The Fantasy of Opting Out
With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the  streets  between  houses  with  red  roofs  and  painted  walls,  between  old  moss-grown  gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children  dodged  in  and  out,  their  high  calls  rising  like  the  swallows&#x27;  crossing  flights,  over  the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great  water-meadow  called  the  Green&#x27;  Fields  boys  and  girls,  naked  in  the  bright  air,  with  mud-stained  feet  and  ankles  and  long,  lithe  arms,  exercised  their  restive  horses  before  the  race.  The horses  wore  no  gear  at  all  but  a  halter  without  bit.  Their  manes  were  braided  with streamers  of silver,  gold,  and  green.  They  flared  their  nostrils  and  pranced  and  boasted  to  one  another;  they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad  green  meadows  one  could  hear  the  music  winding  through  the  city  streets,  farther  and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.<p>Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?<p>They  were  not  simple  folk,  you  see,  though  they  were  happy.  But  we  do  not  say  the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one  tends  to  make  certain  assumptions.  Given  a  description  such  as  this  one  tends  to  look  next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep  slaves.  They  were  not  barbarians.  I  do  not  know  the  rules  and  laws  of  their  society,  but  I suspect  that  they  were  singularly  few.  As  they  did  without  monarchy  and  slavery,  so  they  also got  on  without  the  stock  exchange,  the  advertisement,  the  secret  police,  and  the  bomb.  Yet  I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were  not  less  complex  than  us.  The  trouble  is  that  we  have  a  bad  habit,  encouraged  by  pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only  evil  interesting.  This  is  the  treason  of  the  artist:  a  refusal  to  admit  the  banality  of  evil  and the  terrible  boredom  of  pain.  If  you  can&#x27;t  lick  &#x27;em,  join  &#x27;em.  If  it  hurts,  repeat  it.  But  to  praise despair  is  to  condemn  delight,  to  embrace  violence  is  to  lose  hold  of  everything  else.  We  have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can  I  tell  you  about  the  people  of  Omelas?  They  were  not  naive  and  happy  children  –  though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you.<p>Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if  you imagined it as  your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion,  for  certainly  I  cannot  suit  you  all. 
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