H.G. Wells - The New World Order - El Nuevo Orden Mundial

 

Wells, H. G.  The New World Order. 1940.

_____. The New World Order. Online at The University of Adelaide.

         http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/w/wells/hg/new_world_order/

         2012 – Discontinued 2020. Online at the Internet Archive:

      https://web.archive.org/web/20150908082421/https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/w/wells/hg/new_world_order/complete.html

         2024

Katanosov, Valentín. "El nuevo orden mundial de H. G. Wells." Trans. Juan Gabriel Caro Rivera. Rebelión 30 July 2020.*

         https://rebelion.org/el-nuevo-orden-mundial-de-h-g-wells/

         2024

Rayward, W. Boyd. "H. G. Wells's Idea of a World Brain: A Critical Re-Assessment." Journal of the American Society for Information Science 50 (1999): 557-79. Online ed.:

         http://people.lis.illinois.edu/~wrayward/Wellss_Idea_of_World_Brain.htm

         2012 DISCONTINUED 2019.

         Online at ResearchGate.*

         https://www.researchgate.net/publication/220433347

         2019

 

             Hoy en día es la Wikipedia quien ejerce de Cerebro Mundial a la manera que soñó Wells—con un control mucho más guiado de lo que permite suponer su idea inicial del "edítelo Vd. mismo". Guiado, controlado, censurado y pastoreado por organizaciones e intereses globalistas.  Del mismo modo que las Big Tech han desarrollado políticas sincronizadas de censura e ingeniería social en durante el gran ensayo globalista que fue la plandemia del Covid, y la orgía de vacunas subsiguiente.

            Wells venía de la Sociedad de Naciones y fue un gran artífice guiándola, en conversación con élites globalistas e internacionales, hacia la ONU y sus derivados como la OMS, el Foro Económico Mundial, el Banco Mundial, El Fondo Monetario Internacional, etc. Pero creo que los resultados actuales hubieran desbordado sus expectativas más optimistas. El pequeño temilla de la corrupción y la perversión de la ciencia y las instituciones intelectuales para sacar manteca y forrar a los de siempre, no entró mucho en sus cálculos, sin embargo. Como si no los hubiese conocido.

—oOo—

Retropost, 2012: Mind at the End of Its Tether

 

Stanley Wells on William Shakespeare: Biography, Quotes, Plays, Facts, Education, Influence

Today's Moreaus

Mind at the End of Its Tether

 

H.G. Wells and the War of the Worlds: A Documentary

Biografía de H. G. Wells

Profetas de la ciencia ficción - H. G. Wells

Avanza un pasito el Dr. Moreau

Japón ha dado permiso para crear embriones híbridos animal-humano con células humanas que generarían órganos humanos que se podrían luego trasplantar. https://t.co/KiDnw8qUe8

— Pablo Malo (@pitiklinov) July 27, 2019

From the Outline of History to the World Brain

A passage from David Lodge's fascinating biographical novel, A Man of Parts, equally attentive to all of H.G. Wells's 'parts', his intellectual speculations and literary activities, and his sexual affairs.  Lodge recognizes a measure of intellectual corruption in Wells's whitening of the Russian revolution, and in his jingoistic support of 1st World War warfare, though these experiences brought in their share of disillution as well. But an interesting and original intellectual venture starts in 1918—with projects which anticipate the current interest in Big History, and the Wikipedia—or perhaps the World Wide Web, as Lodge puts it.



These disillusioning episodes had, however, positive consequences. His experience on committees concerned with the League of Nations project had convinced him that even their well-educated and well-intentioned members, including himself, were lamentably ill-informed about the history of any other nation than their own, while the British people at large knew almost nothing. It was obvious that there was no hope of getting and idea like the League to 'take' unless this ignorance was remedied, and he conceived the idea of an 'Outline of World History' which would attempt to tell the story of all mankind up to the present day within the compass of a single book. By the end of 1918 he had lined up a number of prestigious experts like Gilbert Murray and Ernest Barker to act as advisers and check his drafts for error, and Jane and others helped him with the research, but essentially he intended to write the whole thing himself. He did not of course aim to discover new facts—the facts he needed were already available in encyclopedias and other works of reference—but to bring them all together in a way that nobody had thought of doing before. As he said in an article in the magazine of the League of Nations Union:

  No one has ever attempted to teach our children the history of man as Man, with all his early struggles and triumphs, his specialization in tribes and nations, the conquests of Nature, his creations of Art, his building up of Science. . .  An enormous amount of work has to be done if we are to teach the peoples of the world what is the truth, viz., that they are all engaged in a common work, that they have sprung from common origins, and all are contributing some special service to the general end.

Originally he had conceived it as a book for older children, but as the idea developed it assumed an adult readership too. It was an enormous undertaking which occupied him for two years of 'fanatical toil', as he described it to Arnold Bennett, and ran to three-quarters of a million words, mostly his own. But the effort was fully justified in the outcome. The part-publication of The Outline of History sold extremely well, and its longer book ofrm sold more than two million copies over the next few years in Britain and America, and in numerous translations. His financial worries were now removed for the foreseeable future. He really was a rich man.

—You were also a famous man. Probably, as a result of the Outline, the most famous writer in the world in the early twenties. Surely Orwell was wrong in saying you ceased to influence young people after 1920?

—I was famous for some time after that, in the sense that the man in the street almost everywhere knew my name. My newspaper articles were syndicated all over the world, and my books continued to circulate in cheap editions and influence and educate people, including younger people. But I was no longer someone whose latest work you had to read if you wanted to keep up with fashionable ideas and trends, and this became more and more obvious as time went on. At the beginning of the 1930s I published two enormous compilations, The Science of Life and The Work, Wealth and Happiness of Mankind, to form a trilogy with The Outline of History summarising modern knowledge about mankind—historical, biological, and sociological—but they weren't so successful. Later I tried to interest publishers in the idea of and encyclopaedia which would include all knowledge, but there were too many difficulties about copyright. My idea was that it should be free. I imagined an international Encyclopaedia Organisation that would store and continuously update every item of verifiable human knowledge on microfilm and make it universally accessible—a world wide web of information. I wrote a book about it called World Brain, but it didn't catch on . There was a journalist once who called me 'the man who invented tomorrow', but people weren't interested in my tomorrow any more. I was a child of the Enlightenment, a modern Enyclopaedist, an heir of Diderot, but the horrors fo the Great War had undermined faith in Reason. Intellectuals looked for salvation to fascism, or Soviet style communism, or Christianity, Roman Catholic or Anglo-Catholic, to all of which I was opposed. Between the wars I was increasingly a lone voice, crying in the wilderness, as a thinker.










See also:

Rayward, W. Boyd. "H. G. Wells's Idea of a World Brain: A Critical Re-Assessment." Journal of the American Society for Information Science 50 (1999): 557-79.

         Online at ResearchGate.*

         https://www.researchgate.net/publication/220433347

         2019

-->

—oOo—

With Hindsight Interpret

With Hindsight Interpret

Buenos tiempos para el Dr. Moreau

En China:

#LoMásLeído Científicos chinos ponen genes del cerebro humano en monos y se vuelven más listos https://t.co/QSPupeWfNl

— ABC.es (@abc_es) 14 de abril de 2019

Future Tense - The Story of H.G. Wells BBC Documentary 2016

James Gleick: "Time Travel: A History"

H.G. Wells: En guerra con el mundo

Un biopic de la BBC sobre H. G. Wells, War with the World:
 







Desdichadamente han borrado el documental, como de costumbre.  Lo recuperaré en cuanto vuelva a aparecer. Nos quedamos con un clip de su visita a Stalin.



De momento aquí hay otro documental de la BBC sobre H. G. Wells:

—oOo—

H. G. Wells

From The Short Oxford Companion to English Literature:

H(erbert) George Wells (1866-1946), the son of an unsuccessful small tradesman, was apprenticed to a draper in early life, a period reflected in several of his novels. For some years, in poor health, he struggled as a teacher, studying and writing articles in his spare time. In 1903 he joined the Fabian Society, but was soon at odds with it, his sponsor G. B. Shaw, and Sidney and Beatrice Webb. His literary output was vast and extremely varied. As a novelist he is perhaps best remembered for his scientific romances, among the earliest products of the new genre of science fiction. The first, The Time Machine (1895), is a social allegory set in the year 802701, describing a society divided into two classes, the subterranean workers, called Morlocks, and the decadent Eloi. This was followed by The Wonderful Visit (1895), The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896), The Invisible Man (1897), The War of the Worlds (1898, a powerful and apocalyptic vision of the world invaded by Martians), When the Sleeper Wakes (1899), The First Men in the Moon (1901), Men Like Gods (1923) and others. Another group of novels evokes in comic and realistic style the lower-middle class world of his youth. Love and Mr Lewisham (1900) tells the story of a struggling teacher; Kipps (1905) that of an aspiring draper's assistant; The History of Mr Polly (1920) recounts the adventures of an inefficient shopkeeper who liberates himself by burning down his own shop and bolting for freedom, which he discovers as man-of-all-work at the Potwell Inn.

Among his other novels, Ann Veronica (1909) is a feminist tract about a girl who defies her father and conventional morality by running away with the man she loves. Tono-Bungay (1909) is a picture of English society in dissolution, and of the advent of a new class of rich, embodied in Uncle Ponderevo, an entrepreneur intent on peddling a worthless patent medicine. The Country of the Blind, and other Stories (1911), his fifth collection of short stories, contains the memorable 'The Door in the Wall'. The New Machiavelli (1911), about a politician involved in a sexual scandal, was seen to mark a decline in his creative power, evident in later novels, which include Mr Britling Sees It Through (1916) and The World of William Clissold (1926). He continued to reach a huge audience, with his massive The Outline of History (1920) and its shorter offspring A Short History of the World (1922), and with many works of scientific and political speculation (including The Shape of Things to Come, 1933); the dark pessimism of his last prediction, Mind at the End of Its Tether (1945) may be seen in the context of his own ill health and the course of the Second World War.


His Experiment in Autobiography (1934) is a striking portrait of himself, his contemporaries (including Arnold Bennett, Gissing, and the Fabians) and their times.

—oOo—

From The Edwardian Novel, by Andrew Sanders (The Short Oxford History of English Literature):

In the mainstream English fiction of the early 1900s the religious doubts of the preceding twenty years, and the reaction against Victorian repression and social or familial oppression, are gradually marginalized. There remained a pervasive desire to articulate the unsaid and to give voice to formerly silent social groups—to women above all—and also to the often conventional, generally ignored petty bourgeoisie. The common man (and woman) briefly moved to centre stage before being ushered off again according to the élitist tastes of the Modernists. Although 'Modernist' writing, which has its roots in the early 1900s, looked to formal experiment, to verbal pyrotechnics, to synchronic play, and to the extraordinary in character and expression, more traditional writers, most notably Arnold Bennett and H. G. Wells, developed existing lines of story-telling and diachronic movement in order to delineate the 'ordinary'. To Arnold Bennett, writing in his disappointingly unadventurous study The Author's Craft (1914), the mind of the ideal novelist should be 'permeated and controlled by common sense'. This 'common sense' precluded a break with a received view of character and with the supposed stability of the narrative form. For both Bennett and Wells the acceptance of literary convention brought considerable popular and financial success (Bennet's The Card of 1911, for example, sold fifteen thousand copies within three years of publication). It also later entailed the overshadowing of their reputations by the canonical acceptance of the work of those of their younger contemporaries whose self-propagandizing had established 'Modernist' principles as the leading ideas of the new age.

As H. G. Wells generously acknowledged through the narrator of his The New Machiavelli (1911), there were hordes of men in 'the modern industrial world' who had 'raised themselves up from the general mass of untrained, uncultured poorish people in a hard industrious selfish struggle', but it was only in Arnold Bennett's novels that he had ever found a picture of them. These self-made, self-admiring small capitalists were now of a different breed from Dickens's Rouncewells and Gaskell's Thorntons, but they were generally despised by writers who rejected their enterprise, their vulgarity, and their belief in the virtue of work and reward. Bennett (1867-1931) is not habitually a fictional delineator of financial success, but he can be a meticulous analyst of the motives behind thrift, solidity, hard work, and public virtue. In this his models were, ironically enough, the great French anti-bourgeois writers Flaubert, Maupassant, and Zola rather than Dickens or Gaskell. His own affection for France and the French tradition gave him, as the Parisian episodes in The Old Wives' Tale suggest, a usefully detached perspective on his own birthplace, and the real focus of his fiction, the five drab towns of the Staffordshire Potteries.

Bennett's work oscillates interestingly between the poles of an insistent provinciality and domesticity and a taste for the exotic and the peregrinatory. Many of his novels either describe, or merely contain, a hotel, that temporary centre of a wanderer's life, that home-from-home that is never home. An overwritten early work, Grand Babylon Hotel (1902), and a late documentary novel, Imperial Palace (1930), indicate something of the continuing force of his fascination, but the sections of The Old Wives' Tale dealing with Sophia Scales's Paris Pension and with the two sisters' sojourn at Buxtion serve to ramify the idea of the hotel as a no man's land of comfort, tidiness, and impersonality. Bennett's finest fiction works through the establishment of contrasts, between situation and aspiration, between enclosure and flight, between endurance and escape, between security and insecurity. The sequence of three novels set in the Five Towns, Clayhanger (1910), Hilda Lessways (1911), and These Twain (1916), are haunted by Darius Clayhanger's memories of the humiliation of the workhouse and by his son Edwin's attempts to escape from the cloying world of his father's respectable business. Bennett's masterpiece, The Old Wives' Tale (1908), traces the divergent fortunes of two sisters from the mid- to the late nineteenth century against the backgrounds of a slowly and unwillingly changing English industrial town and the turbulent Paris of the 1860s and 1870s. The small and provincial are counterbalanced by the metropolitan and the sophisticated, and generations conflict, converge, divide, and die. Bennett intricately relates his characters to the shaping topography, geography, class, and culture that surrounds them, but he always brings them back to acquired habit, the parochiality, and to plod. Similar qualities, exposed in a drab London setting, distinguish Riceyman Steps (1923). This post-First World War novel recalls physical and spiritual loss and wounding, but it centres on the limited ambitions and perceptions of a suburban bookseller, his wife, and his barely literate servant. The narrowness of the world Bennett describes is silently contrasted with that of the dusty and unopened books on the shelves of a shop whose contents are finally dispersed. Throughout the book the arbitrariness of commercial value is suggested (even down to a possessive attachment to the shop's dust) but its final pages allow for a questioning of literary value, of words on the page and the act of reading them. Without being a classic 'Modernist' text Riceyman Steps unobtrusively suggests many of the central experimental ideas of contemporary Modernism.

The work of H(erbert) G(eorge) Wells (1866-1946) has many parallels with that of the shop-keeping world of Bennett, but it has a far more evident political edge and a sometimes perversely 'scientific' programme. Wells is one of the few English writers to be well read in modern science and in the scientific method; he was also ambiguously persuaded both of the advantages of a socialistically and scientifically planned future and of the inherently anti-humanist bent of certain aspects of scientific progress. His science-fiction novels, The Time Machine (1895), The Island of Dr Moreau (1896), and The War of the Worlds (1898), still function as alarmist prophecies a century after their first publication. The Island of Dr Moreau is a chilling, almost Swiftian, fable of vivisection and genetic engineering. Moreau, a tyrannical exile on a pacific island, is also a post-Darwinist Frankenstein, torturing and metamorphizing animals in his 'House of Pain' only to be destroyed as his horrid creations rever to their brutal types.

Wells's English social fiction contrasts starkly with such fantasies though even here science and men of science have leading roles. In Tono Bungay (1909) that role is divided between two Ponderevos: the small-town apothecary uncle who makes a fortune out of spurious water-tonic, and the experimental nephew ho re-establishes the lost family fortune by building battleships. Wells's socialism, a wayward, belligerent, and questioning socialism, also runs through his most demanding stories. In Tono Bungay the narrator moves between three Englands: the defunct, privileged world of the country house, the narrow perspectives of the draper's shop, and the heady exhilaration of market capitalism and invention. All three are found wanting, but he remains unpersuaded by an English brand of socialism which 'has always been a little bit too human, too set about with personalities and foolishness'. There is an individualism about Wells's arguments and the characters who mouth them which matches that of his sometime friend and Fabian socialist colleague, Shaw. In Kipps: The Story of a Simple Soul (1905) the critique of capital is more emphatic, and the socialist characters more sympathetic and influential, but the nation and the society observed in the book are seen as ruled by Stupidity 'like the leaden goddess of the Dunciad, like some fat, proud flunkey, like pride, like indolence, like all that is darkening and heavy and obstructive in life'. It is a stupidity which, it seems, no ideals can pierce. Even in the generally optimistic The History of Mr Polly (1910) the muddling nature of English society can be avoided only when the narrative endorses a fantasy of escape into a rural idyll. Wells's last major novel, before he retreated into writing the popular histories and digests of science with which he entertained his readers for thirty years, is The New Machiavelli of 1911. It is in part a personal testament, written from the point of view of a pragmatic Member of Parliament, as well as a perceptive account of parliamentary life in the early years of the twentieth century.  Like Ann Veronica (1909) the book is forthright in its discussion of marriage and of women's rights, describing, very much from a male perspective, a 'gradual discovery of sex as a thing collectively portentous that I have to mingle with my statecraft if my picture is to be true'. It also contains sops for the supporters of women's suffrage, forcibly stating a case for the ceasing of 'this coddling and browbeating of women' and for the 'free and fearless' participation of women in the collective purpose of mankind'.  (...)

Things to Come

—oOo—

Mind at the End of Its Tether

A desparing conclusion to a life of daring thought, by H. G. Wells—Mind at the end of its Tether (1946)

This is the conclusion of his last work, in which he argues that everything is ultimately founded upon nothing, an insight extracted from his own impending death. Wells foresees the extinction of the human species and the complete disappearance of the Great Globe itself (yea), the Universe:

The searching skepticism of the writer's philosophical analysis has established this Antagonist as invincible reality for him, but all over the earth and from dates immemorial, introspective minds, minds of the quality of the brooding Shakespeare, have conceived a disgust of the stress, vexations and petty indignities of life and taken refuge from its apprehension of a conclusive end to things, in mystical withdrawal. On the whole mankind has shown itself tolerant, sympathetic and respectful to such retreats. That is the peculiar human element in this matter; the recurrent refusal to be satisfied with the normal real world. The question "Is this all?" has troubled countless unsatisfied minds throughout the ages, and, at the end of our tether, as it seems, here it is, still baffling but persistent.

To such discomfited minds the world of our everyday reality is no more than a more or less entertaining or distressful story thrown upon a cinema screen. The story holds together; it moves them greatly and yet they feel it is faked. The vast majority of the beholders accept all the conventions of the story, are completely part of the story, and live and suffer and rejoice and die in it and with it. But the skeptical mind says stoutly, "This is delusion".

"Golden lads and lasses must, like chimney sweepers, come to dust."

"No," says this ingrained streak of protest: "there is still something beyond the dust."
But is there?

There is no reason for saying there is. That skeptical mind may have overrated the thoroughness of its skepticism. As we are now discovering, there was still scope for doubting. The severer our thinking, the plainer it is that the dust-carts of Time trundle that dust off to the incinerator and there make an end to it. Hitherto, recurrence has seemed a primary law of life. Night has followed day and day night. But in this strange new phase of existence into which our universe is passing, it becomes evidence that events no longer recur. They go on and on to an impenetrable mystery, into the voiceless limitless darkness, against which this obstinate urgency of our dissatisfied minds may struggle, but will struggle only until it is altogether overcome.

Our world of self-delusion will admit none of that. It will perish amidst its evasions and fatuities. It is like a convoy lost in darkness on an unknown rocky coast, with quarrelling pirates in the chartroom and savages clambering up the sides of the ships to plunder and do evil as the whim may take them. That is the rough outline of the more and more jumbled movie on the screen before us. Mind near exhaustion still makes its final futile movement towards that "way out or round or through the impasse".

That is the utmost now that mind can do. And this, its last expiring thrust, is to demonstrate that the door closes upon us for evermore.

There is no way out, or round or through.

Programados para creer

 

—oOo—

Things to Come

Película con guión de H. G. Wells sobre su novela futurista, ahora retrofuturista. La he visto en Sesión Continua. Tiene aspectos muy interesantes: la profecía de la segunda guerra mundial, con la Batalla de Inglaterra y el Blitz de Londres muy bien filmados avant coup; un episodio de decadencia post-apocalíptica, y una utopía urbanística en el siglo XXI. Me han llamado la atención los años 60 y 70 imaginarios, frente a los que viví yo de verdad. Quizá estén a la espera en otro momento del futuro, quién sabe. Algunas de sus profecías se han cumplido sin embargo antes de lo previsto: Wells situaba los viajes espaciales a la Luna en la década de 2030—y ya ven. Los ascensores transparentes y la arquitectura de grandes plataformas interiores también se han puesto de moda mucho antes, quizá por influencia de la propia película...







La película presenta su sociedad ideal futura, una vez superada la epidemia y la decadencia en la barbarie medieval, como una versión mejorada de los años 30, con todo un canto visual al industrialismo y a la producción maquinista; casi parece soviética en este sentido, y muy de la era fascista-comunista en la subordinación total del individuo al avance de la colectividad, aquí un orden mundial entre benevolente y agobiante en su planificación perfecta, mal de muchas utopías.

Más ambivalente es el conflicto del final, cuando la exploración espacial divide a la humanidad; algunos quieren detener el progreso y vuelven las revueltas—se presenta a estos agitadores de masas usando unos medios de comunicación audiovisual que el Estado podría suprimir pero elige no hacerlo. Estas pantallas futuristas están entre el televisor de plasma y los hologramas de la Guerra de las Galaxias; la estética vestimentaria futurista passé es atroz, aunque a veces le da un toque de intriga shakespeariana a los que abogan por detener el progreso—su imagen está entre Bruto en Julio César y Catón anunciando que hay que destruir Cartago. La película es ambivalente en su final: la expansión humana al universo parece un sueño inevitable, una compulsión, más que una realidad factible—termina con esta alternativa crucial, entre las estrellas o ser un animal más sobre la tierra. Parece que hoy es precisamente la alternativa a evitar—hay mucho espacio intermedio por explorar, más abajo del espacio.

Porvenir retrospropectivo

—oOo—

The Invisible Man