Thirty years later...
PART ONE
Chapter 1
It was a bright cold day in November, 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
coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall.
It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a
man of about fifty-six, with heavy dark grey hair 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 electricity
was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in
preparation for Hate Week. The flat was nine flights up, and Winston, who
was thirty-seven 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 television
could be dimmed, but there was no way of turning it off completely. He
moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his
body merely emphasized by the red overalls which were the uniform 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 and rain of
the summer that had just ended.
Chapter 1
It was a bright cold day in November, 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
coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall.
It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a
man of about fifty-six, with heavy dark grey hair 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 electricity
was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in
preparation for Hate Week. The flat was nine flights up, and Winston, who
was thirty-seven 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 television
could be dimmed, but there was no way of turning it off completely. He
moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his
body merely emphasized by the red overalls which were the uniform 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 and rain of
the summer that had just ended.