If one harbours anywhere in one's mind a nationalistic loyalty or hatred, certain facts, although in a sense known to be true, are inadmissible.
George OrwellRead
In all the modern talk about energy, efficiency, social service and the rest of it, what meaning is there except "Get money, get it legally, and get a lot of it"? Money has become the grand test of virtue.
Interpretation
The quote critiques society's focus on wealth as a measure of virtue and success.
In this quote, George Orwell expresses concern over the modern preoccupation with money and how it is perceived as the ultimate indicator of a person's worth and morality. He suggests that societal values have shifted towards the relentless pursuit of wealth, reducing deeper virtues to mere financial success and raising questions about the true meaning behind concepts like efficiency and social service in a capitalist context.
In practice
In a speech about the pitfalls of consumerism.
If one harbours anywhere in one's mind a nationalistic loyalty or hatred, certain facts, although in a sense known to be true, are inadmissible.
The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.
Political writing in our time consists almost entirely of prefabricated phrases bolted together like the pieces of a child's Meccano set. It is the unavoidable result of self-censorship. To write in plain, vigorous language one has to think fearlessly, and if one thinks fearlessly one cannot be politically orthodox.
Not to expose your true feelings to an adult seems to be instinctive from the age of seven or eight onwards.
As with the Christian religion, the worst advertisement for Socialism is its adherents.
It is fatal to look hungry. It makes people want to kick you.
The onslaught of new and complex information, the academic and thinktank cults of expertise, not to mention the impossibility of bohemia in the age of high rents, have conspired to assassinate the public intellectual.
It would be curious to discover who it is to whom one writes in a diary. Possibly to some mysterious personification of one's own identity.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can't escape, Yet can't accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
We have a limit, a very discouraging, humiliating limit: death.
They talk of the dignity of work. The dignity is in leisure.
Wealth should come like manna from heaven, unearned and uncalled for. Money should be like grace -- a gift. It is not worth sweating and scheming for.
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