat down, I heard her being rather rude to another person that was asking a question. (This would never have happened at the Ravenna library, whose staff is excellent and well-informed.)
    Then there was another incident that left me baffled. At ALDI, in the produce section, I was looking for apples that were $2.50 or less for a 3-lb. bag, which either they or Marc's usually have. There was a young couple looking, too, and the girl said, "Well, they're all about the same price. I realize she wasn't speaking to me, but I said anyways, "No they're not—they're not even close." They ranged from $2.99 to $4.29 a bag!! No, it was worse than baffled, it was flummoxed—mystified, and I am encountering it all the time. Again, she looked at me like I was the stupid one. Should we be worried about what is happening to the human race? Yes, indeed. This is worse than dumbing down—it exhibits a total lack of ability to observe what is before one's very eyes, and lack of any skills in deductive reasoning, which is the game plan. Human machines that can be programmed and controlled. And now, to the conclusion of the book and this article.
    On the day before the test flight (and hijacking) of the Integral is to take place, this appears in the newspaper.


    (You will own nothing and you will be happy.) We really do not know if the dissidents succeed in the end, but we DO know that Communist Russia—the U.S.S.R.—is no longer in existence. And I can also assure you, that here in 2024, the WEF will NOT WIN. I am not a fan of Julian Rose, but I do agree with this article.
"Whom the Gods Would Destroy They First Make Mad". Psychotic Warmongers

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