In Player Piano, the country’s obsession with efficiency has led to very divided social conditions, since the population has been grouped into two categories: those who are of use to the economy and those who are not. This structure makes sense for a nation that prioritizes economic productivity, but it creates tension between the elite and everyone else. For example, certain opportunities are only available to people with high IQ scores, leading to resentment among people who aren’t intelligent in the traditional sense. This IQ-based system of categorization makes sense from a business standpoint, but it sends a harmful message to anyone who isn’t deemed smart enough to hold an important job: namely, that they’re useless and insignificant. Meanwhile, powerful managers like Paul are forced to prove themselves to their superiors time and again, always fighting to stay afloat in the competitive atmosphere of the corporate world. Company officials see this competitive spirit as a healthy way of increasing productivity, but it just fatigues and annoys Paul, driving him further away from the company. It’s clear, then, that the emphasis on efficiency in this futuristic United States has not only led to an inhumane system of job placement, but also to division and resentment across all levels of society, creating widespread—and unnecessary—social strife.
The country’s system of categorizing people is extremely demoralizing. James Lasher points this out to Paul and Finnerty, noting that the use of IQ tests to determine a person’s value to the economy is a great way to stir up discord. It is, according to Lasher, “grade-A incitement to violence,” since anyone who doesn’t have a high IQ will naturally resent the smarter citizens who have better jobs. After all, this system implies that “the smarter you are, the better you are.”
In addition to making people feel inferior, this system is rigid and unforgiving. Lasher speaks to this when he notes that the entire IQ-based system is “built on more than just brain power—it’s built on special kinds of brain power. Not only must a person be bright, he must be bright in certain approved, useful directions: basically, management or engineering.” This implies that even intelligent people are excluded from powerful positions if they don’t show an aptitude for a very narrow, specific field. In other words, very few people can join the elite class of valued workers—a fact that is surely dispiriting to anyone who isn’t lucky enough to possess the very specialized intelligence deemed valuable to the economy.
Because this system of categorization makes it so difficult for people to succeed, it’s unsurprising that it leads to significant backlash against the upper class. The Ghost Shirt Society—a group of anti-automation revolutionaries—mounts a large-scale attack on the country’s power structures, but resentment of the elite also shows up in smaller, more everyday circumstances. For instance, when Doctor Halyard gives the Shah of Bratpuhr a tour of Ilium on behalf of the State Department, a member of the Reconstruction and Reclamation Corps (a public works organization) spits in his face. This happens as Halyard drives by in a limousine while the laborer works on the side of the road. The juxtaposition between the luxury of Halyard’s career and the difficulty of this man’s job is quite glaring, as Halyard’s limousine calls attention to the obvious disparity between the fortunate upper class and everyone else. What’s more, the worker’s disdain for Halyard—whom he doesn’t even know on a personal level—reveals that this unequal societal structure has led to intense animosity.
Society’s fixation on efficiency and productivity also creates internal division amongst the elite class of managers and engineers. Paul experiences this firsthand, since the company he works for intentionally stokes the fires of competition. The purpose of this is to encourage employees to work harder, but the whole competitive atmosphere feels draining to people like Paul and Finnerty. In fact, Finnerty even decides to quit when he receives his invitation to the Meadows, a yearly corporate retreat where a select number of employees are invited to participate in various competitions. Finnerty tells Paul that, when he got his invitation to the retreat, “something snapped.” “I realized I couldn’t face another session up there,” he says. “And then I looked around me and found out I couldn’t face anything about the system any more.” Although the company’s competitive spirit might seem playful and good-natured, the mere thought of engaging in these competitions depresses Finnerty. Indeed, the idea of attending the Meadows drives Finnerty to quit, suggesting that this emphasis on competition actually hurts the company instead of benefitting it.
Another problem with this competitive spirit is that it pits people against each other, and this division makes its way into multiple aspects of the job. For instance, when Paul first started at Ilium Works, he was equals with Finnerty and Shepherd. Right away, though, Shepherd made it clear that he saw Paul and Finnerty as rivals, which is why he has been ruthlessly competing with Paul for the past 13 years. He even tries to ruin Paul’s name by speaking badly of him to the bosses. It’s therefore obvious that he’s not engaged in friendly competition; he just wants to succeed at Paul’s expense.
This individualistic, cutthroat mentality is a symptom of society’s tendency to prioritize the smartest people over everyone else. According to this societal structure, the most skilled, intelligent people should have the best jobs. And since Shepherd thinks he could do Paul’s job better than Paul himself, he feels emboldened to do whatever it takes to succeed. By spotlighting Shepherd’s ruthless attack on Paul, then, the novel demonstrates that the division in this society isn’t limited to the rift between the lower and upper classes—rather, this divisive mentality brings itself to bear on everyone, regardless of their status.
Class Division and Competition ThemeTracker
Class Division and Competition Quotes in Player Piano
Ilium, New York, is divided into three parts.
In the northwest are the managers and engineers and civil servants and a few professional people; in the northeast are the machines; and in the south, across the Iroquois River, is the area known locally as Homestead, where almost all of the people live.
If the bridge across the Iroquois were dynamited, few daily routines would be disturbed. Not many people on either side have reasons other than curiosity for crossing.
During the war in hundreds of Iliums over America, managers and engineers learned to get along without their men and women, who went to fight. It was the miracle that won the war—production with almost no manpower. In the patois of the north side of the river, it was the know-how that won the war. Democracy owed its life to know-how.
Some people, including Paul’s famous father, had talked in the old days as though engineers, managers, and scientists were an elite. And when things were building up to the war, it was recognized that American know-how was the only answer to the prospective enemy’s vast numbers, and there was talk of deeper, thicker shelters for the possessors of know-how, and of keeping this cream of the population out of the front-line fighting. But not many had taken the idea of an elite to heart. When Paul, Finnerty, and Shepherd had graduated from college, early in the war, they had felt sheepish about not going to fight, and humbled by those who did go. But now this elite business, this assurance of superiority, this sense of rightness about the hierarchy topped by managers and engineers—this was instilled in all college graduates, and there were no bones about it.
“[…] we’ve raised the standard of living of the average man immensely.”
Khashdrahr stopped translating and frowned perplexedly. “Please, this average man, there is no equivalent in our language, I’m afraid.”
“You know,” said Halyard, “the ordinary man, like, well, anybody—those men working back on the bridge, the man in that old car we passed. The little man, not brilliant but a good-hearted, plain, ordinary, everyday kind of person.”
Khashdrahr translated.
“Aha,” said the Shah, nodding, “Takaru.”
“What did he say?”
“Takaru,” said Khashdrahr. “Slave.”
“No Takaru,” said Halyard, speaking directly to the Shah. “Ci-ti-zen.”
“Ahhhhh,” said the Shah. “Ci-ti-zen.” He grinned happily. “Takaru—citizen. Citizen—Takaru.”
“No Takaru!” said Halyard.
Khashdrahr shrugged. “In the Shah’s land are only the Elite and the Takaru.”
There were a few men in Homestead—like this bartender, the police and firemen, professional athletes, cab drivers, specially skilled artisans—who hadn’t been displaced by machines. They lived among those who had been displaced, but they were aloof and often rude and overbearing with the mass. They felt a camaraderie with the engineers and managers across the river, a feeling that wasn’t, incidentally, reciprocated. The general feeling across the river was that these persons weren’t too bright to be replaced by machines; they were simply in activities where machines weren’t economical. In short, their feelings of superiority were unjustified.
When Paul thought about his effortless rise in the hierarchy, he sometimes, as now, felt sheepish, like a charlatan. He could handle his assignments all right, but he didn’t have what his father had, what Kroner had, what Shepherd had, what so many had: the sense of spiritual importance in what they were doing; the ability to be moved emotionally, almost like a lover, by the great omnipresent and omniscient spook, the corporate personality. In short, Paul missed what made his father aggressive and great: the capacity to really give a damn.
“[…] When I had a congregation before the war, I used to tell them that the life of their spirit in relation to God was the biggest thing in their lives, and that their part in the economy was nothing by comparison. Now, you people have engineered them out of their part in the economy, in the market place, and they’re finding out—most of them—that what’s left is just about zero. A good bit short of enough, anyway. […]”
“Sooner or later someone’s going to catch the imagination of these people with some new magic. At the bottom of it will be a promise of regaining the feeling of participation, the feeling of being needed on earth—hell, dignity. […]”
Paul was amazed. By some freakish circumstance he’d apparently clinched the job—after having arrived with the vague intention of disqualifying himself.
Of all the people on the north side of the river, Anita was the only one whose contempt for those in Homestead was laced with active hatred. She was also the only wife on the north side who had never been to college at all. The usual attitude of the Country Club set toward Homesteaders was contempt, all right, but it had an affectionate and amused undertone, the same sort of sentiment felt by most for creatures of the woods and fields. Anita hated Homesteaders.
“What have you got against machines?” said Buck.
“They’re slaves.”
“Well, what the heck,” said Buck. “I mean, they aren’t people. They don’t suffer. They don’t mind working.”
“No. But they compete with people.”
“That’s a pretty good thing, isn’t it—considering what a sloppy job most people do of anything?”
“Anything that competes with slaves becomes a slave,” said Harrison thickly, and he left.