Michael: Okay, Kevin, challenge for you. You have to review George Orwell's Animal Farm in exactly five words. Go. Kevin: Uh... "Revolution! Yay! Oh. Oh no." Michael: (Laughs) That's... surprisingly accurate. Mine would be: "Some animals are more equal." Kevin: Ah, you went straight for the jugular with the most famous line. But mine captures the emotional rollercoaster, right? The hope, and then the slow, dawning horror. Michael: It absolutely does. And that cynical twist is exactly what we're diving into today with George Orwell's classic, Animal Farm: A Fairy Story. Kevin: A book that's so famous, yet I feel like many people just remember it as "that high school book about talking pigs." It gets filed away and we forget how sharp, how brutal it actually is. Michael: Right, but it's so much more. And the origin of it is fascinating. Orwell himself said the whole idea sparked when he saw a little boy, maybe ten years old, whipping a giant cart-horse. It made him think, if only animals knew their own strength, we'd have no power over them. And that simple observation is the seed of this entire, powerful allegory. Kevin: Wow. So it wasn't just about politics from the start, it was about power itself. The raw, physical power of the exploited versus the... well, the whip of the exploiter. Michael: Precisely. And that's the perfect place to start. Because before the whips and the tyranny, every revolution begins with a beautiful, intoxicating dream.

Kevin: Right, it has to. Nobody revolts for a future that’s just ‘okay.’ You revolt for paradise. So where does that dream begin on Manor Farm? Michael: It begins in a barn, with a wise old pig named Old Major. He’s a prize-winning boar, respected by everyone. And one night, he gathers all the animals—the horses, the cows, the sheep, even the chickens—for a secret meeting after the farmer, Mr. Jones, is drunk and asleep. Kevin: The classic bumbling, neglectful villain. Easy to hate. Michael: Exactly. And Old Major lays out a vision that is simple, powerful, and utterly convincing. He tells them their lives are "miserable, laborious, and short." They work until they can’t stand, and then they're slaughtered. And why? For one reason only: Man. He says, "Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals." Kevin: I have to say, he’s got a point. As a human, I’m feeling a little called out right now. It’s an electrifyingly simple idea. All of our problems come from this one source. Get rid of it, and we're free. Michael: It's the perfect revolutionary message. It gives you a clear enemy and a clear solution. He says, "Remove Man from the scene, and the root cause of hunger and overwork is abolished for ever." And then he gives them their core principles: "Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend." And most importantly: "All animals are equal." Kevin: That’s the one. That’s the heart of the dream. Michael: And to seal it, he teaches them a song that came to him in his dream, a song called "Beasts of England." It’s this incredible anthem of a golden future, a time when animals will be free, the fields will be theirs, and the cruelty of humanity will be a distant memory. The animals are so overcome with emotion they learn it instantly and sing it five times in a row, with one voice. It's a moment of pure, unified hope. Kevin: I can just picture it. The whole barn, united in this one, powerful vision. It's beautiful. But listening to you describe it, Michael, I can't help but think... is that beautiful, simple idea—'get rid of the one bad guy and everything's perfect'—also its biggest weakness? Michael: That is the central tragedy of the entire book. The vision is pure, but it's also incredibly naive. It assumes that the only source of corruption or tyranny is the current one, the humans. It never considers that the same evils could arise from within their own ranks. Kevin: It doesn't account for the nature of power itself. It just assumes that "animal" power will be inherently good, and "human" power is inherently bad. Michael: Exactly. The dream has no defense mechanism. It's all heart and no immune system. And that's why, almost as soon as the humans are gone, the infection begins to set in. The dream is the perfect fuel for a rebellion, but it's a terrible blueprint for a government.

Kevin: Okay, so the rebellion happens. It's spontaneous, chaotic, and successful. Mr. Jones is gone. They're free! Paradise, here we come. How long does that feeling last? About five minutes? Michael: Less than that. The infection starts with something so small and seemingly trivial: a bucket of milk. After the first milking post-rebellion, the animals wonder what to do with the rich, creamy milk. And Napoleon, one of the clever pigs who has taken charge, steps in and says, "Never mind the milk, comrades! The harvest is more important." He leads them off to the fields, and when they return... the milk has vanished. Kevin: And let me guess, it vanished right into the pigs' mash. Michael: You got it. And when the animals start to murmur about this, and later about the apples also being reserved for the pigs, the second phase of the takeover begins: propaganda. This is where we meet one of literature's greatest villains, a pig named Squealer. Kevin: Ah, Squealer. The ultimate spin doctor. The Minister of Misinformation. Michael: He is a master. He's a brilliant talker, with twinkling eyes and a way of skipping from side to side that is somehow persuasive. He doesn't use force. He uses language. He explains to the animals, "Comrades! You do not imagine, I hope, that we pigs are doing this in a spirit of selfishness and privilege? Many of us actually dislike milk and apples. Our sole object in taking these things is to preserve our health." Kevin: Oh, this is good. "We're not doing it for us, we're doing it for you." Michael: Precisely. He continues, "Milk and apples contain substances absolutely necessary to the well-being of a pig. We pigs are brainworkers. The whole management and organisation of this farm depend on us. It is for your sake that we drink that milk and eat those apples." And then he delivers the knockout blow, the line that will be used again and again to justify every injustice. Kevin: I'm almost afraid to ask. Michael: He looks at them, his tail whisking, and asks, "Surely, comrades, there is no one among you who wants to see Jones come back?" Kevin: And that's it. That's the kill shot. It's fear. It shuts down all debate. You can't argue with that, because of course, nobody wants Jones back. So you have to accept the lesser evil, even if it feels wrong. Michael: That's step one of the playbook: control the resources and use propaganda to justify it. Step two is to create a boogeyman. After a power struggle, the other brilliant pig, Snowball, is violently chased off the farm by a pack of vicious dogs that Napoleon had secretly raised. From that moment on, Snowball becomes the enemy of the people. Kevin: The scapegoat for everything. Michael: Everything. When a storm knocks down the windmill the animals had worked so hard to build, Napoleon declares it was Snowball's sabotage. He even claims to find pig footprints leading away from the scene. It doesn't matter if it's true. It's a powerful story. It unites the animals in fear and hatred against a common enemy, which conveniently distracts them from their shrinking food rations and Napoleon's growing power. Kevin: This is sounding chillingly familiar. It's a tactic as old as time. When things are going badly at home, invent a threat from abroad, or from within. Michael: And the final, most insidious step in the playbook is to rewrite the law and history itself. The animals had their Seven Commandments, painted in big white letters on the barn wall. The most sacred was, "No animal shall kill any other animal." But after Napoleon stages a horrifying public execution of animals who "confess" to being in league with Snowball, the animals are confused. They thought this was forbidden. Kevin: So what happens? Do they rise up? Michael: No. They're terrified. And when Clover, one of the horses, asks Muriel the goat to read the commandment for her, it now says: "No animal shall kill any other animal without cause." Kevin: Oh, man. They just added two words. And it changes everything. And the animals, because they can't read or can't remember clearly, just accept it? Michael: They accept it. Squealer convinces them their memory is faulty. He asks, "Is it written down anywhere? No." And because they have no records, no objective truth to hold onto, they are forced to accept the pigs' version of reality. The same thing happens with the rule about sleeping in beds, which becomes "No animal shall sleep in a bed with sheets." It's a slow, methodical erosion of truth until the only truth is what the leader says it is.

Kevin: Okay, so they've rewritten the laws, they have a scapegoat, they have a secret police force of terrifying dogs... where does this all lead? What's the endgame for the common animal, the one who just believed in the dream? Michael: The endgame is perfectly, and tragically, embodied in the story of Boxer the horse. Boxer is the most loyal, devoted, and hardworking animal on the farm. He's not smart, but his strength is incredible, and his belief is absolute. He has two personal mottos: "I will work harder," which he says in response to every setback, and "Napoleon is always right," which he adopts as his answer to every doubt. Kevin: He’s the perfect subject. The true believer. The one who gives everything for the cause. Michael: He gives literally everything. He works himself to the bone, rebuilding the windmill, getting up earlier than anyone else, pushing himself past his limits. Even when he splits his hoof, he refuses to take a day off. He is the heart and soul of the farm's labor. And one day, while straining to pull a load of stone, his lung gives out. He collapses. Kevin: Oh no. Michael: He can't get up. The animals are horrified. Squealer appears, full of sympathy, and announces that Comrade Napoleon has made special arrangements to send Boxer to be treated at the veterinary hospital in the nearby town. The animals are relieved. Their leader is taking care of their hero. Kevin: I have a very bad feeling about this. Michael: A few days later, a van comes to take Boxer away. The animals all gather to say goodbye. But as the van is driving off, Benjamin, the old, cynical donkey who can read as well as any pig, suddenly starts braying in terror. He gallops after the van, shouting for the others to follow. He's read what's on the side of the van. Kevin: What does it say? Michael: It says, "Alfred Simmonds, Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler, Willingdon. Dealer in Hides and Bone-Meal." Kevin: Oh, that's just brutal. That is the most cold-blooded betrayal. He gave everything, and they sold him for glue. Michael: The animals are in a panic. They cry out to Boxer to escape. They hear him feebly kicking at the inside of the van, but he's too weak. And the van drives away, and he's never seen again. Kevin: And the pigs? What's their story? Michael: Squealer later gives a moving speech describing Boxer's final moments in the hospital, claiming he was there at his side. He says Boxer's last words were, "Forward, comrades! Long live Animal Farm! Long live Comrade Napoleon! Napoleon is always right." He explains the van was previously owned by the knacker and the vet just hadn't painted over the name yet. And the animals, once again, believe him. A few nights later, the pigs are heard celebrating late into the night. The next day, word gets out they've somehow acquired money to buy another case of whisky. Kevin: That is just... it's heartbreaking. It's the ultimate statement on how a regime treats its most loyal followers. You are useful until you are not, and then you are disposable. So is Orwell just saying it's hopeless? That the loyal and hardworking are always doomed to be betrayed by the smart and cynical? Michael: It's a deeply pessimistic book, there's no doubt. And the final scene confirms it. Years pass. The farm is more prosperous, but only for the pigs and dogs. One day, the animals are terrified to see the pigs walking on their hind legs. Squealer is leading, and Napoleon follows, carrying a whip in his trotter. Kevin: The final taboo is broken. They've become men. Michael: They've become men. And when the animals look at the barn wall where the Seven Commandments were, there is only one left. "ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL, BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS." The revolution has come full circle. The book ends with the other animals peering through the farmhouse window, watching the pigs host a dinner party for the neighboring human farmers. The pigs and men are drinking, laughing, and cheating at cards. And as the animals look from pig to man, and from man to pig, and back again, they realize it's already impossible to say which is which.

Michael: So you see the full arc. It starts with this pure, beautiful dream of equality and freedom, articulated by Old Major. But that dream is systematically dismantled by the pigs through propaganda, fear, and the complete erasure of truth, until you end up with a tyranny that is even more efficient and ruthless than the one it replaced. Kevin: And the final image, of not being able to tell the pigs from the men, is just devastating. It suggests the form of the oppressor might change, but the oppression itself is a constant. The new boss is the same as the old boss. Michael: It's a powerful warning. And it's important to remember, Orwell was a socialist. He wasn't attacking the idea of equality. He was attacking the perversion of it, specifically what he saw happening in the Soviet Union under Stalin. He had witnessed it firsthand in the Spanish Civil War. But the book's message is so much more universal. Kevin: Absolutely. It's a warning against any ideology, left or right, that promises a utopia but demands you surrender your ability to think critically. It's about how language can be twisted, how fear can be weaponized, and how history can be rewritten in real time. Michael: And it's a story that was almost never published. Orwell finished it in 1944, but because the Soviet Union was a wartime ally of Britain, publishers were terrified to touch it. They saw it as an attack on "Uncle Joe" Stalin. One publisher who rejected it had even been advised by an official at the Ministry of Information that it was a bad idea. It shows you how even in a so-called free society, unpopular truths can be silenced. Kevin: Which is the very theme of the book itself! The suppression of truth. That's incredible. It makes you wonder, who are the 'pigs' in our own lives or societies? And what are the 'commandments' we see being quietly rewritten around us, with a word or two added to change the entire meaning? Michael: That's the question Orwell leaves us with. It's not a comfortable one, but it's a necessary one. We'd love to hear what you think. Does this story feel as relevant today as it did when it was written? Let us know your thoughts on our social channels. Kevin: It’s a timeless, chilling, and absolutely essential story. Michael: This is Aibrary, signing off.