ANIMAL FARM

Author: George Orwell
Year: 1962 (1945)
Publisher: Penguin Books
Language: English

Let’s not complicate things: “Animal Farm” is simple. It is by all standards a straightforward and easy novel to understand, with little to no hidden meaning or subtext to explore. George Orwell, its author, does not cloak his ideas in dense symbolism or ambiguous allegory; rather, he presents a transparent political fable whose parallels to historical events and figures are direct, intentional, and unmistakable. On the nose, one might even be tempted to say. Yet this accessibility is a defining feature of the text. Orwell’s purpose is not to invite endless interpretive speculation but to instruct, warn, and criticise through clarity. As a journalist, he wants to help you understand; not challenge you to dig through layer upon layer of obscure symbolism.

The novel recounts the rebellion of farm animals against their human owner, Mr. Jones, after they are inspired by the ideals of equality and collective ownership articulated by the aging hog Old Major. Following a successful uprising, the animals establish a new society based on shared labour and common benefit. However, a group of pigs gradually assume leadership roles, consolidating power over the other animals and altering the farm’s guiding principles to serve their own interests. Over time, the revolutionary ideals erode entirely, culminating in a regime that is indistinguishable from, and arguably worse than, the human tyranny it replaced. The simplicity of this plot mirrors the simplicity of the historical trajectory Orwell critiques: the rise, corruption, and betrayal of revolutionary movements.

The characters all correspond to historical persons or events.

Old Major, who represents Karl Marx, functions primarily as an ideological catalyst rather than an active participant in events. Like Marx, Major articulates a theoretical vision of liberation rooted in equality and collective struggle, but he does not live to see how his ideas are implemented, or indeed distorted. His speech lays out the moral foundation of the rebellion, yet its vagueness leaves ample room for manipulation. Orwell suggests that abstract theory, when detached from practical safeguards, is vulnerable to appropriation by those seeking power rather than justice.

Mr. Jones embodies negligent and decaying authority and is based on Tsar Nicholas II. He is neither competent nor particularly malicious; instead, his downfall results from indifference and failure to recognise the needs of those he governs. Orwell portrays Jones not as a uniquely evil ruler but as a dysfunctional one, whose removal seems inevitable.

Napoleon’s role as Joseph Stalin is one of the novel’s most overt parallels. Napoleon is defined by his brutality, secrecy, and obsession with control. He does not persuade through reason or charisma but rules through fear, violence, and the systematic elimination of rivals. Orwell’s portrayal emphasizes the transformation of revolutionary leadership into authoritarian dictatorship, underscoring how power, once centralised, tends to perpetuate itself regardless of ideological justification.

Moses, representing the Church, occupies a marginal yet symbolically important position. His tales of Sugarcandy Mountain provide comfort and distraction, offering spiritual consolation that discourages resistance. Orwell presents religion not as an active oppressor but as a tool tolerated or suppressed depending on its usefulness to those in power. In practice it serves to pacify suffering rather than alleviating it.

Mr. Frederick of Pinchfield, symbolising Nazi Germany, is characterised by aggression, deceit, and opportunism. His eventual betrayal of Napoleon highlights the fragility of alliances formed purely on convenience. In contrast, Mr. Pilkington of Foxwood, representing the British government, is portrayed as complacent, self-interested, and ultimately accommodating. Orwell suggests that external powers are less concerned with justice than with stability and self-preservation.

Boxer, the embodiment of the uneducated and naïve working class, is the novel’s most tragic figure. His unwavering loyalty, physical strength, and simplistic maxims, render him indispensable yet disposable. Orwell’s treatment of Boxer illustrates how exploitation thrives not only through cruelty but through misplaced trust and lack of critical awareness.

Squealer, the propagandist, is perhaps Orwell’s most scathing creation. He embodies the machinery of misinformation, manipulation, and rhetorical deceit that sustains tyranny. Squealer’s power lies not in strength or intelligence but in his frantic eagerness to serve authority. He is weak, subservient, and hysterically devoted to justifying every abuse committed by his masters. Orwell’s contempt for such figures is palpable. Mouthpieces like Squealer thrive not because they believe in truth, but because they crave proximity to power. Their worthlessness is masked by their utility, and their moral emptiness by their loud orations.

Snowball’s function as a representation of Leon Trotsky is one of “Animal Farm’s” most historically interesting parallels. Like Trotsky, Snowball is an intellectual architect of the revolution, distinguished by energy, eloquence, and a genuine commitment to improving collective life. Trotsky played a central role in the Bolshevik Revolution and later organised the Red Army. Similarly, Snowball is instrumental in defending Animal Farm and shaping its early policies. His emphasis on education, committees, and long-term planning reflects Trotsky’s belief in modernisation and ideological development.

The windmill project closely mirrors Trotsky’s advocacy of rapid industrialisation and technological progress. Snowball envisions a future in which labour is reduced and productivity increased, while Napoleon dismisses such ideas in favour of consolidating personal power. This ideological divide echoes Trotsky’s conflict with Stalin, whose rise depended less on visions than on control and violence.

In sum, “Animal Farm” achieves its enduring impact precisely because of its clarity. Orwell strips political catastrophe of complexity to reveal its recurring patterns, making the novel not a cryptic allegory but an unmistakable warning which rightfully occupies its unquestionable position in any Wester school curriculum. One may only hope, that the ears of future generations do not grow deaf to its message. Authoritarianism, after all, does not thrive among the wicked as much as among the ignorant.

Special shoutout to Paul Hogarth for the evocative cover art. 

HERTHA

Author: Fredrika Bremer
Year: 2020 (1856)
Publisher: Svenska Vitterhetssamfundet
Language: Swedish 

Anybody who has cared to ask, should know that I am not an undivided supporter of literary canon. No matter how you slice it, it will be exclusive and narrow, or if you make it more comprehensive, it is soon rendered meaningless. And yet, I hereby submit, contradictory as it may be, that every resident of Haninge municipality where Fredrika Bremer’s residence Årsta Castle is located, ought to read at least one of her works; and in particular her most famous one “Hertha” from 1856.

“Hertha” is often celebrated as a foundational text in the Swedish women’s rights movement. The story follows Hertha, a young woman trapped by her father’s authority and by laws that deny her legal independence, education, and meaningful work. Under the 1734 Civil Code, unmarried women in Sweden were treated as perpetual minors under the guardianship of male relatives, limiting their legal capacity to work, own property, or make decisions about their own lives. Unlike her peers, who are more concerned about getting married and avoiding scandals, Hertha finds it impossible to accept her fate. She demands change; not only for herself, but for all women in King Oskar I’s dual monarchy.

Beneath the most obvious romantic and dramatic narrative, “Hertha” is, however, a sophisticated political treatise*, only thinly disguised as fiction. Through her protagonist and key supporting characters such as Yngve and Rudolph, Bremer crafts a forceful critique of the social and legal structures that limited women’s autonomy in mid-19th century Sweden, while simultaneously offering a vision for reform that is both rational and morally sound.

A critical figure in amplifying this argument is Yngve whose role is central in demonstrating Bremer’s vision of a society in which men support women’s rights. Yngve is not portrayed as a revolutionary, nor as a mere romantic interest. He is a morally and intellectually engaged participant in the broader social debate. His respect for Hertha’s autonomy illustrates an essential point: men’s support of women’s rights is not a threat to their masculinity, authority, or social power. On the contrary, Yngve embodies the idea that enlightened men have a vested interest in promoting justice and equity. By affirming Hertha’s agency and moral insight, he models how a man can act as an ally without diminishing his own stature or influence.

What makes Hertha particularly convincing is her insistence on constructive change rather than simple rebellion. The way the societies in Sweden and other Nordic countries were transformed in the 20^th century by social reforms, contrasted many other at the time by their emphasis on peaceful and gradual transformation, rather than radical and violent revolutions (see review of “What is Social Democracy” from November 2025). Fredrika Bremer foreshadows that ambition in her writing and holds it up as a preferred vehicle for lasting change. Hertha’s struggle is framed not in terms of personal vengeance or overturning social order, but as a reasoned plea for structural reform. She challenges the legal guardianship system and the social expectation that women must remain dependent, but she does so through reflection, argumentation, and moral appeal rather than impulsive action. Explicitly so, as when presented with an offer to bring her father in front of a judge to force him to grant her autonomy, she refuses.

Bremer drives her point home early in the novel by introducing the character of Rudolph, Hertha’s distant relative. Contrary to Hertha’s, Rudolph’s actions are designed to liberate them from the oppressive father by force. Not only does the path of violence that Rudolph chooses fail to solve the problem, it moreover creates unimaginable destruction and, ultimately, his own defeat. Bremer’s message could not have been clearer.

Bremer’s use of surnames in the novel carries another powerful symbolic weight, particularly through bird imagery. Hertha’s surname, Falk (Falcon) evokes strength, freedom, and agency, emphasizing her aspiration for autonomy and moral elevation. This symbolism recurs with other characters: minor female characters often bear names suggestive of small birds, representing potential, delicacy, or the societal constraints placed upon them. Owls, cocks and other feathered animals are similarly utilised for different effects. By weaving bird imagery into the naming structure, Bremer creates a thematic network in which characters’ identities reflect their moral or social roles. Flight and freedom are not merely personal desires but symbolic markers of agency of all womankind, linking Hertha’s personal quest to broader social reconfiguration. Even birds unaware of their ability to fly, ought to have the liberty to do so.

The novel’s political strategy is further enhanced by Bremer’s literary techniques. The narrative alternates between Hertha’s personal experience and broader social observation, allowing readers to engage emotionally while also absorbing analytical critique. Bremer’s attention to Hertha’s internal life, her reflections on morality, education, and the limitations imposed upon her, transforms the novel into a vehicle for social argument. Every moment of personal frustration is carefully linked to systemic issues, from legal guardianship to marriage customs, illustrating the interplay between individual suffering and societal structures. Some sections, although framed as dialogue, read like lectures or info-dumps.

In the end, when all facts and declarations have been identified, established, and elaborated on, more than anything else it is Hertha’s very self: intelligent, morally unbreakable, steadfast, and rational; that embodies the main argument why women can be nothing but equal to men.

 

 

*This is amplified by the appendix that followed the book, containing a factual breakdown of the legal situation in Sweden at the time, complete with recent court decisions on the matter of women’s rights and the written arguments issued by the judges in support of their verdicts.

 

THERE THERE

Author: Tommy Orange
Year: 2018
Publisher: Bokförlaget Polaris
Language: Swedish (translator Eva Åsefeldt)

Present day America. The date for the annual pow wow in Oakland is approaching. Native Americans, predominantly from the Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes, prepare for the great event, each for their own personal reasons. A middle-aged woman is going to re-unite with her children, a young man to collect stories for posterity, still another to dance for the first time in the ritual dances, and some are up to no good and plan to steal the safe containing rewards for the winners in various competitions.

Tommy Orange’s “Pow wow” (“There, There”) follows a dozen individuals in their preparations for the big day. It is a groundbreaking novel that reexamines the narrative of contemporary Native American life. Some critics have already hailed it as the beginning of a new era in Native American writing in the United States.

By means of a diverse gallery of characters and interwoven storylines, the book offers an intimate depiction of the challenges faced by Native peoples navigating urban environments, grappling with history, and negotiating identity in the 21^st century. Among the characters, to me Edwin Black in particular stands out as a compelling figure whose struggles illustrate the complexities of later-generation First Nations identity.

Edwin Black, a middle-aged man living in Oakland, embodies the tension of inherited trauma without the means to process it. The son of a white mother and a Cheyenne father, he is raised with little exposure to his Native roots. He struggles with alcoholism, obesity, sporadic employment, and his addiction to online gaming. Yet beneath this dysfunction lies a yearning for cultural grounding. His identity is less about participation in traditional rituals, which he remains largely oblivious of, and more about negotiating absence: absence of homeland, of community, and of coherent selfhood. Edwin’s narrative exemplifies the identity struggles likely faced by many later-generation First Nations individuals, whose connection to their heritage is fragmented due to historical displacement, systemic erasure, and colonial assimilation policies.

In this respect, Edwin’s experience shares similarities with second-generation immigrants in countries such as Sweden, who juggle multiple cultural belongings. Both groups negotiate between inherited cultural identity and dominant societal norms. However, the key difference lies in the historical context: second-generation immigrants often engage with living, accessible cultures from their parents’ homelands. Their identity is tied to a physical place where their heritage is prevalent as an idea. Edwin, on the other hand, must reconstruct identity from fragmented histories, oral narratives, and intermittent exposure to tribal knowledge, often from a distant, perhaps mythical, past. The urban Native experience, as dramatised by Edwin, is thus uniquely burdened by historical erasure and dispossession, making identity reclamation both a personal and generational endeavour, based on myth rather than roots.

Comparatively, later-generation First Nations identity shares features with other stateless or marginalised peoples, such as Kurds, Roma, and Sami. All face pressures of marginalisation, displacement, or cultural suppression. Kurds navigate multiple nation-states that deny sovereignty; Roma contend with centuries of persecution and societal marginalisation; the Sami face assimilationist pressures in Arctic regions. In this sense Native Americans’ experience is similar in its intimate connection to settler colonialism and land dispossession. Unlike diasporic peoples whose cultures may persist across borders, later-generation Native Americans must contend with erasure within a single nation-state. Edwin’s identity crisis is therefore intertwined with the absence of homeland and the historical trauma, adding layers of complexity absent from many other marginalised identities.

Juxtaposed with second-generation immigrant identity, Edwin’s experience is uniquely shaped by politics of recognition and erasure. Immigrant communities often negotiate belonging within pluralistic frameworks, while urban Native Americans must assert cultural presence against a backdrop of historical invisibility. It is telling that while a mere 0.3% of the population in the United States identified as First Nation in 1960, nearly 3% did so in 2020. Similarly, compared with Kurds, Roma, or Sami, the struggle of Native Americans intertwines personal, cultural, and legal dimensions: treaties, reservations, and federal recognition create a complex framework where identity is simultaneously lived and legislated. Edwin’s search for selfhood is therefore not only personal but also political, bridging historical trauma with contemporary urban realities.

Orange’s structural choice to follow multiple characters amplifies these explorations. For Edwin, the Oakland Coliseum pow wow symbolises both a literal and metaphorical “there”: a site of reconnection, performance, and confrontation with the past. Like other characters, such as Orvil Red Feather who learns traditional dance through Youtube, Opal Bear Shield who tries to hold her family together in a hostile social environment, and Dene Oxendene who documents Native stories as a filmmaker, Edwin’s journey emphasises the active labour required to reconstruct identity in contemporary urban contexts. The novel shows that Native identity in cities is neither static nor monolithic; it is a dynamic interplay of memory, cultural performance (or re-enactment even), and resilience. One could argue that the colonial and later US authorities over the centuries successfully shattered it, but failed to erase it.

In conclusion, “Pow wow” is a profound exploration of identity, trauma, and resilience. The individual journeys of each of the characters illustrate the particular struggles of later-generation Native Americans negotiating urban life and ancestral heritage. Tommy Orange’s novel challenges readers to confront the legacies of colonisation, the nuances of urban Native identity, and the interplay between past and present. This is knowledge that has been available to sociologists and anthropologists for decades. Would that this literary effort bring it to the attention of a broader public.