Chap­ter IV – Gul­liv­er of Mars begins with a moment of still­ness. The pro­tag­o­nist wakes in an ele­gant Mar­t­ian cham­ber, sur­round­ed by silence and strange lux­u­ry. As he steps out onto a high ter­race, he takes in the vivid col­ors of sun­rise spilling over a city unlike any he’s known. Below, peo­ple gath­er for food in a spec­ta­cle of shared ease, but the labor is clear­ly man­aged by a dis­tinct group in yel­low attire. These slaves, qui­et and effi­cient, form the back­bone of a cul­ture that has oth­er­wise sur­ren­dered to com­fort. There’s no rush, no con­flict, only a sense of time­less leisure. It is a life with­out urgency.

Soon, his friend An appears, bright and wel­com­ing. The gov­ern­ment, An explains, is pre­pared to sup­port Gul­liv­er how­ev­er he wish­es. Polite­ly but firm­ly, Gul­liv­er declines. He sens­es that real liv­ing means more than rest­ing in com­fort pro­vid­ed by oth­ers. He craves pur­pose, not pam­per­ing. The ease of Mar­t­ian life, though tempt­ing, car­ries an under­cur­rent of numb­ness. Their help would come with qui­et sub­mis­sion, and that does not suit his nature. He choos­es free­dom over assis­tance, even if it means uncer­tain­ty.

An invites him to break­fast, offer­ing both food and insight into Mar­t­ian soci­ety. As they walk the streets, Gul­liv­er is entranced by the architecture—grand yet peace­ful, aged yet pris­tine. The peo­ple drift about like dreams, enjoy­ing the day with­out oblig­a­tion or effort. In time, An explains the cul­ture more deeply. There is no mon­ey, no trade, no per­son­al ambi­tion. Mar­tians do not mar­ry or raise fam­i­lies. Chil­dren belong to the com­mu­ni­ty, not to par­ents. Every­thing is shared, includ­ing affec­tion. This col­lec­tive way of life is designed to elim­i­nate con­flict. But it also dulls the spir­it.

The nar­ra­tor lis­tens, fas­ci­nat­ed but uneasy. He admires the har­mo­ny but sens­es its cost. With­out own­er­ship, with­out aspi­ra­tion, what dri­ves a per­son for­ward? He won­ders if this cul­ture, for all its beau­ty, has sac­ri­ficed growth for peace. An then reveals their deep­est fear—invaders from the West. Long ago, these strangers brought ruin. Now, a trib­ute is sent to pre­vent more destruc­tion. A girl, a ship, supplies—all offered qui­et­ly. It’s sur­vival by sur­ren­der, safe­ty through silence. Gul­liv­er is shocked. Resis­tance, he argues, is bet­ter than sub­mis­sion. But An only smiles and says their peo­ple pre­fer peace at any price.

Inward­ly, the pro­tag­o­nist can­not accept it. Mar­tians live long, maybe for­ev­er, but seem to have lost the will to shape their des­tiny. Their his­to­ry is writ­ten in stone, their future left untouched. Yet even in this world, there’s some­thing stirring—small flick­ers of long­ing. As he walks among them, he sees that not all eyes are emp­ty. The beau­ty of the city can­not ful­ly mask what has been lost. With­out con­flict, per­haps they have also lost joy.

Lat­er in the day, he explores more of the city on his own. He sees laugh­ter, love, and calm­ness, but always with a strange detach­ment. Romance exists but is shal­low, pass­ing like clouds. No bonds form. No com­mit­ments hold. Every­thing is tem­po­rary. This unset­tles him. It’s not just that the cus­toms are different—it’s that noth­ing seems to mat­ter for long. Time flows, but noth­ing leaves a mark. Even the peo­ple speak of love like a hob­by, not a life-chang­ing force.

Search­ing for some form of emo­tion­al con­nec­tion, the nar­ra­tor asks An for a drink that can soft­en the sharp edge of his long­ing. What he receives is a Mar­t­ian wine that alters mood. Upon sip­ping, he is filled with soar­ing hap­pi­ness. He laughs uncon­trol­lably, danc­ing with strangers, for­get­ting for a moment the ache of his iso­la­tion. The eupho­ria is total, like sun­light in liq­uid form. But just as quick­ly, a sec­ond drink is offered—a sober­ing draught that brings him gen­tly back. The high fades, and he’s left reflec­tive, aware of how thin the line is between joy and illu­sion.

This inter­ac­tion reveals some­thing vital about Mar­t­ian life. Emo­tions, like every­thing else, are con­trolled, mod­er­at­ed, dosed. Even feel­ings are reg­u­lat­ed by cus­tom and potion. Yet Gul­liv­er sees the dan­ger in too much ease. It can become a prison made of silk. He begins to under­stand why the Mar­tians fear conflict—they have built a par­adise too frag­ile to with­stand it. But with­out strug­gle, there can be no real tri­umph.

By the end of the chap­ter, Gul­liv­er stands at a crossroads—not in loca­tion, but in mind­set. Mars is seduc­tive in its peace, but peace with­out pur­pose feels hol­low. The peo­ple may have con­quered time, but at the cost of for­get­ting pas­sion. And he, a vis­i­tor from a flawed but dynam­ic world, can­not help but see both the splen­dor and the sor­row in that. The city shines under a still sky, and yet he walks with ques­tions heav­ier than before.