1984 EBOOK DEUTSCH
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Download free eBooks to your Kindle, iPad/iPhone, computer, smart phone or ereader. Collection includes great works of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Compre (English Edition) de George Orwell na ppti.info Confira também os eBooks mais vendidos, lançamentos e livros digitais exclusivos. IV (Deutsch für Brasilianer Livro 4). Jonathan Cardoso. eBook Kindle. R$ 3, This web edition published by [email protected] . To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was It must be round.
Thirties to forties! Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the image of a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-shoes, had already appeared.
ONE, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of life into it! ONE, two, three four! ONE two, three, four! As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, wearing on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling to think his way backward into the dim period of his early childhood.
It was extraordinarily difficult. Beyond the late fifties everything faded. When there were no external records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life lost its sharpness.
You remembered huge events which had quite probably not happened, you remembered the detail of incidents without being able to recapture their atmosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you could assign nothing. Everything had been different then. Even the names of countries, and their shapes on the map, had been different. Airstrip One, for instance, had not been so called in those days: Winston could not definitely remember a time when his country had not been at war, but it was evident that there had been a fairly long interval of peace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an air raid which appeared to take everyone by surprise.
Perhaps it was the time when the atomic bomb had fallen on Colchester. His mother, in her slow, dreamy way, was following a long way behind them. She was carrying his baby sister — or perhaps it was only a bundle of blankets that she was carrying: Finally they had emerged into a noisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube station.
There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above the other. Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap pushed back from very white hair: He reeked of gin.
It seemed to breathe out of his skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed to him that he knew what it was.
Someone whom the old man loved — a little granddaughter, perhaps — had been killed. Every few minutes the old man kept repeating:. I said so all along. Since about that time, war had been literally continuous, though strictly speaking it had not always been the same war.
For several months during his childhood there had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any given moment, would have been utterly impossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention of any other alignment than the existing one. At this moment, for example, in if it was , Oceania was at war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia.
In no public or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three powers had at any time been grouped along different lines.
Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge which he happened to possess because his memory was not satisfactorily under control.
Officially the change of partners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia: The enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that any past or future agreement with him was impossible. The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be good for the back muscles — the frightening thing was that it might all be true.
The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia. He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as short a time as four years ago.
But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed — if all records told the same tale — then the lie passed into history and became truth.
Whatever was true now was true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed was an unending series of victories over your own memory. Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled his lungs with air. His mind slid away into the labyrinthine world of doublethink. To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget it again: That was the ultimate subtlety: The instructress had called them to attention again.
Winston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains all the way from his heels to his buttocks and often ended by bringing on another coughing fit.
The half-pleasant quality went out of his meditations. The past, he reflected, had not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For how could you establish even the most obvious fact when there existed no record outside your own memory? He tried to remember in what year he had first heard mention of Big Brother. He thought it must have been at some time in the sixties, but it was impossible to be certain. In the Party histories, of course, Big Brother figured as the leader and guardian of the Revolution since its very earliest days.
His exploits had been gradually pushed backwards in time until already they extended into the fabulous world of the forties and the thirties, when the capitalists in their strange cylindrical hats still rode through the streets of London in great gleaming motor-cars or horse carriages with glass sides.
There was no knowing how much of this legend was true and how much invented. Winston could not even remember at what date the Party itself had come into existence. Everything melted into mist. Sometimes, indeed, you could put your finger on a definite lie. It was not true, for example, as was claimed in the Party history books, that the Party had invented aeroplanes.
He remembered aeroplanes since his earliest childhood. But you could prove nothing. There was never any evidence. Just once in his whole life he had held in his hands unmistakable documentary proof of the falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion ——. Yes, YOU! Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. Lower, please!
Now stand at ease, the whole squad, and watch me. His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and — one could not say gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency — bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes.
Watch me again. Now look. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what THEY have to put up with. Now try again. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk.
In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building.
Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon — not actually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words — which was used in the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran:. With a faint feeling of satisfaction Winston laid the fourth message aside.
It was an intricate and responsible job and had better be dealt with last. The other three were routine matters, though the second one would probably mean some tedious wading through lists of figures. The messages he had received referred to articles or news items which for one reason or another it was thought necessary to alter, or, as the official phrase had it, to rectify. As for the third message, it referred to a very simple error which could be set right in a couple of minutes.
Actually, as Winston was aware, the chocolate ration was to be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty at the end of the present week. All that was needed was to substitute for the original promise a warning that it would probably be necessary to reduce the ration at some time in April.
Then, with a movement which was as nearly as possible unconscious, he crumpled up the original message and any notes that he himself had made, and dropped them into the memory hole to be devoured by the flames. What happened in the unseen labyrinth to which the pneumatic tubes led, he did not know in detail, but he did know in general terms. This process of continuous alteration was applied not only to newspapers, but to books, periodicals, pamphlets, posters, leaflets, films, sound-tracks, cartoons, photographs — to every kind of literature or documentation which might conceivably hold any political or ideological significance.
Day by day and almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date. In this way every prediction made by the Party could be shown by documentary evidence to have been correct, nor was any item of news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted with the needs of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record.
All history was a palimpsest, scraped clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was necessary. In no case would it have been possible, once the deed was done, to prove that any falsification had taken place. The largest section of the Records Department, far larger than the one on which Winston worked, consisted simply of persons whose duty it was to track down and collect all copies of books, newspapers, and other documents which had been superseded and were due for destruction.
Books, also, were recalled and rewritten again and again, and were invariably reissued without any admission that any alteration had been made. Even the written instructions which Winston received, and which he invariably got rid of as soon as he had dealt with them, never stated or implied that an act of forgery was to be committed: It was merely the substitution of one piece of nonsense for another. Most of the material that you were dealing with had no connexion with anything in the real world, not even the kind of connexion that is contained in a direct lie.
Statistics were just as much a fantasy in their original version as in their rectified version. A great deal of the time you were expected to make them up out of your head. The actual output was given as sixty-two millions. Winston, however, in rewriting the forecast, marked the figure down to fifty-seven millions, so as to allow for the usual claim that the quota had been overfulfilled. In any case, sixty-two millions was no nearer the truth than fifty-seven millions, or than millions.
Very likely no boots had been produced at all. Likelier still, nobody knew how many had been produced, much less cared. All one knew was that every quarter astronomical numbers of boots were produced on paper, while perhaps half the population of Oceania went barefoot.
And so it was with every class of recorded fact, great or small. Everything faded away into a shadow-world in which, finally, even the date of the year had become uncertain.
Winston glanced across the hall. In the corresponding cubicle on the other side a small, precise-looking, dark-chinned man named Tillotson was working steadily away, with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth very close to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite.
He had the air of trying to keep what he was saying a secret between himself and the telescreen. Winston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what work he was employed on. People in the Records Department did not readily talk about their jobs. In the long, windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles and its endless rustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into speakwrites, there were quite a dozen people whom Winston did not even know by name, though he daily saw them hurrying to and fro in the corridors or gesticulating in the Two Minutes Hate.
He knew that in the cubicle next to him the little woman with sandy hair toiled day in day out, simply at tracking down and deleting from the Press the names of people who had been vaporized and were therefore considered never to have existed. There was a certain fitness in this, since her own husband had been vaporized a couple of years earlier. And a few cubicles away a mild, ineffectual, dreamy creature named Ampleforth, with very hairy ears and a surprising talent for juggling with rhymes and metres, was engaged in producing garbled versions — definitive texts, they were called — of poems which had become ideologically offensive, but which for one reason or another were to be retained in the anthologies.
And this hall, with its fifty workers or thereabouts, was only one sub-section, a single cell, as it were, in the huge complexity of the Records Department. Beyond, above, below, were other swarms of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude of jobs. There were the huge printing-shops with their sub-editors, their typography experts, and their elaborately equipped studios for the faking of photographs.
There was the tele-programmes section with its engineers, its producers, and its teams of actors specially chosen for their skill in imitating voices. There were the armies of reference clerks whose job was simply to draw up lists of books and periodicals which were due for recall. There were the vast repositories where the corrected documents were stored, and the hidden furnaces where the original copies were destroyed.
And somewhere or other, quite anonymous, there were the directing brains who co-ordinated the whole effort and laid down the lines of policy which made it necessary that this fragment of the past should be preserved, that one falsified, and the other rubbed out of existence.
And the Ministry had not only to supply the multifarious needs of the party, but also to repeat the whole operation at a lower level for the benefit of the proletariat. There was a whole chain of separate departments dealing with proletarian literature, music, drama, and entertainment generally.
Here were produced rubbishy newspapers containing almost nothing except sport, crime and astrology, sensational five-cent novelettes, films oozing with sex, and sentimental songs which were composed entirely by mechanical means on a special kind of kaleidoscope known as a versificator. There was even a whole sub-section — Pornosec, it was called in Newspeak — engaged in producing the lowest kind of pornography, which was sent out in sealed packets and which no Party member, other than those who worked on it, was permitted to look at.
Three messages had slid out of the pneumatic tube while Winston was working, but they were simple matters, and he had disposed of them before the Two Minutes Hate interrupted him. When the Hate was over he returned to his cubicle, took the Newspeak dictionary from the shelf, pushed the speakwrite to one side, cleaned his spectacles, and settled down to his main job of the morning.
Most of it was a tedious routine, but included in it there were also jobs so difficult and intricate that you could lose yourself in them as in the depths of a mathematical problem — delicate pieces of forgery in which you had nothing to guide you except your knowledge of the principles of Ingsoc and your estimate of what the Party wanted you to say. Winston was good at this kind of thing. He unrolled the message that he had set aside earlier. It ran:. Rewrite it in full and submit your draft to higher authority before filing.
Winston read through the offending article. A certain Comrade Withers, a prominent member of the Inner Party, had been singled out for special mention and awarded a decoration, the Order of Conspicuous Merit, Second Class. Three months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved with no reasons given. One could assume that Withers and his associates were now in disgrace, but there had been no report of the matter in the Press or on the telescreen.
That was to be expected, since it was unusual for political offenders to be put on trial or even publicly denounced. The great purges involving thousands of people, with public trials of traitors and thought-criminals who made abject confession of their crimes and were afterwards executed, were special show-pieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of years.
More commonly, people who had incurred the displeasure of the Party simply disappeared and were never heard of again. One never had the smallest clue as to what had happened to them. In some cases they might not even be dead.
Perhaps thirty people personally known to Winston, not counting his parents, had disappeared at one time or another. Winston stroked his nose gently with a paper-clip. In the cubicle across the way Comrade Tillotson was still crouching secretively over his speakwrite. He raised his head for a moment: Winston wondered whether Comrade Tillotson was engaged on the same job as himself.
It was perfectly possible. So tricky a piece of work would never be entrusted to a single person: Very likely as many as a dozen people were now working away on rival versions of what Big Brother had actually said.
And presently some master brain in the Inner Party would select this version or that, would re-edit it and set in motion the complex processes of cross-referencing that would be required, and then the chosen lie would pass into the permanent records and become truth. Winston did not know why Withers had been disgraced. Perhaps it was for corruption or incompetence.
Perhaps Big Brother was merely getting rid of a too-popular subordinate. Perhaps Withers or someone close to him had been suspected of heretical tendencies. Or perhaps — what was likeliest of all — the thing had simply happened because purges and vaporizations were a necessary part of the mechanics of government.
You could not invariably assume this to be the case when people were arrested. Sometimes they were released and allowed to remain at liberty for as much as a year or two years before being executed.
Very occasionally some person whom you had believed dead long since would make a ghostly reappearance at some public trial where he would implicate hundreds of others by his testimony before vanishing, this time for ever. He did not exist: It was better to make it deal with something totally unconnected with its original subject.
He might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of traitors and thought-criminals, but that was a little too obvious, while to invent a victory at the front, or some triumph of over-production in the Ninth Three-Year Plan, might complicate the records too much. What was needed was a piece of pure fantasy.
Suddenly there sprang into his mind, ready made as it were, the image of a certain Comrade Ogilvy, who had recently died in battle, in heroic circumstances. There were occasions when Big Brother devoted his Order for the Day to commemorating some humble, rank-and-file Party member whose life and death he held up as an example worthy to be followed.
Today he should commemorate Comrade Ogilvy. It was true that there was no such person as Comrade Ogilvy, but a few lines of print and a couple of faked photographs would soon bring him into existence. At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys except a drum, a sub-machine gun, and a model helicopter. At six — a year early, by a special relaxation of the rules — he had joined the Spies, at nine he had been a troop leader. At eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought Police after overhearing a conversation which appeared to him to have criminal tendencies.
At seventeen he had been a district organizer of the Junior Anti-Sex League. At nineteen he had designed a hand-grenade which had been adopted by the Ministry of Peace and which, at its first trial, had killed thirty-one Eurasian prisoners in one burst. At twenty-three he had perished in action. Pursued by enemy jet planes while flying over the Indian Ocean with important despatches, he had weighted his body with his machine gun and leapt out of the helicopter into deep water, despatches and all — an end, said Big Brother, which it was impossible to contemplate without feelings of envy.
He was a total abstainer and a nonsmoker, had no recreations except a daily hour in the gymnasium, and had taken a vow of celibacy, believing marriage and the care of a family to be incompatible with a twenty-four-hour-a-day devotion to duty. He had no subjects of conversation except the principles of Ingsoc, and no aim in life except the defeat of the Eurasian enemy and the hunting-down of spies, saboteurs, thought-criminals, and traitors generally.
Once again he glanced at his rival in the opposite cubicle. Something seemed to tell him with certainty that Tillotson was busy on the same job as himself. There was no way of knowing whose job would finally be adopted, but he felt a profound conviction that it would be his own. Comrade Ogilvy, unimagined an hour ago, was now a fact.
It struck him as curious that you could create dead men but not living ones. Comrade Ogilvy, who had never existed in the present, now existed in the past, and when once the act of forgery was forgotten, he would exist just as authentically, and upon the same evidence, as Charlemagne or Julius Caesar. In the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch queue jerked slowly forward. The room was already very full and deafeningly noisy. From the grille at the counter the steam of stew came pouring forth, with a sour metallic smell which did not quite overcome the fumes of Victory Gin.
On the far side of the room there was a small bar, a mere hole in the wall, where gin could be bought at ten cents the large nip. He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research Department. You did not have friends nowadays, you had comrades: Syme was a philologist, a specialist in Newspeak.
Indeed, he was one of the enormous team of experts now engaged in compiling the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a tiny creature, smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large, protuberant eyes, at once mournful and derisive, which seemed to search your face closely while he was speaking to you. Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he had two unused ones which he was hoarding up. There had been a famine of them for months past.
At any given moment there was some necessary article which the Party shops were unable to supply. Sometimes it was buttons, sometimes it was darning wool, sometimes it was shoelaces; at present it was razor blades. The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he turned and faced Syme again. Each of them took a greasy metal tray from a pile at the end of the counter. He would talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of helicopter raids on enemy villages, and trials and confessions of thought-criminals, the executions in the cellars of the Ministry of Love.
Talking to him was largely a matter of getting him away from such subjects and entangling him, if possible, in the technicalities of Newspeak, on which he was authoritative and interesting. Winston turned his head a little aside to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark eyes. I like to see them kicking. And above all, at the end, the tongue sticking right out, and blue — a quite bright blue. Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille.
On to each was dumped swiftly the regulation lunch — a metal pannikin of pinkish-grey stew, a hunk of bread, a cube of cheese, a mug of milkless Victory Coffee, and one saccharine tablet.
The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. They threaded their way across the crowded room and unpacked their trays on to the metal-topped table, on one corner of which someone had left a pool of stew, a filthy liquid mess that had the appearance of vomit.
Winston took up his mug of gin, paused for an instant to collect his nerve, and gulped the oily-tasting stuff down. When he had winked the tears out of his eyes he suddenly discovered that he was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of the stew, which, in among its general sloppiness, had cubes of spongy pinkish stuff which was probably a preparation of meat. Neither of them spoke again till they had emptied their pannikins. He had brightened up immediately at the mention of Newspeak.
He pushed his pannikin aside, took up his hunk of bread in one delicate hand and his cheese in the other, and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak without shouting. You think, I dare say, that our chief job is inventing new words. But not a bit of it! His thin dark face had become animated, his eyes had lost their mocking expression and grown almost dreamy.
Of course the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well. After all, what justification is there for a word which is simply the opposite of some other word?
A word contains its opposite in itself. Of course we use those forms already. In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words — in reality, only one word. It was B. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of enthusiasm.
Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year? Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the dark-coloured bread, chewed it briefly, and went on:. In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten.
But the process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Syme, however, had divined what he was about to say. The whole literature of the past will have been destroyed.
Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will change. The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking — not needing to think.
Orthodoxy is unconsciousness. One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep conviction, Syme will be vaporized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly and speaks too plainly. The Party does not like such people. One day he will disappear.
Reading on different devices
It is written in his face. Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned a little sideways in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table on his left the man with the strident voice was still talking remorselessly away. A young woman who was perhaps his secretary, and who was sitting with her back to Winston, was listening to him and seemed to be eagerly agreeing with everything that he said. But the other voice never stopped for an instant, even when the girl was speaking. Winston knew the man by sight, though he knew no more about him than that he held some important post in the Fiction Department.
He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of eyes.
What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature.
He might be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front — it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc.
As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it was not speech in the true sense: Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of his spoon was tracing patterns in the puddle of stew.
The voice from the other table quacked rapidly on, easily audible in spite of the surrounding din. It is one of those interesting words that have two contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, applied to someone you agree with, it is praise. Unquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston thought again. He thought it with a kind of sadness, although well knowing that Syme despised him and slightly disliked him, and was fully capable of denouncing him as a thought-criminal if he saw any reason for doing so.
There was something subtly wrong with Syme. There was something that he lacked: You could not say that he was unorthodox. He believed in the principles of Ingsoc, he venerated Big Brother, he rejoiced over victories, he hated heretics, not merely with sincerity but with a sort of restless zeal, an up-to-dateness of information, which the ordinary Party member did not approach.
Yet a faint air of disreputability always clung to him. He said things that would have been better unsaid, he had read too many books, he frequented the Chestnut Tree Cafe, haunt of painters and musicians. There was no law, not even an unwritten law, against frequenting the Chestnut Tree Cafe, yet the place was somehow ill-omened. The old, discredited leaders of the Party had been used to gather there before they were finally purged.
Goldstein himself, it was said, had sometimes been seen there, years and decades ago. So would anybody else, for that matter: Zeal was not enough. Orthodoxy was unconsciousness. At thirty-five he was already putting on rolls of fat at neck and waistline, but his movements were brisk and boyish. His whole appearance was that of a little boy grown large, so much so that although he was wearing the regulation overalls, it was almost impossible not to think of him as being dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirt, and red neckerchief of the Spies.
In visualizing him one saw always a picture of dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy forearms. Parsons did, indeed, invariably revert to shorts when a community hike or any other physical activity gave him an excuse for doing so. Beads of moisture stood out all over his pink face. His powers of sweating were extraordinary.
At the Community Centre you could always tell when he had been playing table-tennis by the dampness of the bat handle.
Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there was a long column of words, and was studying it with an ink-pencil between his fingers. Something a bit too brainy for me, I expect. You know — the house-by-house fund. Two dollars you promised me. Winston found and handed over two creased and filthy notes, which Parsons entered in a small notebook, in the neat handwriting of the illiterate. I gave him a good dressing-down for it.
Mischievous little beggars they are, both of them, but talk about keenness! All they think about is the Spies, and the war, of course. She got two other girls to go with her, slipped off from the hike, and spent the whole afternoon following a strange man.
They kept on his tail for two hours, right through the woods, and then, when they got into Amersham, handed him over to the patrols. What do you think put her on to him in the first place? So the chances were he was a foreigner. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh? As though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call floated from the telescreen just above their heads. However, it was not the proclamation of a military victory this time, but merely an announcement from the Ministry of Plenty.
We have glorious news for you. We have won the battle for production! Returns now completed of the output of all classes of consumption goods show that the standard of living has risen by no less than 20 per cent over the past year. All over Oceania this morning there were irrepressible spontaneous demonstrations when workers marched out of factories and offices and paraded through the streets with banners voicing their gratitude to Big Brother for the new, happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed upon us.
Here are some of the completed figures. It had been a favourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty.
Parsons, his attention caught by the trumpet call, sat listening with a sort of gaping solemnity, a sort of edified boredom. He could not follow the figures, but he was aware that they were in some way a cause for satisfaction.
He had lugged out a huge and filthy pipe which was already half full of charred tobacco. With the tobacco ration at grammes a week it was seldom possible to fill a pipe to the top.
Copyright notice These books are published in Australia and are out of copyright here. Popular apps that support ePUB include: Connect your Kindle device with your computer using a USB cable. In small clumsy letters he wrote: April 4th, The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald. Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen. Frankenstein Mary Shelley. Great Expectations Charles Dickens. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. The scene that I most often think is when Winston and Julia are captured.
Winston Smith cautiously and surreptitiously discovers the Brotherhood led by Goldstein and then learns all too well about O'Brien's duplicitous doublethink.
Deutsch heute : Grundstufe
More than just a cautionary political tale, Orwell has described an ideological abyss into which we must not gaze; a glimpse at authoritarianism power plays to which the Nazis and Soviets never descended.
While we can appreciate the reminder to avoid authoritarianism and his prophetic vision, the idea that truth can be arranged through media is perhaps the most relevant for us today. View all 31 comments. I've put off writing a review for because it's simply too daunting to do so. I liked even better after a second reading bumping it up from a 4 star to a 5 star because I think that, given the complexity of the future created by Orwell, multiple readings may be needed to take it all in.
I thought it was genius the first time and appreciated that genius even more the second time. Orwell had a daunting task: This future had to be its own complex, independent society, but it also had to be the natural end result of the totalitarianism Orwell witnessed in the communist and socialist regimes of World War II. That's part of the horror of It's easy to see how those in control can, through manipulation and propaganda, maintain that control simply for the sake of sating their own power hunger.
It's easy to say "no one could ever tell me what to think or what to do," but the Party's use of Big Brother, the Thought Police, the Two-Minute Hate, and Doublethink make it easy to see how a person's ability to think independently and discern fiction from reality can be eroded when there is no touchstone to fact. Revising and rewriting the past to make certain that Big Brother and the Party are always correct has effectively eliminated historical accuracy.
How can one think and reason in a society where everything is a fabrication? Another facet of that I find fascinating is the relationship between Winston and Julia. Winston claims Julia is a "rebel from the waist down," engaging in promiscuity and hedonistic indulgences forbidden by the Party. She doesn't care about social injustice or defining "reality"; she only longs for what will make her feel good in the moment and only rebels far enough to get what she wants.
By comparison, Winston is an intellectual rebel, constantly worrying over the issues of truth and freedom and the real, unvarnished past, but limited in how far he's willing to push the boundaries until he meets Julia. Together, they make a complete rebellion--physical and mental, but apart they find themselves impotent to stand up to the Party.
Cross posted at This Insignificant Cinder View all 17 comments. The novel is set in Airstrip One, formerly Great Britain, a province of the superstate Oceania, whose residents are victims of perpetual war, omnipresent government surveillance and public manipulation. Oceania's political ideology, euphemistically named English Socialism shortened to "Ingsoc" in Newspeak, the government's invented langua Oceania's political ideology, euphemistically named English Socialism shortened to "Ingsoc" in Newspeak, the government's invented language is enforced by the privileged, elite Inner Party.
Via the "Thought Police", the Inner Party persecutes individualism and independent thinking, which are regarded as "thoughtcrimes". View all 7 comments. Nov 09, Leo. Is Orwell turning in his grave? Does his epitaph read.
Don't say I never told you so! Which pigeon hole? What label? What career? When a car driver loses control of the vehicle and strays from the path that was ahead, the car careers off the road. One might crash. One is no longer on the journey one originally set out on.
One is lost. Off the beaten track. So, when one is a child and asked what career one wants, esoterically it means how can one be swayed or crashed and stopped from what one may want to be when one grows up. The only answer a child should give to their teacher indoctrinater is These authorities with all the powers? Deciding what we say, or do, or go, from their Ivory Towers A deviant neighbour moves in next door, behaviour abnormal, and hoarding trash Puts his waste in his shed, a festering, mouldy stash Attracting rats, mice, flies and vermin of all kinds Breaking other residents resolve, distorting their minds For when the community complain about it, every day, week in week out, all the time These authorities point the finger at us, accuse us of a Bloody Hate Crime!
Rationale has been replaced, with the word Hate As the lines blur, in this New World Order, is it too late? To change this world? To take a stance? Maybe our last Chance! This world is going to Hell in a Shitstorm! If we don't restore the Earth's Balance. Crawling all over society Police or Po-Lice? These parasites, are only there to Scare To enforce Order, in the chaos they Create On behest of the Magicians behind the curtains, the One's that preach Hate.
In this Cube, this false construct, this Square. So look around, see the whole, and Beware! I am full aware of what is going on in this pursuit for a New World Order, an Old World Order, whereby the void between the few and the majority broadens. I am so frustrated how the Sheeple just seem to lap it up. A cell phone. A smart cell phone that is all singing and dancing It is called a Cell phone for a reason. Like the Net and the Web.
Soon all appliances and mob devices will be Smart. If one does not own one then when 5G is rolled out and the Smart Grid comes into being, one will be left behind. Soon all money paid in wages or commerce will be digital and people will not survive in the New Virtual World unless one is chipped or connected to the 5G network.
George Orwell - "1984" (Roman)
Understand that money is phony. It is paper or a figure on a PC screen. Soon to be a digital concept, like in the film In Time. Money used to be made of copper, silver and gold. This is when coins actually held value, worth it's weight in gold actually meant something. Then the Templars invented the Banking system, now they are called Freemasons a Fiat pyramid system that is illegal yet, no person seems to care.
That is the way it is. Only because of ignorance. Acquiescence, Taxation is a fraud. It is theft. Time to wake up before it is too late. And the female freemasonic Eastern Star. Maybe I have said too much but, I don't care anymore. That is today's Rant. Everybody should read and also watch the film.
What can I possibly say about this amazing novel, by George Orwell, that hasn't been already said by many who have read the book for over half a century. When it is said that the book is 'haunting', 'nightmarish', and 'startling' any reader would have to agree!
This well known novel grips the reader from the beginning and does not even let go of the grip at the finished reading. A classic you won't want to miss if you haven't taken the time to read it yet. I actually listened to this novel What can I possibly say about this amazing novel, by George Orwell, that hasn't been already said by many who have read the book for over half a century.
I actually listened to this novel on audio and Simon Prebble was the 'perfect' narrator. View all 35 comments. This was the book that started my love affair with the dystopian genre. And maybe indirectly influenced my decision to do a politics degree.
I was only 12 years old when I first read it but I suddenly saw how politics could be taken and manipulated to tell one hell of a scary and convincing story. I'm a lot more well-read now but, back then, this was a game-changer. I started to think about things differently. View all 22 comments.
Wafa Foufa I have the book but did not read it, but your review makes me want to. Feb 26, For many of the same reasons! Although I wish I had studied it as literally as you did May 24, Social media is a cage full of starved rats and all of us have our heads stuck in there now, like it or not. View all 9 comments. View all 26 comments.
View all 15 comments. In some twisted form, everything reflects the truth of reality. Of course there are exaggerations, though nothing is far from plausibility. We are controlled by our governments, and often in ways we are not consciously aware of. Advertisements, marketing campaigns and political events are all designed for us to elicit a certain response and think in a desired way.
Cultural brainwashing becomes the chief goal.
George Orwell - 1984 (Deutsch/German)
Assimilation into a passionless and completely ignorant mind-set becomes the most effective means of keeping the population down. If you can make a man forget or deny his past then he knows of no situation better than his current state: Subjugation becomes normality.
The streets are claustrophobic and the people the workers can escape nothing. Every action, every word spoken, is recorded. The police are ready to grab anyone who steps remotely out of line.
If language can be broken down into the absolute basics, the simplest and ordinary units, then people can only express themselves on a very minor level.
They cannot think beyond their daily tasks because there are no words that connote dreams and fantasy. Step out of line and you are killed, though not before being dragged to room for torture and even stronger methods of thought control.
As such through the plot the book depicts a stark transformation, a transformation of man who was once willing to fight and to think but falls into one of the ingenious traps big brother sets for him to expose his criminality. He shows us that we are not so far from big brother as we may think. View all 14 comments. View all 10 comments. I reread this recently, knowing my mind from a few years ago is different from my mind now. But it was surprisingly just as scary!
Maybe even more so, if that is possible!! I wonder if there is someone who has read and has not felt angry and helpless. It is a good book. It is so good that it made my want to throw away my Kindle. Martin's series. I also wonder if this world Orwell d I reread this recently, knowing my mind from a few years ago is different from my mind now. I also wonder if this world Orwell describes is that far from ours. Big Brother may have become a stupid internet meme and an even stupider TV show if there are fans here sorrynotsorry , but that somehow makes it even more frightening.
In the oppression is very in your face, but in reality it is hidden through nice words and fancy laws. At the end of the day, it really makes you ask yourself if safety and security are really what you want. And if they are worth the price Winston is a very complex, sane person in a world full of insanity and utter destitution.
Julia is on par with Winston, but other than the charming and mysterious O'Brien, no other character is developed enough to be anything but a filler, someone to push the plot along.
In any other novel this would be a bad thing, but in this world it is perfect, and it's exactly what those people are in any case. It is so superbly written I cannot fault it at all concerning that.
At the beginning I was drawn in so far that I was almost in love. It was a five-star book up until Julia turned up: The other thing that put me off was the huge info-dump. Whilst I completely understood that this was an intentional info-drop and it really could not have been conveyed to either the reader or the character in any other way, it really made the whole thing very disjointed. Again, it felt hugely intentional but I still did not enjoy it.
Overall, there's really nothing I can fault except my own opinions. Good writing is Fact: Enjoyment of writing is Opinion: This was a perfect book that I simply had a few too many low opinions of to be delighted by it completely. View all 5 comments. Doubleplusgood Maxitruth in Oldspeak on Doublethink and Crimestop!
Translation from Newspeak: Excellent, accurate analysis of oppressive, selective society in well-written Standard English reflecting on the the capacity to hold two contradictory opinions for truth at the same time and on the effectiveness of protective stupidity as a means to keep a power structure stable. There is not much left to say about this prophetic novel by Orwell which has not been said over and over again since its pu Doubleplusgood Maxitruth in Oldspeak on Doublethink and Crimestop!
There is not much left to say about this prophetic novel by Orwell which has not been said over and over again since its publication at the beginning of the Cold War in There are obviously elements which refer directly to Stalinist socialism, and the life conditions of people in the s, but what strikes as sadly true, not for Communist propaganda behind the historical Iron Curtain, but for the celebrated democracies in the Western tradition, is the idea of rewriting history and altering facts a posteriori into their opposite to suit political agendas, and the usurpation of scientific and political language to follow a path of absolute brainwashing.
Reading this novel for the third time with the speeches of the current President of the United States and his followers ringing in my ears, it is hard not to cringe at the reduction of language that Orwell predicted in "" In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it.
Very dishonest! Total loser! You are fake news! Russia is fake news! The failing NYTimes! The largest! The best! Running like a fine-tuned machine! The least racist! The most humble!
The one with the best polls, for the negative ones are fake! The problem with dictatorships, and dogmas of a specific faith, is that they will never shy away from usurping and then destroying the generally accepted conventions of communication if it serves their purposes. Their aim, they claim, is to protect unborn life, which sounds honourable until you start to think about their opinions about and treatment of human beings that already dwell on earth: He is broken, not only physically, but mentally, and after torture of unimaginable dimensions, his closing lines show complete surrender, body and soul, to the evil brainwashing machinery of Big Brother: He loved Big Brother!
Do I feel it works? Absolutely, I feel it works. You can force a human being to speak against his or her will, using torture. And as long as you are not finicky regarding the accuracy of the received confession, you will be able to report results. An easy task for any doublethinker. And please do not confuse that with information! Really bad.
So unfair. So dishonest. The most dishonest information in the world. Total loser information. Education Against Crimestop Now!
View all 51 comments. This book! This was a reread - the last time I read this was over 20 years ago and I wanted to see if the 5 star rating and its standing in one of my top 3 favorite books held up - and it most certainly does. If this book was written today in the midst of the slew of dystopian novels that come out, it may not have stood out.But, in the end, they fix him and he's happy again.
In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words — in reality, only one word. Acquiescence, Taxation is a fraud. He picked up his pen half-heartedly, wondering whether he could find something more to write in the diary. Beyond, above, below, were other swarms of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude of jobs.