"It 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
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With all the great literature available, I don't have time for more Orwell. I adored 1984, but Animal Farm was marginal for me. I have accepted that Orwell's ideas are far greater than his writing. Huxley is similar and Farenheit 451 is even worse.
I may be one of the few who can appreciate the cameras. Of course I devoured those sci fi, the-future-is-doomed stories when I was growing up and could always picture myself chugging along, wearing my little communist uniform updating records at the ministry.
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