Nineteen
Eighty-Four is a rare work that grows more haunting as its
futuristic purgatory becomes more real. Published in 1949, the book
offers political satirist George Orwell's nightmare vision of a
totalitarian, bureaucratic world and one poor stiff's attempt to find
individuality. The brilliance of the novel is Orwell's prescience of
modern life--the ubiquity of television, the distortion of the
language--and his ability to construct such a thorough version of
hell. Required reading for students since it was published, it ranks
among the most terrifying novels ever written.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
It had happened
at last. The expected message had come. All his life, it seemed to him, he had
been waiting for this to happen.
He
was walking down the long corridor at the Ministry and he was almost at the
spot where Julia had slipped the note into his hand when he became aware that
someone larger than himself was walking just behind him. The person, whoever it
was, gave a small cough, evidently as a prelude to speaking. Winston stopped
abruptly and turned. It was O'Brien.
At
last they were face to face, and it seemed that his only impulse was to run
away. His heart bounded violently. He would have been incapable of speaking.
O'Brien, however, had continued forward in the same movement, laying a friendly
hand for a moment on Winston's arm, so that the two of them were walking side
by side. He began speaking with the peculiar grave courtesy that differentiated
him from the majority of Inner Party members.
'I
had been hoping for an opportunity of talking to you,' he said. 'I was reading
one of your Newspeak articles in The Times the other day. You take a scholarly
interest in Newspeak, I believe?'
Winston
had recovered part of his self-possession. 'Hardly scholarly,' he said. 'I'm
only an amateur. It's not my subject. I have never had anything to do with the
actual construction of the language.'
'But
you write it very elegantly,' said O'Brien. 'That is not only my own opinion. I
was talking recently to a friend of yours who is certainly an expert. His name
has slipped my memory for the moment.'
Again
Winston's heart stirred painfully. It was inconceivable that this was anything
other than a reference to Syme. But Syme was not only dead, he was abolished,
an unperson. Any identifiable reference to him would have been mortally
dangerous. O'Brien's remark must obviously have been intended as a signal, a
codeword. By sharing a small act of thoughtcrime he had turned the two of them
into accomplices. They had continued to stroll slowly down the corridor, but
now O'Brien halted. With the curious, disarming friendliness that he always
managed to put in to the gesture he resettled his spectacles on his nose. Then
he went on:
'What
I had really intended to say was that in your article I noticed you had used
two words which have become obsolete. But they have only become so very recently.
Have you seen the tenth edition of the Newspeak Dictionary?'
'No,'
said Winston. 'I didn't think it had been issued yet. We are still using the
ninth in the Records Department.'
'The
tenth edition is not due to appear for some months, I believe. But a few
advance copies have been circulated. I have one myself. It might interest you
to look at it, perhaps?'
'Very
much so,' said Winston, immediately seeing where this tended.
'Some
of the new developments are most ingenious. The reduction in the number of
verbs — that is the point that will appeal to you, I think. Let me see, shall I
send a messenger to you with the dictionary? But I am afraid I invariably
forget anything of that kind. Perhaps you could pick it up at my flat at some
time that suited you? Wait. Let me give you my address.'
They
were standing in front of a telescreen. Somewhat absentmindedly O'Brien felt
two of his pockets and then produced a small leather-covered notebook and a
gold ink-pencil. Immediately beneath the telescreen, in such a position that
anyone who was watching at the other end of the instrument could read what he
was writing, he scribbled an address, tore out the page and handed it to
Winston.
'I
am usually at home in the evenings,' he said. 'If not, my servant will give you
the dictionary.'
He
was gone, leaving Winston holding the scrap of paper, which this time there was
no need to conceal. Nevertheless he carefully memorized what was written on it,
and some hours later dropped it into the memory hole along with a mass of other
papers.
They
had been talking to one another for a couple of minutes at the most. There was
only one meaning that the episode could possibly have. It had been contrived as
a way of letting Winston know O'Brien's address. This was necessary, because
except by direct enquiry it was never possible to discover where anyone lived.
There were no directories of any kind. 'If you ever want to see me, this is
where I can be found,' was what O'Brien had been saying to him. Perhaps there
would even be a message concealed somewhere in the dictionary. But at any rate,
one thing was certain. The conspiracy that he had dreamed of did exist, and he
had reached the outer edges of it.
He
knew that sooner or later he would obey O'Brien's summons. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps
after a long delay — he was not certain. What was happening was only the
working-out of a process that had started years ago. The first step had been a
secret, involuntary thought, the second had been the opening of the diary. He
had moved from thoughts to words, and now from words to actions. The last step
was something that would happen in the Ministry of Love. He had accepted it.
The end was contained in the beginning. But it was frightening: or, more
exactly, it was like a foretaste of death, like being a little less alive. Even
while he was speaking to O'Brien, when the meaning of the words had sunk in, a
chilly shuddering feeling had taken possession of his body. He had the
sensation of stepping into the dampness of a grave, and it was not much better
because he had always known that the grave was there and waiting for him.
No comments:
Post a Comment