Speaking through one of the eponymous Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky uttered words to the effect of “without God everything is permitted”.
Yet even Dostoyevsky wasn’t prophetic enough to foresee everything that the future, our godless present, would bring. In fact, our reality has outpaced the most macabre prophecies or indeed fantasies of the past, making whole literary genres obsolete.
Political satire is one of them. For example, Swift must have thought he was grotesquely exaggerating when, in A Modest Proposal, he advocated eating babies as a solution to Irish famines. Yet the Dean’s wild hyperbole became a grim reality 200 years later, when the regime for which most Russians are now nostalgic, was starving the Ukraine (and much of Russia) to death, and babies were widely used for food.
Or take dystopian fantasies. The works of Messrs Huxley, Orwell, Zamyatin, Bradbury et al today read like reportage. Conversely, none of them could have fathomed our quotidian reality.
How about the state paying for men to get pregnant? Preposterous, the writers would have protested. Fantasy, they would have said, must have some bearing on reality to produce the desired effect.
To those gentlemen a person capable of childbirth was a woman, the female of the Homo sapiens species, complete with XX chromosomes and all the appropriate body fixtures. Their creative minds wouldn’t have stretched to breaking the link between childbirth and womanhood. To us, however, some links are more honourable in the breach than in the observance.
Enter our dear NHS, with its, or rather our, wallet open wide. It’s not enough that our dystopian state uses our tax money to indulge psychotic freaks obsessed with changing their sex – and the sums involved aren’t trivial: about £30,000 for a mad woman wishing to become a man, half that for the other way around (sewing on must be harder than cutting off).
Now we’re supposed to pay for those ‘men’ to have IVF treatments, so, if they choose to keep their uteri, they can experience the joys of motherhood as fathers. In fact, according to Dr James ‘Frankenstein’ Barrett, three of his patients are about to give birth, those who used to be women wishing to become men and are now men wishing to procreate like women.
The good doctor is proud of his achievement, for the usual procedure merely involves freezing a freakish creature’s eggs before the operation and then implanting the embryo into the equally disturbed woman living with the mad ex-woman pretending to be a man. But a pregnant man is really something to be proud of, the acme of modern medical science.
I’d be curious to be a fly on the wall when the resulting child grows up and starts wondering about birds and bees or, in this case, birds and birds. “Mummy, where did I come from?” “You crawled out of your Daddy’s belly.” “So is Daddy actually my Mummy?” Enough to blow the poor tot’s mind to high heaven.
It’s a salient characteristic of our materialist time that most people’s objections to this abomination focus on its NHS cost, not its essence. Indeed, when patients in pain have to wait a year for gallbladder removal, when hip replacements, cataract surgeries and life-prolonging cancer drugs are rationed, spending millions on such psychoses is insane.
True enough, in a sane society those sideshows would have to pay for their little quirks themselves. And if any NHS funds were involved, they’d be used to pay psychiatrists, not surgeons. For scientists have demonstrated beyond any doubt that a man can’t become a woman. He can only become a man shot full of oestrogen and with his bits cut off. His chromosomes remain XY, which makes him male in any other than a psychiatric sense.
But the fiscal damage is nothing compared to the moral and, if you will, existential kind. A civilisation that can countenance such nightmarish practices testifies to its metaphysical collapse. And, if history teaches anything at all (which it probably doesn’t) such a collapse is ineluctably followed by physical catastrophe. When virtue is replaced by decadence and decadence by degeneracy, civilisations die – to this rule there are no known exceptions.
Our civilisation is moribund already, and only its virtual reality remains, propped up by our phoney prosperity financed by the printing press. When that goes, as it will sooner or later, nothing will be left to hold us together.
So yes, Fyodor Mikhailovich, without God everything is permitted and nothing will survive. But could you have envisioned this nightmare in your wildest fantasies?