Darkness at Noon

Arthur Koestler

Rubashov stood stiffly between the bed and the bucket, held his breath, and waited for the first scream. He remembered that the first scream, in which terror still predominated over physical pain, was usually the worst; what followed was already more bearable, one got used to it and after a time one could even draw conclusions on the method of torture from the tone and rhythm of the screams. Towards the end, most people behaved in the same way, however different they were in temperament and voice: the screams became weaker, changed over into whining and choking. Usually the door would slam soon after. The keys would jangle again; and the first scream of the next victim often came even before they had touched him, at the mere sight of the men in the doorway.

The old disease, thought Rubashov. Revolutionaries should not think through other people's minds.
Or, perhaps they should? Or even ought to?
How can one change the world if one identifies oneself with everybody?
How else can one change it?
He who understands and forgives--where would he find a motive to act?
Where would he not?
They will shoot me, thought Rubashov.

Rubashov bowed his head. A suspicion had risen in him which affected him almost as a physical pain and made him forget everything else. Was it possible that this unfortunate youth had in fact drawn the conclusions from his, Rubashov's line of thought--that he stood there before him in the glare of the reflector as the consequence incarnate of his own logic?

You and I are really in a similar situation, he said comfortably and emptied his liqueur glass. We both have outlived our time. Guinea-pig breeding is finished with; we live in the century of the Plebeian.

Perhaps it was not suitable for a man to think every thought to its logical conclusion.

Citizen President, the accused Rubashov declared, I speak here for the last time in my life. The opposition is beaten and destroyed. If I ask myself today, For what am I dying? I am confronted by absolute nothingness. There is nothing for which one could die, if one died without having repented and unreconciled with the Party and the Movement. Therefore, on the threshold of my last hour, I bend my knees to the country, to the masses and to the whole people. The political masquerade, the mummery of discussions and conspiracy are over. We were politically dead long before the Citizen Prosecutor demanded our heads. Woe unto the defeated, whom history treads into the dust. I have only one justification before you, Citizen Judges: that I did not make it easy for myself. Vanity, and the last remains of pride whispered to me: Die in silence, say nothing; or die with a noble gesture, with a moving swansong on your lips; pour out your heart and challenge your accusers. That would have been easier for an old rebel, but I overcame the temptation. With that my task is ended. I have paid; my account with history is settled. To ask for mercy would be derision. I have nothing more to say.

Rubashov stood by the window and tapped on the empty wall with his pince-nez. As a boy he had really meant to study astronomy, and now for forty years he had been doing something else. Why had not the Public Prosecutor asked him: Defendent Rubashov, what about the infinite? He would not have been able to answer--and there, there lay the real source of his guilt....Could there be a greater?

Die in silence.

Dormir.

Communist revolutionaries are apparently no better than capitalists when it comes to missing the point of life; or should we say that both are human and therefore fallible? It remains that in a world so concerned with punishing crimes, we, the guilty, ignore the awful majority of crimes because we do not wish to be faced with the possibility that the world is topsy turvy: our hard is easy, easy hard, last first, and first last. We don't want to take the road that rises.
There is personal honor, and community honor and there is nobility which sees it's role in every case. There is Darkness at Noon and The Dark Knight but which is more accurate? For the sake of honor to be shown to the world, men have sacrificed their families, their brothers, their lives; for the sake of honor in the history books, men have sacrificed their futures, their pasts, their reputations, and their communities. But while Batman sacrifices his honor so that Gotham can keep pristine its heroes, Rubashov sacrifices his honor so that it may be used by his enemies--which is better? Are they different? Afterall, Rocky Sullivan went screaming to his the electric chair, not because he was a coward but because he was honorable. Man's honor or his society's honor? Well, maybe they are the same and it's only an issue of perception. Afterall, this song has been sung before.
All this can be bandied and argued, but you cannot escape from the last part: if you want to be an astronomer and deny yourself your vocation for the sake of the cause, your guilt might be greatest. This is the wisdom of childhood: a child knows that sometimes he must give up what he wants for the sake of doing good, but he would never consider renouncing the want itself. Smart is the child who knows that too much candy rots your teeth, but strange is the kid who refuses to want any sort of candy. This isn't about tastes, but the acknowledgment that we possess them. Yet here we go, a worldful of ascetics renouncing that we are selves, not denying the self of what it wants. We are eyes refusing to desire light, and ears denying our want of sound. We hide ourselves from our desires by trick, by barrage, by sleep, but always the sneaking voice is there. Because even when we take the easy course out, the shortest trip to oblivion, even when we sleep, we dream.