1984

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1984

ी write easy reader ↓ 1984 ॠ Kindle By George Orwell গ ONEIt was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats At one end of it a colored poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall It depicted simply an enormous face, than a meter wide the face of a man of about forty five, with a heavy black mustache and ruggedly handsome features Winston made for the stairs It was no use trying the lift Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty nine, and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way On each landing, opposite the lift shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig iron The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right hand wall Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable The instrument the telescreen, it was called could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely He moved over to the window a smallish, frail figure, the meagerness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uni form of the Party His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.Outside, even through the shut window pane, the world looked cold Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no color in anything except the posters that were plastered every where The black mustachiod face gazed down from every commanding corner There was one on the house front immediately opposite BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winstons own Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a blue bottle, and darted away again with a curving flight It was the Police Patrol, snooping into peoples windows The patrols did not matter, however Only the Thought Police mattered.Behind Winstons back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig iron and the overfulfillment of the Ninth Three Year Plan The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it over, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to You had to live did live, from habit that became instinctin the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen It was safer though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing A kilometer away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape This, he thought with a sort of vague distastethis was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth century houses, their sides shored up with balks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow herb straggled over the heaps of rubble and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger path and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken houses But it was no use, he could not remember nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright lit tableaux, occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.The Ministry of TruthMinitrue, in Newspeak was startlingly different from any other object in sight It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, three hundred meters into the air From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERYIGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided the Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts the Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war the Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order and the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs Their names, in Newspeak Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one There were no windows in it at all Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometer of it It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine gun nests Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.Winston turned round abruptly He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark colored bread which had got to be saved for tomorrows breakfast He took down from the shelf a bottle of colorless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese rice spirit Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes The stuff was like nitric acid, and over, in swallow ing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club The next moment, however, the burning in his belly died down and the world began to look cheerful He took a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously held it upright, where upon the tobacco fell out onto the floor With the next he was successful He went back to the living room and sat down at a small table that stood to the left of the telescreen From the table drawer he took out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto sized blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.For some reason the telescreen in the living room was in an unusual position Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the window To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting and which, when the flats were built, had probably been intended to hold bookshelves By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do.But it had also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out of the drawer It was a peculiarly beautiful book Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least forty years past He could guess, however, that the book was much older than that He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little junk shop in a slummy quarter of the town just what quarter he did not now remember and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess it Party members were sup posed not to go into ordinary shops dealing on the free mar ket, it was called , but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things such as shoelaces and razor blades which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way He had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular pur pose He had carried it guiltily home in his brief case Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary This was not illegal nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws , but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty five years in a forced labor camp Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off The pen was an archaic in strument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had pro cured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink pencil Actually he was not used to writing by hand Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything into the speakwrite, which was of course impossible for his present purpose He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second A tremor had gone through his bowels To mark the paper was the decisive act In small clumsy letters he wrote April 4th, 1984.He sat back A sense of complete helplessness had de scended upon him To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984 It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945 but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary For the future, for the unborn His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word doublethink For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him How could you communicate with the future It was of its nature impossible Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him, or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper The telescreen had changed over to strident military music It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage The actual writing would be easy All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been run ning inside his head, literally for years At this moment, how ever, even the monologue had dried up Moreover, his varicose ulcer had begun itching unbearably He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it always became inflamed The seconds were ticking by He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin.Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops April 4th, 1984 Last night to the flicks All war films One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water audience shouting with laughter when he sank then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicop ter hovering over it there was a middleaged woman might have been a jewess sitting up in the bow with a little boy about three years old in her arms little boy screaming with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting her arms around him and comfort ing him although she was blue with fright herself all the time covering him up as much as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets off him then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood then there was a wonderful shot of a childs arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of ap plause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of the kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they neverWinston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish But the curious thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had clarified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt equal to writing it down It was, he now realized, because of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come home and begin the diary today.It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous could be said to happen.It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the center of the hall, opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate Winston was just taking his place in one of the mid dle rows when two people whom he knew by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into the room One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department Presumablysince he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spannershe had some mechanical job on one of the novel writing machines She was a bold looking girl of about twenty seven, with thick dark hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti Sex League, was wound several times around the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips Win ston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her He knew the reason It was because of the atmosphere of hockey fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean mindedness which she managed to carry about with her He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers out of unorthodoxy But this particular girl gave him the impression of being dangerous than most Once when they passed in the corridor she had given him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror The idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police That, it was true, was very unlikely Still, he continued to feel a peculiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.The other person was a man named OBrien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature A mo mentary hush passed over the group of people round the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member approaching OBrien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face In spite of his for midable appearance he had a certain charm of manner He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarmingin some indefinable way, curiously civi lized It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eighteenth century noble man offering his snuffbox Winston had seen OBrien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many years He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued by the con trast between OBriens urbane manner and his prizefighters physique Much it was because of a secretly held beliefor perhaps not even a belief, merely a hopethat OBriens political orthodoxy was not perfect Something in his face suggested it irresistibly And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was written in his face, but simply intelligence But at any rate he had the appearance of being a person that you could talk to, if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get him alone Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this guess indeed, there was no way of doing so At this moment OBrien glanced at his wrist watch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Min utes Hate was over He took a chair in the same row as Win ston, a couple of places away A small, sandy haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was between them The girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.The next moment a hideous, grinding screech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room It was a noise that set ones teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of ones neck The Hate had started.As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed onto the screen There were hisses here and there among the audience The little sandy haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago how long ago, nobody quite remembered , had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counterrevolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteri ously escaped and disappeared The program of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure He was the pri mal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Partys purity All subse quent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters perhaps evenso it was occasionally rudin some hiding place in Oceania itself.Winstons diaphragm was constricted He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee bearda clever face, and yet some how inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheeplike quality Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Partyan at tack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level headed than oneself, might be taken in by it He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was cry ing hysterically that the Revolution had been betrayedand all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of par ody of the habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldsteins specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian armyrow after row of solid looking men with ex pressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar The dull, rhythmic tramp of the soldiers boots formed the background to Goldsteins bleating voice.Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room The self satisfied sheeplike face on the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army behind it, were too much to be borne besides, the sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger automatically He was an object of hatred constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these powers it was generally at peace with the other But what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day, and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his the ories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they werein spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced by him A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there It was a book without a title People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book But one knew of such things only through vague rumors Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it.In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen The little sandy haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish Even OBriens heavy face was flushed He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a wave The dark haired girl be hind Winston had begun crying out Swine Swine Swine and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen It struck Goldsteins nose and bounced off the voice continued inexorably In a lucid moment Win ston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in Within thirty seconds any pretense was always unnec essary A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against ones will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp Thus, at one moment Winstons hatred was not turned against Gold stein at all, but, on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies And yet the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless pro tector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.It was even possible, at moments, to switch ones hatred this way or that by a voluntary act Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one wrenches ones head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark haired girl behind him Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian He would ravish her and cut her throat at the mo ment of climax Better than before, over, he realized why it was that he hated her He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.The Hate rose to its climax The voice of Goldstein had become an actual sheeps bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep Then the sheep face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his submachine gun roaring and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black haired, black mustachiod, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the screen Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken Then the face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out in bold capitals WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERYIGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for several seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had made on everyones eyeballs were too vivid to wear off immediately The little sandy haired woman had flung herself forward over the back of the chair in front of her With a tremulous murmur that sounded like My Savior she extended her arms toward the screen Then she buried her face in her hands It was ap parent that she was uttering a prayer.At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of B B B B B B over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first B and the seconda heavy, murmurous sound, some how curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom toms For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it up It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of over whelming emotion Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still it was an act of self hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise Winstons entrails seemed to grow cold In theTwo Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this subhuman chanting of B B B B al ways filled him with horror Of course he chanted with the rest it was impossible to do otherwise To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the expression in his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him And it was exactly at this moment that the significant thing happenedif, indeed, it did happen.Momentarily he caught OBriens eye OBrien had stood up He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of re settling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knewyes, he knew that OBrien was thinking the same thing as himself An un mistakable message had passed It was as though their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their eyes I am with you, OBrien seemed to be saying to him I know precisely what you are feeling I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust But dont worry, I am on your side And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and OBriens face was as in scrutable as everybody elses.That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened Such incidents never had any sequel All that they did was to keep alive in him the belief, or hope, that others be sides himself were the enemies of the Party Perhaps the rumors of vast underground conspiracies were true after allperhaps the Brotherhood really existed It was impossible, in spite of the endless arrests and confessions and execu tions, to be sure that the Brotherhood was not simply a myth Some days he believed in it, some days not There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing snatches of overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory wallsonce, even, when two strangers met, a small movement of the hands which had looked as though it might be a signal of recognition It was all guesswork very likely he had imagined everything He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at OBrien again The idea of follow ing up their momentary contact hardly crossed his mind It would have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the story But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.Winston roused himself and sat up straighter He let out a belch The gin was rising from his stomach.His eyes refocused on the page He discovered that while he sat helplessly musing he had also been writing, as though by automatic action And it was no longer the same cramped aw k ward handwriting as before His pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitalsDOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHERover and over again, filling half a page.He could not help feeling a twinge of panic It was absurd, since the writing of those particular words was not dan gerous than the initial act of opening the diary but for a mo ment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether.But he did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made no difference Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference The Thought Police would get him just the same He had committedwould still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paperthe essential crime that contained all others in itself Thoughtcrime, they called it Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed forever You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you.It was always at nightthe arrests invariably happened at night The sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shaking your shoulder, the lights glaring in your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed In the vast majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest People simply disappeared, always during the night Your name was removed from the reg isters, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your one time existence was denied and then forgotten You were abolished, annihilated vaporized wasthe usual word.For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria He began writing in a hurried untidy scrawl theyll shoot me i dont care theyll shoot me in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother they al ways shoot you in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brotherHe sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down his pen Thenext moment he started violently There was a knocking at his door.Already He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that whoever it was might go away after a single attempt But no, the knocking was repeated The worst thing of all would be to delay His heart was thumping like a drum, but his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless He got up and moved heavily toward the door.IIAs he put his hand to the doorknob Winston saw that he had left the diary open on the table DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in letters almost big enough to be legible across the room It was an inconceivably stupid thing to have done But, he realized, even in his panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by shutting the book while the ink was wet.He drew in his breath and opened the door Instantly a warm wave of relief flowed through him A colorless, crushed looking woman, with wispy hair and a lined face, was standing outside.Oh, comrade, she began in a dreary, whining sort of voice, I thought I heard you come in Do you think you could come across and have a look at our kitchen sink Its got blocked up andIt was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbor on the same floor Mrs was a word somewhat discountenanced by the Partyyou were supposed to call everyone comradebut with some women one used it instinctively She was a woman of about thirty, but looking much older One had the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face Winston followed her down the passage These amateur repair jobs were an almost daily irritation Victory Mansions were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were falling to pieces The plaster flaked constantly from ceilings and walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked whenever there was snow, the heating system was usually running at half steam when it was not closed down altogether from motives of economy Repairs, except what you could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by remote committees which were liable to hold up even the mending of a window pane for two years.Of course its only because Tom isnt home, said Mrs Parsons vaguely.The Parsonsess flat was bigger than Winstons, and dingy in a different way Everything had a battered, trampled on look, as though the place had just been visited by some large violent animal Games impedimentahockey sticks, boxing gloves, a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts turned inside outlay all over the floor, and on the table there was a litter of dirty dishes and dog eared exercise books On the walls were scarlet banners of the Youth League and the Spies, and a full sized poster of Big Brother There was the usual boiled cabbage smell, common to the whole building, but it was shot through by a sharper reek of sweat, whichone knew this at the first sniff, though it was hard to say howwas the sweat of some person not present at the moment In another room someone with a comb and a piece of toilet paper was trying to keep tune with the military music which was still issuing from the telescreen.Its the children, said Mrs Parsons, casting a half apprehensive glance at the door They havent been out today And of courseShe had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the middle The kitchen sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy gr e e n ish water which smelt worse than ever of cabbage Winston knelt down and examined the angle joint of the pipe He hated using his hands, and he hated bending down, which was always liable to start him coughing Mrs Parsons looked on helplessly Of course if Tom was home hed put it right in a moment, she said He loves anything like that Hes ever so good with his hands, Tom is.Parsons was Winstons fellow employee at the Ministry of Truth He was a fattish but active man of paralyzing stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasmsone of those completely un questioning, devoted drudges on whom, even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party depended At thirty five he had just been unwillingly evicted from the Youth League, and before graduating into the Youth League he had managed to stay on in the Spies for a year beyond the statutory age At the Ministry he was employed in some subordinate post for which intelligence was not required, but on the other hand he was a leading figure on the Sports Committee and all the other committees engaged in organizing community hikes, spontaneous demonstrations, saving campaigns, and voluntary activities generally He would inform you with quiet pride, between whiffs of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance at the Community Center every evening for the past four years An overpowering smell of sweat, a sort of unconscious testimony to the strenuousness of his life, followed him about wherever he went, and even remained behind him after he had gone.Have you got a spanner said Winston, fiddling with the nut on the angle joint.A spanner, said Mrs Parsons, immediately becoming invertebrate I dont know, Im sure Perhaps the childrenThere was a trampling of boots and another blast on the comb as the children charged into the living room Mrs Par sons brought the spanner Winston let out the water and dis gustedly removed the clot of human hair that had blocked up the pipe He cleaned his fingers as best he could in the cold water from the tap and went back into the other room.Up with your hands yelled a savage voice.A handsome, tough looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the table and was menacing him with a toy auto matic pistol, while his small sister, about two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, gray shirts, and red necker chiefs which were the uniform of the Spies Winston raised his hands above his head, but with an uneasy feeling, so vicious was the boys demeanor, that it was not altogether a game.Youre a traitor yelled the boy Youre a thought criminal Youre a Eurasian spy Ill shoot you, Ill vaporize you, Ill send you to the salt mines Suddenly they were both leaping around him, shouting Traitor and Thought criminal , the little girl imitating her brother in every movement It was somehow slightly frightening, like the gamboling of tiger cubs which will soon grow up into man eaters There was a sort of calculating ferocity in the boys eye, a quite evident desire to hit or kick Winston and a consciousness of being very nearly big enough to do so It was a good job it was not a real pistol he was holding, Winston thought.Mrs Parsonss eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the children, and back again In the better light of the living room he noticed with interest that there actually was dust in the creases of her face.They do get so noisy, she said Theyre disappointed because they couldnt go to see the hanging, thats what it is Im too busy to take them, and Tom wont be back from work in time.Why cant we go and see the hanging roared the boy in his huge voice.Want to see the hanging Want to see the hanging chanted the little girl, still capering round.Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to be hanged in the Park that evening, Winston remembered This happened about once a month, and was a popular spectacle Children always clad to be taken to see it He took his leave of Mrs Parsons and made for the door But he had not gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his neck an agonizingly painful blow It was as though a red hot wire had been jabbed into him He spun round just in time to see Mrs Parsons dragging her son back into the door way while the boy pocketed a catapult.Goldstein bellowed the boy as the door closed on him But what most struck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the womans grayish face.Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen and sat down at the table again, still rubbing his neck The music from the telescreen had stopped Instead, a clipped military voice was reading out, with a sort of brutal relish, a description of the armaments of the new Floating Fortress which had just been anchored between Iceland and the Faroe Islands.With those children, he thought, that wretched woman must lead a life of terror Another year, two years, and they would be watching her night and day for symptoms of unorthodoxy Nearly all children nowadays were horrible What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little sav ages, and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the Party On the contrary, they adored the Party and everything connected with it The songs, the processions, the banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brotherit was all a sort of glorious game to them All their ferocity was turned outwards, against the enemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought criminals It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children And with good reason, for hardly a week passed in which the Times did not carry a paragraph describ ing how some eavesdropping little sneakchild hero was the phrase generally usedhad overheard some compromis ing remark and denounced his parents to the Thought Police The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off He picked up his pen half heartedly, wondering whether he could find something to write in the diary Suddenly he began thinking of OBrien again.Years agohow long was it Seven years it must behe had dreamed that he was walking through a pitch dark room And someone sitting to one side of him had said as he passed We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness It was said very quietly, almost casuallya statement, not a com mand He had walked on without pausing What was curious was that at the time, in the dream, the words had not made much impression on him It was only later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on significance He could not now re member whether it was before or after having the dream that he had seen OBrien for the first time nor could he remember when he had first identified the voice as OBriens But at any rate the identification existed It was OBrien who had spoken to him out of the dark.Winston had never been able to feel sureeven after this mornings flash of the eyes it was still impossible to be sure whether OBrien was a friend or an enemy Nor did it even seem to matter greatly There was a link of understanding be tween them important than affection or partisanship We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness, he had said Winston did not know what it meant, only that in some way or another it would come true.The voice from the telescreen paused A trumpet call, clear and beautiful, floated into the stagnant air The voice continued raspingly Attention Your attention, please A newsflash has this mo ment arrived from the Malabar front Our forces in South India have won a glorious victory I am authorized to say that the action we are now reporting may well bring the war within measurable distance of its end Here is the newsflashBad news coming, thought Winston And sure enough, following on a gory description of the annihilation of a Eurasian army, with stupendous figures of killed and prisoners, came the announcement that, as from next week, the chocolate ration would be reduced from thirty grams to twenty.Winston belched again The gin was wearing off, leaving a deflated feeling The telescreenperhaps to celebrate the victory, perhaps to drown the memory of the lost chocolatecrashed into Oceania, tis for thee You were supposed to stand to at tention However, in his present position he was invisible.Oceania, tis for thee gave way to lighter music Winston walked over to the window, keeping his back to the telescreen The day was still cold and clear Somewhere far away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull, reverberating roar About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London at present.Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and fro, and the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished Ing soc The sacred principles of Ingsoc Newspeak, doublethink, the mutability of the past He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster He was alone The past was dead, the future was unimaginable What certainty had he that a single human creature now living was on his side And what way of knowing that the dominion of the Party would not endure forever Like an answer, the three slogans on the white face of the Ministry of Truth came back at him WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERYIGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.He took a twenty five cent piece out of his pocket There, too, in tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Brother Even from the coin the eyes pursued you On coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and on the wrapping of a cigarette packeteverywhere Always the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you Asleep or awake, working or eating, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or in bedno escape Nothing was your own except the few cubic centime ters inside your skull.The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of the Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on them, looked grim as the loopholes of a fortress His heart quailed before the enormous pyramidal shape It was too strong, it could not be stormed A thousand rocket bombs would not batter it down He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary For the future, for the pastfor an age that might be imaginary And in front of him there lay not death but annihilation The diary would be reduced to ashes and himself to vapor Only the Thought Police would read what he had written, before they wiped it out of existence and out of memory How could you make appeal to the future when not a trace of you, not even an anonymous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically survive The telescreen struck fourteen He must leave in ten minutes He had to be back at work by fourteen thirty.Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into him He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear But so long as he uttered it, in some ob scure way the continuity was not broken It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the human heritage He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live aloneto a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of double thinkgreetings He was already dead, he reflected It seemed to him that it was only now, when he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had taken the decisive step The consequences of every act are included in the act itself He wrote Thoughtcrime does not entail death thoughtcrime IS death.Now that he had recognized himself as a dead man it be came important to stay alive as long as possible Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you Some nosing zealot in the Ministry a woman, probably someone like the little sandy haired woman or the dark haired girl from the Fiction Department might start wondering why he had been writing during the lunch interval, why he had used an old fashioned pen, what he had been writingand then drop a hint in the appropriate quarter He went to the bathroom and carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty dark brown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was therefore well adapted for this purpose.He put the diary away in the drawer It was quite useless to think of hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had been discovered A hair laid across the page ends was too obvious With the tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved Newspeak was the official language of Oceania For an account of its structure and etymology, see Appendix.NOW A NEW BROADWAY PLAY STARRING TOM STURRIDGE AND OLIVIA WILDEWritten in 1948, 1984 was George Orwells chilling prophecy about the future And while 1984 has come and gone, his dystopian vision of a government that will do anything to control the narrative is timelier than ever The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears It was their final, most essential command.Winston Smith toes the Party line, rewriting history to satisfy the demands of the Ministry of Truth With each lie he writes, Winston grows to hate the Party that seeks power for its own sake and persecutes those who dare to commit thoughtcrimes But as he starts to think for himself, Winston cant escape the fact that Big Brother is always watchingAstartling and haunting vision of the world, 1984 isso powerful that it is completely convincing from start to finish No one can deny the influence of this novel, its hold on the imaginations of multiple generations of readers, or the resiliency of its admonitionsa legacy that seems only to grow with the passage of time. Wikipedia Dit artikel behandelt het jaar volgens de christelijke jaartelling Gebeurtenissen januari Brunei wordt een zelfstandige staat De hoogste West Duitse boek is dystopische toekomstroman van Britse schrijver George Orwell, grotendeels geschreven in en gepubliceerd Orwell presenteert dit novela Wikipedia, la enciclopedia libre su versin original ingls Nineteen Eighty Four es una poltica ficcin distpica, escrita por entre y romanzo uno dei pi celebri romanzi di pubblicato nel ma iniziato a scrivere anno da cui deriva il titolo George The complete works of george orwell, searchable format Also contains biography and quotes by From general summary to chapter summaries explanations famous quotes, the SparkNotes Study Guide has everything you need ace quizzes, tests, essays Signet Classics Erich Fromm on FREE shipping qualifying offers Written , was s chilling roman Wikipdia Sur les autres projets Wikimedia sur Wikiquote est le plus clbre publi Roman Originaltitel Four, deutscher Alternativtitel Neunzehnhundertvierundachtzig geschrieben von bis und erschienen im Juni ist advertisement December local broadcast Idaho January only nationalGeorge Eric Arthur Blair June better known his pen name an English novelist, essayist, journalist critic whose work Biography Biography Video bekijkenLearn about British writer such dystopian classics as Animal Farm bol Boeken kopen Kijk snel lezen koop je eenvoudig online bij bol Vele aanbiedingen Gratis retourneren Nederlandstalig beroemdste schrijvers Engeland Twee zijn meest beroemde werken Animal allegorical novella first published England August According book reflects events leading up Biography, Books, Facts for novels four Nineteen eighty door Scholieren Zoek informatie over Hier vind boekverslagen middelbare scholieren Boekverslag Engels I Zakelijke gegevens Auteur Titel nineteen four, Penguin books blz e druk Gegevens Nederlandse vertaling bab Vertalingen gratis Nederlands woordenboek vele andere vertalingen pseudoniem voor Motihari juni Londen, Brits schrijver, journalist, essayist literair criticus animal farm pseudonimo Motihari, giugno Londra, gennaio stato scrittore, giornalista, saggista, attivista Bihar, Britisch Indien als Januar London war ein englischer Schriftsteller, Essayist nom plume d Blair, n juin pendant priode du Raj britannique et mort janvier Londres, Novels Essays All novels, essays, articles, reviews, bibliography Huge photos gallery most valuable resource BBC History Historic Figures Orwell Read concise life Discover what lead him write including Big Brother Big Grote Broer begrip uit almachtige, onfeilbare staatshoofd Oceania Politics Language Language, essay First April Horizon, GB, wolna encyklopedia w ciwie ur czerwca zm stycznia pisarz i publicysta angielski, uczestnik hiszpa skiej wojny domowej 1984

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