Animal Farm

In the quiet darkness of an English farm, animals gather to hear a dream that will change their world forever. What begins as a vision of freedom and equality soon transforms into a chilling exploration of how noble ideals can be corrupted by those who claim to serve them. George Orwell's masterwork stands as one of the most powerful political allegories of the twentieth century, using the simple framework of a farmyard rebellion to illuminate the mechanisms of tyranny and the fragility of revolutionary promise.

This story invites us into a world where pigs learn to walk on two legs, where commandments are rewritten in the dead of night, and where the dream of a society free from oppression gradually becomes indistinguishable from the tyranny it replaced. Through the eyes of loyal horses, cynical donkeys, and increasingly power-hungry pigs, we witness how language can be weaponized, how history can be rewritten, and how the many can be deceived by the few. The tale that unfolds is both a specific critique of totalitarianism and a timeless warning about the eternal struggle between liberty and control, making it as urgent today as when it first appeared.

On Manor Farm, the animals live lives of quiet desperation under the careless rule of Mr. Jones, a farmer who has grown slovenly and drunk. One night, after Jones stumbles to bed in an alcoholic stupor, word spreads through the farm buildings that old Major, the prize boar, has called a meeting. The animals gather in the big barn with a sense of anticipation, for Major is deeply respected, and his summons promises something extraordinary.

Major begins by acknowledging his approaching death and his desire to pass on the wisdom he has accumulated over his twelve years of life. He paints a stark picture of their existence: lives that are miserable, laborious, and short, where they are given just enough food to keep breathing and are worked until their usefulness ends, at which point they face the slaughterhouse. No animal in England knows happiness or leisure after its first year. The life of an animal, Major declares with devastating clarity, is misery and slavery.

But this suffering is not inevitable, Major insists. The soil of England is fertile, the climate good, capable of supporting far more animals in comfort and dignity than currently inhabit it. The source of their misery has a name: Man. Man is the only creature that consumes without producing, who takes the milk that should nourish calves, the eggs that should hatch into chickens, the labor that tills the soil. Man gives back only the bare minimum to prevent starvation, keeping the rest for himself. Remove Man from the scene, Major argues, and the root cause of hunger and overwork vanishes forever.

With rising passion, Major calls for rebellion. He does not know when it will come—perhaps in a week, perhaps in a hundred years—but he knows with certainty that justice will eventually be done. He urges the animals to work toward the overthrow of the human race, to fix their eyes on this goal throughout the remainder of their lives, and to pass the message to future generations. He establishes the fundamental principle that will guide them: whatever goes on two legs is an enemy, whatever goes on four legs or has wings is a friend. Above all, they must never come to resemble Man, never adopt his vices, and never tyrannize over their own kind. All animals are equal.

Then Major does something that will echo through all that follows. He teaches them a song from his youth, half-remembered from the sows of his infancy, called "Beasts of England." The stirring melody speaks of a golden future time when tyrant Man shall be overthrown, when the fruitful fields shall be trod by beasts alone, when rings shall vanish from noses and harnesses from backs. The animals take up the song with wild excitement, singing it five times through until Mr. Jones, awakened by the noise, fires his gun into the darkness and sends them scattering to their sleeping places. But the seed has been planted, and nothing will ever be quite the same.

Three nights after planting his vision in the animals' hearts, old Major dies peacefully in his sleep. His body is buried at the orchard's foot, but his ideas take root and flourish. The more intelligent animals, particularly the pigs, begin secret preparations for the rebellion Major predicted. Two young boars emerge as leaders: Snowball, vivacious and inventive, and Napoleon, fierce and determined. Together with the eloquent Squealer, they develop Major's teachings into a complete system of thought called Animalism.

The rebellion arrives sooner than anyone expected, and not through careful planning but through spontaneous combustion. Mr. Jones, having fallen on hard times and taken to drinking heavily, neglects the farm. One midsummer day, after he fails to feed the animals, they can bear it no longer. A cow breaks into the store-shed, and when Jones and his men try to whip them back into submission, the animals fight back. Within minutes, the humans are fleeing down the road in ignominious retreat, and Manor Farm belongs to the animals.

The first hours of freedom are intoxicating. The animals race around the farm boundaries to ensure no human lurks anywhere, then return to destroy every trace of their former oppression. Bits, nose-rings, dog-chains, cruel knives, reins, halters, and whips are thrown onto a bonfire. The ribbons that decorated the horses' manes on market days go into the flames as well, for they are the mark of human vanity. The animals then feast on a double ration of corn and sing "Beasts of England" seven times before settling down to the best sleep they have ever known.

The next morning, in the clear light of their first day of freedom, the animals survey their domain with wonder. Everything they can see is theirs. Snowball and Napoleon lead them to the farmhouse, where they tiptoe through rooms filled with unbelievable luxury—feather mattresses, looking-glasses, a horsehair sofa, a Brussels carpet. They unanimously resolve that the farmhouse should be preserved as a museum, that no animal must ever live there. Then Snowball paints out "Manor Farm" from the gate and replaces it with "Animal Farm."

On the barn wall, Snowball inscribes the Seven Commandments that will govern their new society: Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy; whatever goes upon four legs or has wings is a friend; no animal shall wear clothes, sleep in a bed, drink alcohol, or kill any other animal; and above all, all animals are equal. These commandments represent the purest expression of their revolutionary ideals. As the animals begin their first harvest as free creatures, working harder than they ever did for Jones yet filled with pride that every mouthful of food is truly their own, it seems that Major's dream has come gloriously true. But already, subtly, the pigs have begun to assume leadership, and the milk from the evening milking has mysteriously disappeared.

The early months of Animal Farm bring both triumph and tension. The harvest is completed in record time, and the animals work with a joy they never knew under Jones. Every Sunday, they gather for a Meeting where the week's work is planned and resolutions debated. Snowball throws himself into organizing committees and teaching the animals to read, while Napoleon shows more interest in "educating" the young, particularly nine puppies he takes from their mothers and raises in secret isolation.

The greatest source of conflict becomes Snowball's plan to build a windmill that would provide electricity and ease the animals' labor. He spends hours drawing intricate plans, envisioning a future where animals work only three days a week. Napoleon opposes the windmill from the start, arguing they should focus on food production. The farm divides into factions: "Vote for Snowball and the three-day week" versus "Vote for Napoleon and the full manger." The sheep, increasingly manipulated, interrupt crucial moments in Snowball's speeches with bleating chants of "Four legs good, two legs bad."

The confrontation reaches its climax at a Meeting where Snowball delivers a passionate speech about the windmill's benefits. Just as his eloquence seems certain to carry the vote, Napoleon stands and utters a high-pitched whimper. Nine enormous dogs—the puppies he took away, now grown fierce as wolves—come bounding into the barn and chase Snowball off the farm. He is never seen again. In the terrible silence that follows, Napoleon announces that the Sunday Meetings are ended. All decisions will now be made by a special committee of pigs. When four young pigs dare to protest, the dogs' menacing growls silence them immediately.

Squealer is sent to explain the new arrangement, painting Napoleon's seizure of power as a sacrifice, a burden he takes on for the animals' good. He hints that Snowball was actually a traitor, that following him would have led to disaster. The animals are troubled but cannot find arguments to counter Squealer's persuasive words, especially when he asks if they want Jones back. Boxer, the powerful cart-horse whose loyalty is absolute, adopts a new maxim to accompany his personal motto of "I will work harder": "Napoleon is always right." Three weeks later, Napoleon announces that the windmill will be built after all, and Squealer explains that it was Napoleon's idea all along—Snowball had stolen the plans. The animals accept this revision of history, their memories already growing uncertain, their capacity for independent thought eroding under the weight of propaganda and fear.

As the seasons turn, life on Animal Farm grows increasingly harsh. The animals work sixty-hour weeks building the windmill, their rations reduced while the pigs grow fatter. Napoleon rarely appears in public now, surrounded by dogs when he does, living in the farmhouse in separate apartments, eating from fine china. He is no longer called simply Napoleon but "our Leader, Comrade Napoleon," and poems are composed in his honor. The cult of personality grows as the reality of the animals' lives deteriorates.

When the windmill is destroyed in a storm, Napoleon blames Snowball, pronouncing a death sentence on the exiled pig and claiming he crept back in the night as a saboteur. Later, when the animals must sell eggs to buy grain, when their rations are cut again and again, when the pigs move into the farmhouse and sleep in beds, Squealer is always there to explain, to revise the Commandments they remember, to convince them their memories are faulty. "No animal shall sleep in a bed with sheets," the Fourth Commandment now reads, though none can recall the words "with sheets" being there before.

The terror reaches its peak when Napoleon stages a purge. Animals are forced to confess to crimes they never committed—collaborating with Snowball, plotting to destroy the windmill, poisoning Napoleon's food. The dogs tear out the throats of the confessors, and soon a pile of corpses lies before Napoleon's feet. The remaining animals huddle together on the knoll where the half-finished windmill stands, shaken to their core. This is not what they worked for when they overthrew Jones. Clover, the motherly mare, looks down at the farm with tears in her eyes, unable to express her heartbreak that their dream has led to this nightmare of fear and bloodshed.

Through it all, Boxer remains steadfast, responding to every crisis, every hardship, every inexplicable horror with his twin mantras: "I will work harder" and "Napoleon is always right." His strength seems inexhaustible, his loyalty unshakeable. He rises earlier than the others, works later, volunteers for extra labor. When he reaches his twelfth year, he looks forward to retirement, to a peaceful corner of the pasture where he might finally rest. But one day, while dragging stone to the windmill, something inside him breaks. He falls between the shafts of the cart, unable to rise. The animals gather around him in distress, and Squealer promises that Napoleon is arranging for him to be treated at the hospital in Willingdon. When the van comes to take him away, Benjamin the donkey—who has remained cynical and silent through all the farm's transformations—suddenly finds his voice. Racing after the van, he screams the truth the others cannot read: the van belongs to a horse slaughterer. Boxer, the farm's most loyal worker, is being sent to the knacker to be boiled down for glue. His last strength goes into trying to kick his way out, but he is too weak, and the van carries him away forever. Days later, Squealer tells them Boxer died peacefully in the hospital, whispering "Napoleon is always right" with his final breath—a lie the animals desperately want to believe.

Years pass, and the faces change. Muriel, Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher die. Jones dies in a home for alcoholics. Snowball and Boxer fade into dim memory, their stories rewritten or forgotten. Clover grows old and stiff, her eyes rheumy, working past the retirement age that was promised but never implemented. Napoleon becomes a massive boar of twenty-four stone, Squealer so fat he can barely see. Only Benjamin remains much the same, more morose than ever, his cynicism vindicated by everything that has transpired.

The farm is more prosperous now, enlarged by purchased fields, equipped with a threshing machine and hay elevator. But the animals themselves are no richer. The windmill, finally completed, is used not for electricity but for milling corn and profit. The three-day week Snowball once promised is denounced as contrary to Animalism's spirit. The truest happiness, Napoleon declares, lies in working hard and living frugally. The animals are generally hungry, sleeping on straw, laboring in the fields as they always have. They cannot remember if things were better or worse before the Rebellion—they have nothing to compare their lives to except Squealer's statistics, which always prove everything is improving.

Yet they never quite give up hope. They remain proud to be the only farm in England owned and operated by animals. They still believe in the Republic of the Animals that Major foretold, even if it seems further away than ever. The tune of "Beasts of England" is hummed secretly, though it has long been banned. They tell themselves that if they are hungry, at least they do not feed tyrannical humans; if they work hard, at least they work for themselves. No creature goes upon two legs. No creature calls another "Master." All animals are equal.

Then comes the day that shatters even these consolations. Clover's terrified neighing brings the animals rushing to the yard, where they witness something that seems to turn the world upside down: Squealer walking on his hind legs. Then a whole procession of pigs emerges from the farmhouse, all walking upright. Finally Napoleon himself appears, majestically upright, carrying a whip, his dogs gambolling around him. Before the animals can react, the sheep—who have been absent for a week of special training—burst into a new chant: "Four legs good, two legs better!"

Benjamin leads Clover to the barn wall where the Seven Commandments were written. Only one remains: "All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." The pigs have bought a wireless set, subscribed to human magazines, taken to wearing clothes. Napoleon strolls in the garden smoking a pipe, dressed in Mr. Jones's coat and breeches. The farm's name has been changed back to Manor Farm. That evening, neighboring farmers come to tour the farm and play cards with the pigs. They praise the efficiency of Animal Farm, noting that the lower animals do more work and receive less food than anywhere else in the county—exactly the model they intend to adopt on their own farms.

The animals creep to the farmhouse window and peer in at the scene. Around the table sit pigs and men, indistinguishable in their comfort and camaraderie, playing cards and drinking together. Then a quarrel erupts—Napoleon and Mr. Pilkington have both played an ace of spades. Twelve voices shout in anger, and they are all alike. The creatures outside look from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again, but it is already impossible to say which is which. The revolution has come full circle, and the animals' dream of freedom has become a nightmare more complete than anything they endured under Jones.

This tale of a revolution betrayed stands as one of literature's most devastating examinations of how power corrupts and how noble ideals can be twisted to serve tyranny. Through the seemingly simple story of farm animals, we witness the entire arc of revolutionary hope turned to despair: the intoxicating promise of equality, the gradual concentration of power, the rewriting of history, the manipulation of language, and finally the complete restoration of the oppression that the revolution sought to overthrow. The pigs' transformation from liberators to tyrants illuminates the mechanisms by which totalitarian regimes maintain control—through propaganda, fear, the corruption of collective memory, and the exploitation of the people's own hopes and loyalties.

What makes this work endure is its refusal to offer easy answers or comfortable distance. The animals are not foolish for believing in their revolution; their dream of a world without exploitation is beautiful and just. Their tragedy lies not in their idealism but in their gradual surrender of critical thinking, their willingness to accept convenient lies, their failure to act when they still could. The story asks uncomfortable questions about complicity, about the price of stability, about how societies slide from freedom into tyranny not through sudden conquest but through a thousand small compromises. It remains a mirror held up to every generation, warning us that the distance between "All animals are equal" and "Some animals are more equal than others" is shorter than we dare believe, and that eternal vigilance is the price not just of liberty, but of preserving our very humanity.