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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
H. G. Wells's "The Shape of Things To Come" is a prescient exploration of humanity's trajectory through the lens of speculative fiction. Written in a narrative style that combines rich philosophical underpinnings with vivid storytelling, Wells scrutinizes the interplay between technology, society, and politics in a future marred by conflict and reshaped by visionary pioneers. Set against the backdrop of the tumultuous period following World War I, the text reflects Wells's deep concerns about the potential for societal evolution and decay, offering readers a vivid tableau of a world both familiar and alien, where utopian ideals confront dystopian realities. H. G. Wells, often hailed as the father of science fiction, drew from his keen observations of contemporary social issues and technological advancements to craft this ambitious narrative. Influenced by his own experiences as a history and biology teacher, as well as the philosophical discourses of his time, Wells envisions a future where human ingenuity must navigate the perils of its own creations. His works often champion the potential for progress, while simultaneously warning of the catastrophic consequences that may arise from humanity's failures. "The Shape of Things To Come" is essential reading for enthusiasts of speculative literature, historians of socio-political thought, and anyone intrigued by the possibilities of the future. Wells's prophetic insights resonate with contemporary readers, urging us to consider the profound implications of our choices today. This classic not only serves as a gripping narrative but also as a profound meditation on the shape we give to our own destiny. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - An Author Biography reveals milestones in the author's life, illuminating the personal insights behind the text. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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The Shape of Things To Come (Science Fiction Classic)
Table of Contents
Introduction
"The truth is the only thing that can lead us to freedom, and the only thing that can change the shape of things to come." This poignant quote from H. G. Wells's 'The Shape of Things to Come' captures the essence of the novel, emphasizing the critical relationship between knowledge and the ability to mold the future. In this captivating work, Wells invites readers to ponder the responsibilities that come with enlightenment and the risks of ignoring truth in shaping the world. It sets the stage for a narrative that is both visionary and cautionary, compelling readers to reflect on their roles in an evolving society.
Since its publication in 1933, 'The Shape of Things to Come' has earned its status as a science fiction classic. Wells masterfully intertwines science, sociology, and politics, offering a vivid exploration of humanity's potential trajectories. The book's predictions concerning technological advancements and social evolution have resonated through time, influencing countless writers and thinkers. Its impact is evident in modern literature and cinema, reflecting its foundational concepts that challenge readers to contemplate societal development and human progress. This enduring relevance contributes to the novel's stature as a cornerstone of speculative fiction.
H. G. Wells, often dubbed the 'father of science fiction', penned this thought-provoking work during a period marked by political upheaval and technological advancement. Written in the interwar years when society was grappling with rapid change, the book sought to explore the growing tensions between science and governance. Wells prophecies a future shaped by societal structures, technological innovations, and the human condition. The narrative serves as both a critique of contemporary society and a profound reflection on the possible world to come, ultimately leaving readers with a vision grounded in both hope and caution.
At its heart, 'The Shape of Things to Come' acts as a speculative history that charts the course of humanity beyond the immediate future. Wells takes readers through a timeline that begins in his own era, extending several decades into what he envisioned as a tumultuous future. His narrative explores pivotal themes such as war, peace, and the evolution of civilization. Wells's work harnesses these themes not merely to entertain, but to ignite critical thought about the very nature of progress and the factors shaping our lives every day.
Wells's ability to intertwine fact and fiction provides readers with a unique lens through which to explore the potential realities of their world. His portrayal of possible futures—both utopian and dystopian—invites readers to assess their current trajectories. Moreover, his vivid and imaginative descriptions prompt contemporary readers to consider how innovation, conflict, and cooperation influence the human experience. By framing these ideas within a narrative structure, Wells ensures that his philosophical inquiries remain accessible, stimulating dialogues around the ethical dimensions of advancements that continue to unfold.
One of the compelling aspects of Wells’s writing is his commitment to social critique, which permeates the narrative. As the prose flows through imagined futures, it exposes the often uncomfortable truths about human nature and societal organization. Wells challenges the inevitability of war and oppression, suggesting that a harmonious society can only emerge through conscious effort and a commitment to truth. This layered complexity adds depth to the novel's themes, enabling readers to engage with both the ideas presented and the realities they reflect.
Wells's narrative structure is particularly noteworthy; he begins with a stark vision of a world embroiled in conflict, gradually unfolding a saga that examines the trajectory of mankind. This approach not only heightens the drama but also enhances the book's philosophical undercurrents, prompting readers to consider how humanity might extrapolate their current course into the future. As the world changes, so too do the values and challenges that society must navigate, creating a further layer of engagement for readers who contemplate their place within this evolving narrative.
Through prophetic insights, Wells addresses existential questions about human evolution and the potential for progress or decline. Elements of utopianism and dystopianism coexist, compelling readers to reflect on the duality of advancement. The book serves as a cautionary tale enriched with a sense of optimism; it highlights the possibility for renewal and improvement rooted in human intelligence and resilience. Thus, Wells’s vision reverberates within a spectrum of hope and despair, reminding us of the ongoing struggle to shape our collective destiny.
An essential characteristic of Wells's work is his capacity to foresee technological innovations and their ramifications on society. He anticipated developments such as aerial warfare and the rise of state-controlled economies, exploring the intersection between science and social structures. These foresights enhance the book's prescience and significance in understanding contemporary advancements, from digital technology to the ethical complexities surrounding artificial intelligence. This aspect of Wells's writing urges readers to engage critically with emerging technologies as they navigate a rapidly shifting landscape.
Wells also delves deep into the psychological aspects of humanity, examining how fear, ambition, and morality shape societal values. The characters in 'The Shape of Things to Come' embody various responses to the challenges presented by their environment, representing broader psychological themes of conflict and cooperation. Through these character arcs, readers are offered a reflection of their own behaviors and attitudes, allowing for a more personal interaction with the text. This depth of character development fosters empathy and understanding of human motivations across temporal divides.
The language and style of Wells's prose enhance the book's allure. His sophisticated yet accessible writing invites readers into a rich narrative universe, steeped in vivid imagery and compelling dialogue. Wells effortlessly balances storytelling with intellectual inquiry, engaging both the mind and the heart, and ensuring that the book transcends mere genre fiction. This lyrical quality enriches the reader's experience, allowing for moments of reflection that resonate long after the final page has been turned.
At its core, 'The Shape of Things to Come' serves as both a warning and an invitation for proactive engagement with the future. Wells posits that collective action and enlightenment can steer civilization away from destruction. It is not merely a glimpse into a far-off future but a call to responsibility for the present. This emphasis on agency and accountability transforms the narrative from speculative fiction into a framework for envisioning and enacting change in society.
Wells's contributions extend beyond the lines of this novel; they permeate much of contemporary science fiction, signaling the importance of exploring social implications alongside scientific advancements. From Isaac Asimov's exploration of robotics and ethics to Arthur C. Clarke's meditations on space exploration, Wells's foundational themes can be seen echoing through the works of many iconic authors. His legacy is one of intellectual curiosity and bold speculation that continues to inspire generations of writers and thinkers seeking to understand humanity's potential.
As readers traverse through 'The Shape of Things to Come,' they encounter a multitude of interpretations relevant to their own realities. The themes of conflict and resolution, the struggle for peace, and the ethics of progress are perennially applicable, resonating with audiences across various disciplines. Whether approached through the lens of political science, philosophy, or sociology, the book offers insights into the complexities of civilization's trajectory and the imperative for conscientious engagement with the future.
The novel's exploration of societal structures prompts analysis of the systems that govern human existence, including capitalism, communism, and the welfare state. Wells challenges readers to interrogate the foundations of their beliefs and the systems they inhabit, encouraging an active role in shaping that which lies ahead. As such, the book transcends time and remains relevant in an era of social upheaval, technological shifts, and renewed discussions on equality and justice.
Ultimately, 'The Shape of Things to Come' endures as an essential work that catalyzes discussions around technology, society, and morality. Its compelling narrative serves simultaneously as a thought experiment and a prophetic vision—both a celebration of human ingenuity and a stark reminder of the perils that accompany progress. The text stands as an invitation for readers not only to imagine the future but also to take responsibility for crafting it, ensuring its continuing resonance across the ages.
In every chapter, Wells compels readers to contemplate the consequences of their choices, urging a conscious reflection on the shared future. This element of relevant warning and potential inspires new generations to engage with the timeless questions that arise from human existence. As we grapple with our present and gaze into our collective destiny, 'The Shape of Things to Come' remains an indispensable guide—a beacon of foresight that encourages us to confront our realities fully and embrace the possibilities before us.
Synopsis
In 'The Shape of Things to Come,' H.G. Wells presents a speculative vision of the future, exploring the trajectory of human civilization through the lens of social and technological evolution. The narrative unfolds against the backdrop of a society embroiled in a devastating war, showcasing how human conflicts and technological advancements shape the course of history. The story begins in the early 20th century, detailing the grim realities of warfare and the disillusionment that follows, setting the stage for the drastic changes that are about to unfold. Wells employs a mix of narrative storytelling and theoretical exposition to craft his ideas.
As the war ravages the world, society faces significant upheaval. Wells introduces a character named Dr. Philip Ravenscrofte, who becomes a beacon of hope amid chaos. He foresees a need for reconstruction, advocating for a new world order founded on science and rationality. This era of reconstruction is characterized by advancements in technology and shifts in political power, leading to the emergence of a new organized community governed by reason rather than war. The author emphasizes the potential for humanity to learn from its mistakes and build a better world.
The story progresses, showcasing the development of a utopian society that arises post-war. Wells paints a picture of a technologically advanced global civilization where governance is centralized, and conflicts are resolved through collaboration. The narrative highlights major innovations, such as flying machines and advancements in medicine, illustrating how these breakthroughs contribute to the improved quality of life. This section serves as a critique of contemporary societal structures, suggesting that dismantling outdated norms paves the way for a harmonious existence focused on the welfare of all individuals.
A pivotal turning point in the narrative occurs when contrasting ideologies clash. Wells introduces a group that opposes the new order, advocating for individual freedom and traditional values. Their resistance illustrates the struggle between progressive thought and regressive tendencies in society. Wells delves into the complexities of human nature and the difficulties in achieving consensus, demonstrating that while technological advancements propel civilization forward, deeply entrenched beliefs can hinder progress. This internal conflict serves to highlight the fragility of the utopian vision.
As the plot unfolds, the story shifts to depict the challenges faced by the new society. Wells addresses issues such as the environmental consequences of rapid industrialization and the ethical implications of scientific advancements. A growing awareness of sustainability emerges, illustrating that progress must be tempered with responsibility. Concurrently, the narrative explores the role of education as a tool for fostering a more enlightened population capable of navigating the complex moral landscape of the future. This emphasis on learning underscores the need for an informed citizenry in a thriving society.
The themes of progress and human resilience continue to resonate throughout the second half of the book. As the society evolves, Wells posits that its greatest strength lies in adaptability and unity. Historical cycles of conflict and rebuilding illustrate the potential for growth. The emergence of a new breed of leadership demonstrates a pivotal shift towards goal-oriented governance, prioritizing the collective good over individual ambitions. This encapsulates the overarching message of the text: that humanity’s fate is inexorably linked to its ability to learn from the past and innovate for the future.
Amidst the socio-political developments, Wells introduces a futuristic technological creation called the "World State," which signifies a culmination of the ideas presented throughout the narrative. This organization represents a synthesis of science and politics, aiming to eradicate war and poverty through meticulous planning and scientific reasoning. The establishment of the World State serves as a turning point that brings the various threads of the narrative together, demonstrating how far humanity has come and the high stakes involved in maintaining harmony.
Towards the conclusion, Wells reflects on the future's potential through a philosophical lens. He explores existential questions and the implications of a technologically-driven society. The narrative grapples with the balance between progress and the preservation of humanity's core values, urging readers to consider how advancements can enrich lives rather than diminish the human experience. This introspection encourages a deeper understanding of the responsibilities that come with great power and knowledge, urging society to tread carefully on its path to greatness.
Ultimately, 'The Shape of Things to Come' paints a complex picture of humanity's future, filled with both promise and peril. Wells urges that while the potential for a utopian society exists, active participation, ethical considerations, and collective governance are paramount in achieving it. The book serves as both a cautionary tale and a hopeful vision, encapsulating the dual nature of human progress. Through the lens of science fiction, Wells compels readers to reflect on their own realities and the legacy they wish to leave for future generations.
Historical Context
H. G. Wells frames his narrative as a speculative future history beginning in 1933 and extending to 2106. It opens in a world still grappling with the aftermath of the First World War—marked by fragmented politics, deep economic distress and rising nationalism. Over the following decades, a chain of regional clashes escalates into a global conflict in the early 1940s, after which a technocratic world administration takes shape. This projection of turmoil and its aftermath serves as a commentary on interwar trends, extrapolating the dangers of unchecked rivalries into far-reaching global consequences.
The account recalls the First World War (1914–1918) as a watershed event that redrew national borders, toppled empires and set the stage for both revolutionary movements and authoritarian ideologies. Writing in the early 1930s, Wells saw lingering resentments, rearmament and aggressive nationalist policies as clear warning signs of renewed hostilities. His imagined outbreak in 1940 draws on these unresolved tensions and underscores the perils of diplomatic failure.
Economic collapse also features prominently. In the wake of the 1929 downturn, mass unemployment and social unrest destabilized many nations. Wells portrays how severe economic dislocation can erode public confidence in traditional institutions and fuel extremist responses. He then describes a shift from competitive market economies toward a society organized by coordinated scientific planning—presented as the only viable route to recovery after capitalist crises.
Authoritarian rule emerges repeatedly in the narrative as a product of social chaos. Reflecting on the rise of Mussolini’s Italy and Hitler’s Germany, Wells warns that weak democratic structures and uninformed electorates can enable demagogues. His cautionary episodes illustrate how centralized power may promise order but often leads to oppression and, ultimately, wider conflict.
At the same time, he engages critically with socialist models such as those seen in the Soviet Union. While skeptical of one-party dominance, he adopts the idea of large-scale economic planning as part of his vision for a global commonwealth. The proposed world administration blends elements of centralized coordination with an emphasis on scientific expertise and broad international cooperation.
Technological progress underpins much of this future world. Inspired by rapid developments in transport, communication and industry during the interwar years, Wells extrapolates innovations that reshape societies: advanced air travel unites distant regions; new methods of information transmission facilitate governance; and automated production undergirds social welfare systems. Yet he also warns of disruption when technology outpaces political and ethical frameworks.
The work contrasts the League of Nations—established in 1920 to prevent future wars—with a more empowered global federation. Drawing lessons from the League’s inability to enforce its resolutions, Wells proposes a supranational authority capable of maintaining peace through collective security, scientific administration and mutual economic interdependence.
In the chapter depicting World War IV (1940–45 in his timeline), he portrays devastating aerial bombardments and resource blockades that exhaust belligerents. The eventual collapse of warring states paves the way for the technocratic regime, underscoring his belief that extreme crisis may force humanity to adopt entirely new political structures.
Public health also features in his foresight. Recalling the 1918 influenza pandemic, he imagines future societies combating emergent diseases through coordinated research, mass vaccination and centralized health policies. This scientific approach to medicine is portrayed as essential to both individual well-being and social stability.
Aviation’s evolution from military application to civilian lifeline is another theme. Wells envisions a world where air routes link governances, enable rapid relief efforts and support global commerce—an extension of the interwar breakthroughs in flight technology.
Colonial empires, still dominant in the early 20th century, gradually give way in his scenario to equal partnerships within a unified world community. He argues that lasting peace requires dismantling exploitative systems and integrating former colonies into a single global polity based on shared resources and mutual respect.
Religious institutions, while acknowledged for their moral influence, are depicted as adapting toward a secular humanist ethos. Traditional dogmas yield to a universal moral code grounded in reason and social solidarity, reflecting the author’s own belief in science and education as guides to ethical progress.
Labor and class tensions are addressed through systemic reforms: collective bargaining evolves into participatory economic councils, and wealth disparities narrow under scientifically managed production. Wells portrays this as a resolution of early 20th-century struggles for workers’ rights.
Media and propaganda receive scrutiny as well. The proliferation of newspapers, radio and film in his time is extended into a sophisticated information network that can both enlighten and manipulate. He cautions that only transparent, education-focused communication safeguards democratic oversight in any technologically advanced society.
Finally, the changing status of women—spurred by suffrage movements and wartime roles—is projected into a future of greater gender equality. Wells depicts women as full participants in governance, science and industry, arguing that inclusive societies are more resilient and innovative.
Throughout this future history, Wells critiques nationalism, militarism and unchecked capitalism while exploring the promise and pitfalls of socialism, technocracy and global federation. By juxtaposing humanity’s capacity for self-destruction with its potential for rational cooperation, he issues a timeless appeal for informed, science-based governance and enduring international solidarity.
Author Biography
Introduction
H. G. Wells (Herbert George Wells) was an English writer whose work bridged late Victorian society and the tumult of the twentieth century. Best known for pioneering modern science fiction through novels such as The Time Machine, The Island of Doctor Moreau, The Invisible Man, and The War of the Worlds, he also produced influential social novels, essays, and histories. An acute observer of science, class, and politics, Wells combined narrative invention with analytical foresight, making him one of the era's most widely read public intellectuals. His ideas about time travel, alien invasion, and utopian planning reshaped popular imagination and continue to inform literature, film, and cultural debate.
Education and Literary Influences
Wells's formal education was uneven but transformative. After early apprenticeships and work as a pupil-teacher, he won a scholarship to the Normal School of Science in South Kensington, where he studied biology under Thomas Henry Huxley. Huxley's rigorous method and commitment to evolutionary thinking left a lasting impression. Financial pressures interrupted his studies, yet through sustained effort and external examinations he secured a science qualification by the early 1890s. Teaching posts and journalism followed, giving him practical grounding in exposition and argument. This blend of scientific training and pedagogical discipline shaped the clarity and didactic edge that would characterize his fiction and essays.
The intellectual atmosphere that formed Wells was steeped in Darwinian evolution, secular humanism, and late nineteenth-century debates about social reform. Huxley's defense of scientific naturalism provided a model for evidence-based inquiry. Utopian and speculative traditions also mattered: writers like Edward Bellamy suggested how imagined futures could interrogate the present, a strategy Wells would refine in A Modern Utopia and his scientific romances. He read widely in history and sociology, absorbing arguments about industrialization, urban life, and class. These sources helped him see fiction as a laboratory for ideas, where narrative experiment could test ethical limits, technological possibilities, and social arrangements.
Literary Career
Wells began as a schoolmaster and freelance journalist, crafting articles and short stories to support himself while honing a crisp, explanatory prose. His breakthrough came when The Time Machine introduced readers to a traveler confronting humanity's distant evolutionary fate. Combining scientific speculation with social allegory, the novel's success established the template for what he called scientific romances. Wells's early mastery of clear exposition, compact plotting, and provocative ideas made his fiction accessible to general audiences while inviting critical discussion. The book's reception turned him into a public figure, opening doors to publishers, lectures, and a stream of ambitious projects across genres.
In rapid succession, Wells published The Island of Doctor Moreau, The Invisible Man, and The War of the Worlds. Each explored unsettling implications of modern science: vivisection and moral responsibility, the intoxication and isolation of unchecked power, and the vulnerability of civilization before superior technology. He introduced durable tropes - monstrous hybrids, unseen menace, and extraterrestrial invasion - using journalistic realism to amplify plausibility. Reviewers were divided between admiration and alarm, yet the public read him eagerly. These novels secured his international reputation, and their images - tripods striding over cities, a bandaged figure fading from sight - became fixtures of global popular culture.
Beyond the celebrated quartet, Wells extended his speculative range with The First Men in the Moon, When the Sleeper Wakes, The Food of the Gods, and The War in the Air. He was equally adept at short fiction, as seen in tales like The Country of the Blind and the collections The Stolen Bacillus and Other Incidents and Tales of Space and Time. His narratives balanced wonder with caution, often turning spectacular premises into critiques of complacency or technological hubris. The precision of his scientific premises, though sometimes swiftly outdated, created a persuasive framework for ethical and social inquiry.
By the early twentieth century, Wells shifted emphasis toward contemporary life, producing social and comic novels including Kipps, Tono-Bungay, Ann Veronica, and The History of Mr. Polly. These books examined class mobility, education, gender roles, and the pressures of late Edwardian society. Ann Veronica, in particular, provoked controversy for its frank treatment of a young woman's independence. Critics praised Wells's energy, dialogue, and observational acuity, though some lamented a didactic streak. The breadth of his output allowed him to address readers who might never open a scientific romance, reinforcing his significance as a chronicler of modernity in multiple registers.
Wells's non-fiction consolidated his standing as a public thinker. In Anticipations and A Modern Utopia he proposed systemic planning guided by science. The Outline of History, a sweeping general history, reached a worldwide audience and demonstrated his pedagogical ambition. During the First World War he wrote Mr. Britling Sees It Through, capturing the shock and disillusionment of the conflict. The World Set Free explored atomic energy's destructive potential, while The Shape of Things to Come imagined technocratic reconstruction and led to the film Things to Come, for which he supplied the scenario. He sustained a prolific essayistic output on education, society, and the future.
Beliefs and Advocacy
Wells identified with socialism and associated, at times, with the Fabian Society, though he often pressed for more urgent, expansive reform than its leadership preferred. He argued for a rationally organized "world state," international cooperation, and the democratization of knowledge. Works such as The Open Conspiracy, A Modern Utopia, and World Brain proposed coordinated planning and a global intellectual commons. He championed broad educational access and attacked rigid class barriers, positions reflected in novels about aspiration and frustration. His journalism, lectures, and public debates positioned him as a forthright critic of militarism and economic privilege, insisting that policy be informed by science.
Committed to individual freedom, Wells addressed civil liberties and women's rights, themes evident in Ann Veronica and other works. He criticized aspects of imperialism and warned about nationalist fervor. Like many contemporaries, he engaged with eugenic ideas, an aspect of his outlook now widely repudiated; even so, his later emphasis on human rights, notably in The Rights of Man, underscored a humanitarian turn during the crises of the 1930s and 1940s. He also supported public health initiatives and, after developing diabetes, helped found what became the British Diabetic Association in the mid-1930s, advocating for patient education and consistent standards of care.
Final Years & Legacy
In his later decades, Wells balanced sweeping syntheses with anxious assessments of a violent century. Experiment in Autobiography surveyed his life and methods; World Brain promoted reference networks to elevate global understanding; The Rights of Man and The New World Order pleaded for international norms; and Mind at the End of Its Tether reflected wartime despair. He collaborated with filmmakers, most notably on Things to Come. Despite declining health, he remained intellectually active through the Second World War. He died in the mid-1940s in London, and obituaries emphasized both the prophetic reach of his imagination and his force as a social critic.
Wells's legacy is vast. He helped define science fiction's vocabulary - time travel paradoxes, invisibility's moral calculus, alien invasion as mirror of empire - while advancing the social novel and accessible popular history. His ideas influenced later writers and thinkers, including George Orwell, Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, and John Wyndham. The War of the Worlds inspired notable adaptations, among them the 1938 radio broadcast by Orson Welles, which demonstrated the cultural power of speculative scenarios. Beyond entertainment, his advocacy for internationalism and knowledge-sharing continues to resonate. Today, Wells stands as a canonical figure whose narratives and arguments remain central to debates about technology and society.
The Shape of Things To Come (Science Fiction Classic)
Introduction The Dream Book of Dr. Philip Raven
The unexpected death of Dr. Philip Raven at Geneva in November 1930 was a very grave loss to the League of Nations[1] Secretariat. Geneva lost a familiar figure — the long bent back, the halting gait, the head quizzically on one side — and the world lost a stimulatingly aggressive mind. His incessant devoted work, his extraordinary mental vigour, were, as his obituary notices testified, appreciated very highly by a world-wide following of distinguished and capable admirers. The general public was suddenly made aware of him.
It is rare that anyone outside the conventional areas of newspaper publicity produces so great a stir by dying; there were accounts of him in nearly every paper of importance from Oslo to New Zealand and from Buenos Aires to Japan — and the brief but admirable memoir by Sir Godfrey Cliffe gave the general reader a picture of an exceptionally simple, direct, devoted and energetic personality. There seems to have been only two extremely dissimilar photographs available for publication: an early one in which he looks like a blend of Shelley and Mr. Maxton, and a later one, a snapshot, in which he leans askew on his stick and talks to Lord Parmoor in the entrance hall of the Assembly. One of his lank hands is held out in a characteristic illustrative gesture.
Incessantly laborious though he was, he could nevertheless find time to assist in, share and master all the broader problems that exercised his colleagues, and now they rushed forward with their gratitude. One noticeable thing in that posthumous eruption of publicity was the frequent acknowledgments of his aid and advice. Men were eager to testify to his importance and resentful at the public ignorance of his work. Three memorial volumes of his more important papers, reports, memoranda and addresses were arranged for and are still in course of publication.
Personally, although I was asked to do so in several quarters, and though I was known to have had the honour of his friendship, I made no contribution to that obituary chorus. My standing in the academic world did not justify my writing him a testimonial, but under normal circumstances that would not have deterred me from an attempt to sketch something of his odd personal ease and charm. I did not do so, however, because I found myself in a position of extraordinary embarrassment. His death was so unforeseen that we had embarked upon a very peculiar joint undertaking without making the slightest provision for that risk. It is only now after an interval of nearly three years, and after some very difficult discussions with his more intimate friends, that I have decided to publish the facts and the substance of this peculiar cooperation of ours.
It concerns the matter of this present book. All this time I have been holding back a manuscript, or rather a collection of papers and writings, entrusted to me. It is a collection about which, I think, a considerable amount of hesitation was, and perhaps is still, justifiable. It is, or at least it professes to be, a Short History of the World for about the next century and a half. (I can quite understand that the reader will rub his eyes at these words and suspect the printer of some sort of agraphia.) But that is exactly what this manuscript is. It is a Short History of the Future. It is a modern Sibylline book[2]. Only now that the events of three years have more than justified everything stated in this anticipatory history have I had the courage to associate the reputation of my friend with the incredible claims of this work, and to find a publisher for it.
Let me tell very briefly what I know of its origin and how it came into my hands. I made the acquaintance of Dr. Raven, or to be more precise, he made mine, in the closing year of the war. It was before he left Whitehall for Geneva. He was always an eager amateur of ideas, and he had been attracted by some suggestions about money I had made in a scrappy little book of forecasts called What is Coming? published in 1916. In this I had thrown out the suggestion that the waste of resources in the war, combined with the accumulation of debts that had been going on, would certainly leave the world as a whole bankrupt, that is to say it would leave the creditor class in a position to strangle the world, and that the only method to clear up this world bankruptcy and begin again on a hopeful basis would be to scale down all debts impartially, by a reduction of the amount of gold in the pound sterling and proportionally in the dollar and all other currencies based on gold. It seemed to me then an obvious necessity. It was, I recognize now, a crude idea — evidently I had not even got away from the idea of intrinsically valuable money — but none of us in those days had had the educational benefit of the monetary and credit convulsions that followed the Peace of Versailles. We were without experience, it wasn’t popular to think about money, and at best we thought like precocious children. Seventeen years later this idea of appreciating gold is accepted as an obvious suggestion by quite a number of people. Then it was received merely as the amateurish comment of an ignorant writer upon what was still regarded as the mysterious business of “monetary experts.” But it attracted the attention of Raven, who came along to talk over that and one or two other post-war possibilities I had started, and so he made my acquaintance.
Raven was as free from intellectual pompousness as William James; as candidly receptive to candid thinking. He could talk about his subject to an artist or a journalist; he would have talked to an errand boy if he thought he would get a fresh slant in that way. “Obvious” was the word he brought with him. “The thing, my dear fellow” — he called me my dear fellow in the first five minutes — “is so obvious that everybody will be too clever to consider it for a moment. Until it is belated. It is impossible to persuade anybody responsible that there is going to be a tremendous financial and monetary mix-up [1q]after this war. The victors will exact vindictive penalties and the losers of course will undertake to pay, but none of them realizes that money is going to do the most extraordinary things to them when they begin upon that. What they are going to do to each other is what occupies them, and what money is going to do to the whole lot of them is nobody’s affair.”
I can still see him as he said that in his high-pitched remonstrating voice. I will confess that for perhaps our first half-hour, until I was accustomed to his flavour, I did not like him. He was too full, too sure, too rapid and altogether too vivid for my slower Anglo-Saxon make-up. I did not like the evident preparation of his talk, nor the fact that he assisted it by the most extraordinary gestures. He would not sit down; he limped about my room, peering at books and pictures while he talked in his cracked forced voice, and waving those long lean hands of his about almost as if he was swimming through his subject. I have compared him to Maxton plus Shelley, rather older, but at the first outset I was reminded of Svengali in Du Maurier’s once popular Trilby. A shaven Svengali. I felt he was FOREIGN, and my instincts about foreigners are as insular as my principles are cosmopolitan. It always seemed to me a little irreconcilable that he was a Balliol scholar, and had been one of the brightest ornaments of our Foreign Office staff before he went to Geneva.
At bottom I suppose much of our essential English shyness is an exaggerated wariness. We suspect the other fellow of our own moral subtleties. We restrain ourselves often to the point of insincerity. I am a rash man with a pen perhaps, but I am as circumspect and evasive as any other of my fellow countrymen when it comes to social intercourse. I found something almost indelicate in Raven’s direct attack upon my ideas.
He wanted to talk about my ideas beyond question. But at least equally he wanted to talk about his own. I had more than a suspicion that he had, in fact, come to me in order to talk to himself and hear how it sounded — against me as a sounding-board.
He called me then a Dealer in the Obvious, and he repeated that not very flattering phrase on various occasions when we met. “You have,” he said, “defects that are almost gifts: a rapid but inexact memory for particulars, a quick grasp of proportions, and no patience with detail. You hurry on to wholes. How men of affairs must hate you — if and when they hear of you! They must think you an awful mug, you know — and yet you get there! Complications are their life. YOU try to get all these complications out of the way. You are a stripper, a damned impatient stripper. I would be a stripper too if I hadn’t the sort of job I have to do. But it is really extraordinarily refreshing to spend these occasional hours, stripping events in your company.”
The reader must forgive my egotism in quoting these comments upon myself; they are necessary if my relations with Raven are to be made clear and if the spirit of this book is to be understood.
I was, in fact, an outlet for a definite mental exuberance of his which it had hitherto distressed him to suppress. In my presence he could throw off Balliol and the Foreign Office — or, later on, the Secretariat — and let himself go. He could become the Eastern European Cosmopolitan he was by nature and descent. I became, as it were, an imaginative boon companion for him, his disreputable friend, a sort of intelligent butt, his Watson. I got to like the relationship. I got used to his physical exoticism, his gestures. I sympathized more and more with his irritation and distress as the Conference at Versailles unfolded. My instinctive racial distrust faded before the glowing intensity of his intellectual curiosity. We found we supplemented each other. I had a ready unclouded imagination and he had knowledge. We would go on the speculative spree together.
Among other gifted and original friends who, at all too rare intervals, honour me by coming along for a gossip, is Mr. J. W. Dunne, who years ago invented one of the earliest and most “different” of aeroplanes, and who has since done a very considerable amount of subtle thinking upon the relationship of time and space to consciousness. Dunne clings to the idea that in certain ways we may anticipate the future, and he has adduced a series of very remarkable observations indeed to support that in his well-known Experiment with Time. That book was published in 1927, and I found it so attractive and stimulating that I wrote about it in one or two articles that were syndicated very extensively throughout the world. It was so excitingly fresh.
And among others who saw my account of this Experiment with Time, and who got the book and read it and then wrote to me about it, was Raven. Usually his communications to me were the briefest of notes, saying he would be in London, telling me of a change of address, asking about my movements, and so forth; but this was quite a long letter. Experiences such as Dunne’s, he said, were no novelty to him. He could add a lot to what was told in the book, and indeed he could EXTEND the experience. The thing anticipated between sleeping and waking — Dunne’s experiments dealt chiefly with the premonitions in the dozing moment between wakefulness and oblivion — need not be just small affairs of tomorrow or next week; they could have a longer range. If, that is, you had the habit of long-range thinking. But these were days when scepticism had to present a hard face to greedy superstition, and it was one’s public duty to refrain from rash statements about these flimsy intimations, difficult as they were to distinguish from fantasies — except in one’s own mind. One might sacrifice a lot of influence if one betrayed too lively an interest in this sort of thing.
He wandered off into such sage generalizations and concluded abruptly. The letter had an effect of starting out to tell much more than he did.
Then he turned up in London, dropped into my study unexpectedly and made a clean breast of it.
“This Dunne business,” he began.
“Well?” said I.
“He has a way of snatching the fleeting dream between unconscious sleep and waking.”
“Yes.”
“He keeps a notebook by his bedside and writes down his dream the very instant he is awake.”
“That’s the procedure.”
“And he finds that a certain percentage of his dream items are — sometimes quite plainly — anticipations of things that will come into his mind out of reality, days, weeks, and even years ahead.”
“That’s Dunne.”
“It’s nothing.”
“But how — nothing?”
“Nothing to what I have been doing for a long time.”
“And that is —?”
He stared at the backs of my books. It was amusing to find Raven for once at a loss for words.
“Well?” I said.
He turned and looked at me with a reluctant expression that broke into a smile. Then he seemed to rally his candour.
“How shall I put it? I wouldn’t tell anyone but you. For some years, off and on — between sleeping and waking — I’ve been — in effect — reading a book. A non-existent book. A dream book if you like. It’s always the same book. Always. And it’s a history.”
“Of the past?”
“There’s a lot about the past. With all sorts of things I didn’t know and all sorts of gaps filled in. Extraordinary things about North India and Central Asia, for instance. And also — it goes on. It’s going on. It keeps on going on.”
“Going on?”
“Right past the present time.”
“Sailing away into the future?”
“Yes.”
“Is it — is it a PAPER book?”
“Not quite paper. Rather like that newspaper of your friend Brownlow. Not quite print as we know it. Vivid maps. And quite easy to read, in spite of the queer letters and spelling.”
He paused. “I know it’s nonsense.”
He added. “It’s frightfully real.”
“Do you turn the pages?”
He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t turn the pages. That would wake me up.”
“It just goes on?”
“Yes.”
“Until you realize you are doing it?”
“I suppose — yes, it is like that.”
“And then you wake up?”
“Exactly. And it isn’t there!”
“And you are always READING?”
“Generally — very definitely.”
“But at times?”
“Oh — just the same as reading a book when one is awake. If the matter is vivid one SEES the events. As if one was looking at a moving picture on the page.”
“But the book is still there?”
“Yes — always. I think it’s there always.”
“Do you by any chance make notes?”
“I didn’t at first. Now I do.”
“At once?”
“I write a kind of shorthand. ... Do you know — I’ve piles of notes THAT high.”
He straddled my fireplace and stared at me.
“Now you’ve told me,” I said.
“Now I’ve told you.”
“Illegible, my dear sir — except to me. You don’t know my shorthand. I can hardly read it myself after a week or so. But lately I’ve been writing it out — some I’ve dictated.
“You see,” he went on, standing up and walking about my room, “if it’s — a reality, it’s the most important thing in the world. And I haven’t an atom of proof. Not an atom. Do you —? Do you believe this sort of thing is possible?”
“POSSIBLE?” I considered. “I’m inclined to think I do. Though what exactly this kind of thing may be, I don’t know.”
“I can’t tell anyone but you. How could I? Naturally they would say I had gone cranky — or that I was an impostor. You know the sort of row. Look at Oliver Lodge. Look at Charles Richet. It would smash my work, my position. And yet, you know, it’s such credible stuff. ... I tell you I believe in it.”
“If you wrote some of it out. If I could see some of it.”
“You shall.”
He seemed to be consulting my opinion. “The worst thing against it is that I always believe in what the fellow says. That’s rather as though it was ME, eh?”
He did not send me any of his notes, but when next I met him, it was at Berne, he gave me a spring-backed folder filled with papers. Afterwards he gave me two others. Pencilled sheets they were mostly, but some were evidently written at his desk in ink and perhaps fifty pages had been typed, probably from his dictation. He asked me to take great care of them, to read them carefully, have typed copies made and return a set to him. The whole thing was to be kept as a secret between us. We were both to think over the advisability of a possibly anonymous publication. And meanwhile events might either confirm or explode various statements made in this history and so set a definite value, one way or the other, upon its authenticity.
Then he died.
He died quite unexpectedly as the result of a sudden operation. Some dislocation connected with his marked spinal curvature had developed abruptly into an acute crisis.
As soon as I heard of his death I hurried off to Geneva and told the story of the dream book to his heir and executor, Mr. Montefiore Renaud. I am greatly indebted to that gentleman for his courtesy and quick understanding of the situation. He was at great pains to get every possible scrap of material together and to place it all at my disposal. In addition to the three folders Raven had already given me there were a further folder in longhand and a drawerful of papers in his peculiar shorthand evidently dealing with this History. The fourth folder contained the material which forms the concluding book of this present work. The shorthand notes, of which even the pages were not numbered, have supplied the material for the penultimate book, which has had to be a compilation of my own. Generally, Raven seems to have scribbled down his impressions of the dream book as soon as he could, before the memory faded, and as he intended to recopy it all himself he had no consideration for any prospective reader. This material was just for his own use. It is a mixture of very cursive (and inaccurate) shorthand, and for proper names and so forth, longhand. Punctuation is indicated by gaps, and often a single word stands for a whole sentence and even a paragraph. About a third of the shorthand stuff was already represented by longhand or typescript copy in the folders. That was my Rosetta Stone. If it were not for the indications conveyed by that I do not think it would have been possible to decipher any of the remainder. As it is, I found it impossible to make a flowing narrative, altogether of a piece with the opening and closing parts of this history. Some passages came out fairly clear and then would come confusion and obscurity. I have transcribed what I could and written-up the intervals when transcription was hopeless. I think I have made a comprehensible story altogether of the course of events during the struggles and changes in world government that went on between 1980 and 2059, at which date the Air Dictatorship, properly so called, gave place to that world-wide Modern State which was still flourishing when the history was published. The reader will find large gaps, or rather he will find large abbreviations, in that portion, but none that leave the main lines of the history of world consolidation in doubt.
And now let me say a word or so more about the real value of this queer “Outline of the Future”.
Certain minor considerations weigh against the idea that this history that follows is merely the imaginative dreaming of a brilliant publicist. I put them before the reader, but I will not press them. First of all this history has now received a certain amount of confirmation. The latest part of the MS. dates from September 20th, 1930, and much of it is earlier. And yet it alludes explicitly to the death of Ivar Kreuger a year later, to the tragic kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby, which happened in the spring of 1932, to the Mollison world flights of the same year, to the American debt discussions in December 1932, to the Hitlerite régime in Germany, and Japanese invasion of China proper in 1933, the election of President Roosevelt II and the World Economic Conference in London. These anticipations in detail I find a little difficult to explain away. I do not think that they are of such a nature that they could have been foretold. They are not events that were deducible from any preceding situation. How could Raven have known about them in 1930?
And another thing that troubles me much more than it will trouble the reader is the fact that there was no reason at all why Raven should have attempted a mystification upon me. There was no reason on earth or heaven why he should have lied about the way in which this material came to him and he wrote it down.
If it were not for these considerations, I think I should be quite prepared to fall in with what will no doubt be the general opinion, that the writing of this History was deliberately chosen by Raven as an imaginative outlet. That it is indeed a work of fiction by a late member of the Geneva Secretariat with unusual opportunities for forming judgments upon the trend of things. Or, let us say, a conditional prophecy in the Hebrew manner produced in a quasi-inspired mood. The style in which it is written is recognizably Raven’s style, and there are few of those differences in vocabulary and locutions that one might reasonably expect in our language a hundred and seventy odd years from now. On the other hand, the attitude revealed is entirely inconsistent with Raven’s fully conscious public utterances. The idiom of thought at least is not his, whatever the idiom of expression. Either his marginal vision transcended his waking convictions or we have here a clear case of suppressions making their way to the surface. Is that what history is going to be?
I must admit that at first, while I was still under the impression that the whole thing was a speculative exercise, I was tempted to annotate Raven’s text rather extensively. I wanted to take a hand in the game. In fact I did some months’ work upon it. Until my notes were becoming more bulky than his history. But when I revised them I came to the conclusion that many of them were fussy obtrusions and very few of them likely to be really helpful to an intelligent and well-informed contemporary reader. The more attracted he was by the book, the more likely he was to make his observations for himself; the less he appreciated it, the less he was likely to appreciate a superincumbent mass of elucidation. My notes might have proved as annoying as the pencillings one finds at times in public library books to-day. If the history is merely a speculative history, even then they would have been impertinent; if there is anything more in it than speculation, then they would be a very grave impertinence indeed. In the end I scrapped the entire accumulation.
But I have had also to arrange these chapters in order, and that much intervention was unavoidable and must remain. I have had indeed to arrange and rearrange them after several trials, because they do not seem to have been read and written down by Raven in their proper chronological sequence. I have smoothed out the transitions. Later on I hope to publish a special edition of Raven’s notes exactly as he left them.
We begin here with what is evidently the opening of a fresh book in the history, though it was not actually the first paper in the folders handed to me. It reviews very conveniently the course of worldly events in recent years, and it does so in what is, to me, a novel and very persuasive way. It analyses the main factors of the great war from a new angle. From that review the story of the “Age of Frustration”, in the opening years of which we are now living, flows on in a fairly consecutive fashion. Apart from this introduction the period covered by the actual narrative is roughly from about 1929 A.D. to the end of the year 2105. The last recorded event is on New Year’s Day 2106; there is a passing mention of the levelling of the remaining “skeletons” of the famous “Skyscrapers” of Lower New York on that date. The printing and publication probably occurred early in the new year; occurred — or should I write “will occur”?
H. G. W.
Book the First Today and Tomorrow: The Age of Frustration Dawns
1. A Chronological Note
In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries the story of mankind upon this planet undergoes a change of phase. It broadens out. It unifies. It ceases to be a tangle of more and more interrelated histories and it becomes plainly and consciously one history. There is a complete confluence of racial, social and political destinies. With that a vision of previously unsuspected possibilities opens to the human imagination. And that vision brings with it an immense readjustment of ideas.
The first phase of that readjustment is necessarily destructive. The conceptions of life and obligation that have served and satisfied even the most vigorous and intelligent personalities hitherto, conceptions that were naturally partial, sectarian and limited, begin to lose, decade by decade, their credibility and their directive force. They fade, they become attenuated. It is an age of increasing mental uneasiness, of forced beliefs, hypocrisy, cynicism, abandon and impatience. What has been hitherto a final and impenetrable background of conviction in the rightness of the methods of behaviour characteristic of the national or local culture of each individual, becomes, as it were, a dissolving and ragged curtain. Behind it appear, vague and dim at first, and refracted and distorted by the slow dissolution of the traditional veils, the intimations of the type of behaviour necessary to that single world community in which we live to-day.
Until the Chronological Institute[3] has completed its present labours of revision and defined the cardinal dates in our social evolution, it is best to refer our account of the development of man’s mind and will throughout this hectic period of human experience to the clumsy and irrelevant computation by centuries before and after the Christian Era, that is still current. As we have explained more fully in a previous book, we inherit this system of historical pigeonholes from Christendom; that arbitrary chequerwork of hundred-year blocks was imposed upon the entire Mediterranean and Atlantic literatures for two thousand years, and it still distorts the views of history of all but the alertest minds. The young student needs to be constantly on his guard against its false divisions. As Peter Lightfoot has remarked, we talk of the “eighteenth century”, and we think of fashions and customs and attitudes that are characteristic of a period extending from the Treaty of Westphalia in C.E. [Christian Era] 1642 to the Napoleonic collapse in C.E. 1815; we talk of the “nineteenth century”, and the pictures and images evoked are those of the gas-lighting and steam-transport era, from after the distressful years of post-Napoleonic recovery to the immense shock of the World War in C.E. 1914. The phase “twentieth century”, again, calls forth images of the aeroplane, the electrification of the world and so forth; but an aeroplane was an extremely rare object in the air until 1914 (the first got up in 1905), and the replacement of the last steam railway train and the last steamship was not completed until the nineteen-forties. It is a tiresome waste of energy to oblige each generation of young minds to learn first of all in any unmeaning pattern of centuries and then to correct that first crude arrangement, so that this long-needed revision of our chronology is one that will be very welcome to every teacher. Then from the very outset he or she will be able to block out the story of our race in significant masses.
