Animal Farm by George Orwell: Summary, Bright Episodes & Review

George Orwell’s Animal Farm is one of those books you can read in a single sitting, yet it stays with you for a long time. At first glance, it’s a simple story about animals who decide to live without a master and build a fair society.

But beneath that easy surface lies a sharp, unsettling conversation about power, ideology, and how good promises can end up turning into a new kind of oppression.

Animal Farm by George Orwell, book cover.

Orwell chose the form of a fable not as a playful exercise in allegory. He wanted to show how easily language shifts when politics shifts, how the line between “us” and “them” is gradually erased, and why people (or, in this case, the farm’s inhabitants) are often ready to believe those who speak confidently and loudly.

At the same time, the book never becomes a dry satire. There’s irony in it, and compassion, and a sense of inevitability that grows with every page.

Today, Animal Farm is read not only as a political commentary on the author’s era, but also as a universal warning. It’s a short book with a powerful impact—one that makes you pay closer attention to words, promises, and who is saying them.

Animal Farm – Summary & Plot Overview

The plot of Animal Farm begins on Mr. Jones’s farm, where the animals live under the usual order of things: they work hard, go hungry, obey humans, and have no right to make their own choices. One night, an old boar named Major gathers everyone for a meeting and delivers a speech that becomes the starting point for everything that follows.

He explains that the source of their suffering is man—someone who consumes the results of others’ labor and keeps everyone else dependent. Major offers them a dream of a world where animals will live for themselves, not for an owner. His words sound convincing, and after that meeting, the idea of a rebellion no longer feels like a fantasy.

Major soon dies, but his thoughts turn into a doctrine called “Animalism,” and it is this belief that unites the farm as it waits for change.

The rebellion happens almost by accident, yet it succeeds. Jones, drunk and incompetent, forgets to feed the animals, and hunger becomes the final straw. The animals break out of their pens, drive the humans away, and effectively take over the farm.

The former property is renamed Animal Farm, and the first days of the new life are filled with excitement. The animals destroy the symbols of the old power, set new rules, and try to prove that they can govern themselves better than any human ever did.

The foundation of this new order is the Seven Commandments, written on the wall, with the key one stated simply: all animals are equal. Amid the shared celebration, it becomes clear that the pigs—who are the most literate and organized—emerge as the leaders of the revolution. They insist that they are taking on responsibility not for personal gain, but for the good of everyone.

At first, life really does change. Work is shared more fairly, there’s a sense of purpose, and the farm starts to feel like a common home. Two pigs in particular play a key role in keeping order: Snowball and Napoleon.

Snowball is energetic—he proposes plans, speaks at meetings, persuades the others, and tries to involve everyone in discussion. Napoleon seems quieter and more focused, but he quickly gathers influence and works in a more hidden way.

Gradually, a rivalry grows between them—over leadership, and over what the farm’s future should look like. On the surface, it doesn’t seem dangerous, until it begins to reshape the very structure of power.

The turning point comes with the idea of building a windmill. Snowball promotes the project as a way to ease the workload and push the farm forward technologically: the mill is supposed to provide energy and make the animals’ lives less exhausting. Many see it as a real hope for improvement.

Napoleon argues against it without really explaining why, and then, at a decisive moment, he seizes power by force. He sets the dogs he has raised on Snowball, and Snowball is forced to flee.

From that point on, a new era begins on the farm: meetings lose their meaning, a small inner circle makes the decisions, and dissent becomes dangerous.

After Snowball is driven out, the windmill project suddenly becomes the official plan, and the animals are told that Napoleon had supported the idea all along. Here, Orwell shows how easily those in power can rewrite the past when it helps them control the present.

The animals wear themselves out on the construction site, working in brutal conditions without getting the relief they were promised. When a storm destroys the windmill, Napoleon blames Snowball, claiming he sabotaged it. This creates a convenient enemy: he is absent, he cannot defend himself, yet he can be used to explain any failure.

Fear of an “internal traitor” gradually becomes part of everyday life.

At the same time, the rules of life begin to change. The pigs move into Jones’s house, start sleeping in beds, then begin drinking alcohol and trading with neighboring farmers. Each new violation of the original principles gets explained as a “necessity” and as being “in the interests of Animal Farm.”

The Seven Commandments on the wall are presented as unchanging, but in reality, their wording is quietly altered. Orwell makes this process especially chilling because of how gradual it is: the changes don’t look like a sudden coup; they happen in small steps, and each step can be justified.

The animals remember that things used to be different, but they aren’t sure about the details, and their doubts quickly fade under the pressure of confident speeches and official explanations.

One of the darkest episodes is the wave of confessions and executions. Under the pressure of fear and suggestion, some animals confess to crimes they never committed and to “conspiring with Snowball.” Napoleon makes a show of punishing them, reinforcing the idea that the власти has the right to use violence in the name of order.

Against this backdrop, Clover, the old mare, disappears from the farm under the pretense of receiving treatment. But it soon becomes clear that they sent her to the knacker’s, and the money from selling her went toward alcohol for the pigs. There are no loud slogans in this moment, yet it’s exactly what highlights how far the farm has drifted from the ideals of the revolution’s beginning.

The tragedy isn’t only in Clover’s death, but in the fact that the other animals are powerless to change anything—and often can’t even bring themselves to call what’s happening betrayal.

Over time, a new hierarchy takes root on the farm. Food is handed out unevenly, work grows even harder, and promises of future prosperity start to feel like an empty ritual.

The regime leans on Squealer—the pigs’ propagandist—who knows how to speak in a way that makes any decision Napoleon makes sound logical and inevitable. He twists facts, swaps meanings, and appeals to fear: if the pigs don’t lead, “Jones will come back.” The argument works every time because the past really was brutal, and the memory of it becomes a tool of control.

The ending of the book becomes the culmination of this decline. The pigs draw completely closer to the humans: they walk on two legs, play cards with neighboring farmers, and negotiate as equals. The animals watch through the window, trying to figure out who they are looking at—a man or a pig. But the difference disappears.

The final commandment changes too, turning into a cynical formula: “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” This is how Animal Farm completes the circle: a revolution that began as a fight for freedom ends in a new form of oppression—one even more cunning and more durable.

In summarizing the plot, it’s important to note that Orwell doesn’t build his story as a simple fairy tale about good and bad characters. He is interested in the mechanism: how power concentrates, how propaganda makes that concentration seem acceptable, how fear destroys resistance, and why most people comply even when they can sense the injustice.

That’s why Animal Farm is not only a story about what happens on the farm, but also a clear model of how ideals can be turned into a tool of control when a society loses its memory, its critical thinking, and its right to speak.

Major characters

Major

Old Major appears at the beginning of the book, but he sets the tone for everything that comes after. He is a kind of ideologue and inspiration—someone who formulates the central idea: the animals live in poverty not because that’s how the world is, but because humans steal the value of their labor. Major speaks with confidence and in plain words, so even those far from thinking about justice listen to him.

His image matters for another reason as well: he symbolizes the dream of equality in its purest form—before that dream falls into the hands of those who learn to use it as an instrument of power. After Major dies, his ideas turn into a “sacred” text of the revolution, yet little by little they begin to serve not liberation, but the justification of a new order.

Napoleon

Napoleon is the chief architect of the dictatorship on the farm. Unlike flashy speakers, he acts quietly, patiently, and with calculation. He rarely persuades with words, but he knows how to gather resources, strengthen his influence, and eliminate rivals. His most important move is raising the dogs as a personal force—one that replaces the support of the majority.

Napoleon doesn’t need to look like a hero; it’s enough for everyone to get used to one idea: all decisions come from him alone. Over time, he turns the farm into a place where power rests on fear, on rewriting the past, and on the constant search for “enemies.”

Through him, Orwell shows how a leader who hides behind the slogans of a revolution can gradually become a new master, more dangerous precisely because he speaks in the name of the “common good.”

Snowball

Snowball is Napoleon’s opposite and one of the most visible leaders in the first months after the revolution. He’s energetic, able to inspire others with an idea, and he genuinely believes the farm can become a place of fairness. Snowball proposes reforms, organizes education, and tries to explain and involve others rather than simply issuing commands.

His windmill project becomes a symbol of hope—a future where work will be easier, and the animals will have time to live, not just survive. After Snowball is driven out, he turns into a convenient scapegoat. His name is used to pin blame for mistakes and to keep fear alive.

This is one of the novel’s key devices: even after he’s gone, Snowball remains part of the system as a mythical enemy—someone the regime needs, because without him it becomes harder to hold on to control.

Squealer

Squealer is a master of words and the main voice of propaganda. If Napoleon builds power through force and decisions, Squealer makes those decisions seem natural and correct. He speaks quickly and confidently, using pseudo-logic and “figures” that no one checks.

His job is to explain any worsening of life as a temporary necessity, and any privilege the pigs enjoy as a special burden they carry for everyone else. Squealer constantly reminds the animals of the fear that Jones might return, and that fear replaces real arguments.

Through him, Orwell shows that control over language is one of the key ways to control people: when words change their meaning, resistance becomes almost impossible, because reality itself starts being described in someone else’s terms.

Boxer

Boxer is a hardworking, honest horse who becomes the farm’s backbone in the most literal sense. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t make plans, and doesn’t look for personal gain; he simply works harder than everyone else and believes that effort will lead to a fair outcome. His life rules—“I will work harder” and “Napoleon is always right”—sound like devotion to the cause, but little by little, they turn into a tragic diagnosis.

Boxer represents those who support a system with their labor and their faith, even when that system starts destroying their own lives. The most frightening part is that his loyalty doesn’t save him: once he grows weak and no longer proves useful, the власти gets rid of him without hesitation.

Boxer’s story is one of the most emotionally powerful elements of the book, because it shows how easily the very people who carried everything on their shoulders can be betrayed.

Clover

Clover is a mare who often comes across as a quiet voice of conscience and memory. She isn’t as naïve as she seems: Clover senses that the rules are changing and that the promised justice is slipping away, but she lacks the confidence and the knowledge to argue with those who are rewriting reality.

What matters in her character is the inner struggle. She notices contradictions, remembers the past, tries to compare what was with what is—but there’s too much pressure around her and too little support. Clover symbolizes the majority, who feel injustice not through theory, but through everyday experience. She understands that something has gone wrong, yet under fear and propaganda, that understanding remains almost defenseless.

Benjamin

Benjamin the donkey is the most skeptical and silent character. He watches, understands more than the others, and is almost immune to slogans. Benjamin trusts neither humans nor pigs, and from the beginning, he assumes that power will always find a way to turn ideals into a convenient disguise.

His problem is different: he stays on the sidelines for too long. His knowledge never becomes action, and that turns wisdom into helplessness. Only when Boxer is betrayed does Benjamin show emotion and try to intervene—but by then it’s too late.

Through him, Orwell reveals an uncomfortable truth: understanding alone is not enough if it doesn’t turn into responsibility. Skepticism protects you from illusions, but it doesn’t necessarily protect you from the consequences.

Mollie

Mollie is a horse who never embraces the revolution with her heart. She isn’t interested in ideas, but in comfort, familiar little pleasures, and attention—sugar, ribbons, human affection. She quickly becomes an “outsider” in the new system, where personal desires are labeled trivial and suspicious.

Mollie doesn’t fight or argue; she simply leaves for a neighboring farm, where she is pampered again. This character can seem spoiled, but she matters to the bigger picture: the revolution can’t hold everyone, because it doesn’t account for the variety of human (and not only human) motives.

In Mollie, Orwell reflects the part of society that prefers personal stability over political change—even if that stability comes at the price of dependence.

Mr. Jones

Mr. Jones is the farm’s former owner, and his power feels crude and straightforward. He isn’t an ideologue or a strategist; he simply takes advantage of his position, drinks, runs the farm badly, and treats the animals as tools. Driving him out becomes a symbol of liberation, while the memory of him turns into the main scarecrow the pigs later use to manipulate everyone.

What matters is that Orwell neither romanticizes nor excuses Jones, but he also doesn’t present him as the only source of evil. Jones serves as a starting point: against him, the new власти looks better at first, and then it becomes clear that a system can reproduce oppression even without a human—if a new elite emerges within it.

Frederick

Frederick is the owner of a neighboring farm who embodies cold calculation and the aggressive force of the outside world. He makes deals as long as they benefit him, cheats when he sees an opening, and recognizes no moral obligations.

His attack on the farm and the destruction of the windmill underline how fragile the “new society” is, forced to play by the rules of the reality around it. Through Frederick, Orwell adds another layer: even if a system establishes harsh control on the inside, it can remain vulnerable to outside interests and the betrayal of supposed allies.

In the end, Frederick’s role highlights how easily ideals can be crushed if they aren’t backed by mature institutions and a real capacity to defend themselves.

Pilkington

Pilkington is another neighboring farmer—more flexible and less brutal than Frederick, yet just as focused on his own advantage. He watches what happens on Animal Farm with cautious interest, sometimes keeping in touch, sometimes staying at a distance.

His role becomes especially visible near the end, when the pigs grow increasingly open in drawing closer to the humans. Pilkington is part of the scene where the boundary between the “old masters” and the “new leaders” disappears.

Orwell needs him to complete the point: a system can change its slogans and its faces, but the principle of power as privilege remains the same, and outsiders will readily accept that power once it starts to look like them.

Key Moments & Memorable Scenes

One of the most powerful scenes in the book is the nighttime meeting where Major speaks for the first time about freedom and about the idea that the animals can live differently. What matters in this scene is not only the content of his speech, but the atmosphere: the exhausted inhabitants of the farm suddenly feel like more than just labor—they feel like a community with a right to dream.

This is where the emotional foundation of the future revolution is born, and the reader can see how easily hope turns into an idea strong enough to lead others forward.

Next comes the rebellion itself and the first days after the victory. Orwell presents this moment almost like a celebration: the animals pour into the yard, explore the house, destroy the symbols of the old regime, and for the first time taste what it feels like to belong to themselves.

The episode where the Seven Commandments are written on the wall is especially striking. It creates a sense of clear rules and an honest agreement, as if life will now be built on simple, fair principles. Yet even within this optimism, a тревога is already hidden: a small group writes the rules, and the majority accepts them on faith.

A major turning point is Snowball’s expulsion, when the dogs chase him off the farm. The scene stays with you because of its sudden brutality: a moment earlier, the conflict is ideological, and then it turns into violence. From that point on, the system changes not only in practice, but psychologically—the animals realize that disagreement is no longer something to be discussed.

Just as striking is what follows: the way history is rewritten. Napoleon claims the achievements for himself, while Snowball becomes the eternal scapegoat. This is one of the novel’s central mechanisms—turning the past into a tool of control.

The construction of the windmill becomes a symbol of its own. At first, it looks like a promise of the future, then it turns into endless backbreaking work, and after its destruction, it becomes the trigger for a new wave of fear and accusations. The windmill stands out because it embodies betrayed expectations: the labor increases, but life doesn’t get any easier.

Alongside it comes the scene of staged confessions and executions, where fear finally pushes trust aside. Orwell doesn’t describe this part in an overly graphic way, but that makes it feel even colder: violence becomes the norm, justified in the name of “security.”

Finally, it’s hard to forget the episode with Boxer. His exhaustion and his hope for “treatment” turn into a cruel ending when it becomes clear that they sold him. This is the moment when the regime’s moral decay shows itself without any mask.

The final scene—pigs sitting at a table with humans while the others look through the window and can no longer tell one from the other—sums up the entire story. It works like a visual full stop: the circle has closed, and the promised freedom has dissolved into a new, more sophisticated form of domination.

Why You Should Read “Animal Farm”?

Animal Farm is worth reading first and foremost because it’s a rare example of a book that explains complex things in simple, almost transparent language. Orwell doesn’t hide behind heavy theorizing or overload the text with details; instead, he illustrates how power operates through clear scenes and the characters’ familiar, recognizable reactions.

Because of that, the novel is easy to read even for people who don’t like political literature, yet it leaves you with the feeling that you’ve seen how the system operates from the inside—without lectures or moralizing.

Another reason is its universality. Yes, Animal Farm is often linked to specific events of the twentieth century, and that connection is historically accurate. But the book’s power lies in the fact that it doesn’t belong to just one time or one country.

It describes a path that different societies can follow: from enthusiasm and hope, through compromises and fear, to a point where equality becomes a word without real meaning. The story still feels familiar today because Orwell isn’t writing about dates—he’s writing about human nature: about how we get used to gradual concessions, and how easily we begin to justify what only yesterday seemed unacceptable.

What also matters is the way the novel shows the role of language. In Animal Farm, words don’t merely accompany events—they shape them. The Commandments change, the meaning of key concepts gets blurred, and facts are adjusted to fit the preferred version.

As you read, you can’t help but pay closer attention to how public speeches are constructed, how slogans work, and how “explanations” can conceal outright violence or simple self-interest. In that sense, the book trains critical thinking, but it does so gently: it doesn’t demand any special knowledge—you only need to watch and compare.

Ultimately, Animal Farm carries genuine emotional weight. Despite its fable-like form, the story isn’t cold or abstract. The fates of Boxer or Clover are moving not because they are symbols, but because they reflect something deeply human—trust, hope, and exhaustion.

The book leaves an unpleasant aftertaste, but that is exactly why it matters. It forces you to ask questions about justice, responsibility, and why freedom doesn’t sustain itself. It’s a short read in length, but long-lasting in its impact: afterward, it becomes harder to see power as something neutral—and harder to believe words without checking the actions behind them.