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 ringing 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 gray, 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’ 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 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
throughout the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness
of the air from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous
clanging of the bells.

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?

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.

There 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’t lick ’em, join ’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 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. 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. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be
no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of
Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary,
what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category,
however–that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc.–
they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of
marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the
common cold. Or they could have none of that: it doesn’t matter. As you like it. I incline to think
that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming to to Omelas during the last
days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that the trains
station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the
magnificent Farmers’ Market. But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of
you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy
would help, don’t hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude
priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman,
lover or stranger, who desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my
first idea. But really it would be better not to have any temples in Omelas–at least, not manned
temples. Religion yes, clergy no. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering
themselves like divine souffles to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them
join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the gory of desire be
proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful
rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt.
But what else should there be? I thought at first there were no drugs, but that is puritanical. For
those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz
which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some
hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very arcane and inmost secrets of
the Universe, as well as exciting the pleasure of sex beyond all belief; and it is not habit-forming.
For more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the
joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without
clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of
joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a
magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and
fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world’s summer: This is what
swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life. I don’t
think many of them need to take drooz.

Most of the processions have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking
goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are
amiably sticky; in the benign gray beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are
entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around
the starting line of the course. An old woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers
from a basket, and tall young men wear her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten
sits at the edge of the crowd alone, playing on a wooden flute.

People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases
playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thing magic of the tune.
He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute.

As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near
the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and
some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses’ necks and
soothe them, whispering. “Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope…” They begin to form in rank
along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in
the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun.

Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one
more thing.

In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of
one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A
little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed
window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff,
clotted, foul-smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the
touch, as cellar dirt usually is.

The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In
the room, a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten.
It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become imbecile through
fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or
genitals, as it sits hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of
the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there;
and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever
comes, except that sometimes–the child has no understanding of time or interval–sometimes
the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may
come in and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at
it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is
locked; the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has
not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice, sometimes
speaks. “I will be good, ” it says. “Please let me out. I will be good!” They never answer. The
child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of
whining, “eh-haa, eh-haa,” and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to
its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its
buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.

They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are
content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them
understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of
their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their
scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers
of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.

This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they
seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people,
though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the
matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at
the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger,
outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child.
But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile
place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were
done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and
be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in
Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the
chance of happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.

The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.
Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child
and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on
they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its
freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no real doubt, but little more. It is too
degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear.
Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would
probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own
excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible
justice of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and
the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their
lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not
free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its
existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the
profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They
know that if the wretched one were not there sniveling in the dark, the other one, the flute-player,
could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight
of the first morning of summer.

Now do you believe them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and
this is quite incredible.

At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go see the child does not go home to weep or
rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or a woman much older falls silent
for a day or two, then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the
street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the
beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth
or girl, man or woman.

Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow- lit
windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards
the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they
do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than
the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem
to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.