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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
George Orwell's seminal works, "1984" and "Animal Farm," present a compelling critique of totalitarianism and social injustice. Through stark, dystopian narratives, Orwell employs a blend of satirical allegory and rich imagery to underscore the pernicious effects of oppressive governance. "1984," featuring the chilling figure of Big Brother, unveils a world of surveillance and propaganda, while "Animal Farm" utilizes anthropomorphized animals to allegorically depict the rise and fall of revolutionary ideals. Both texts reflect the author's profound concern for individual freedom and the moral imperative of political accountability, resonating with readers in an era post-World War II when the specter of authoritarianism loomed large. George Orwell, an ardent social commentator and a democratic socialist, draws upon his own experiences in the Spanish Civil War and observations of the USSR to inform his narratives. His works are profoundly influenced by his fierce opposition to fascism and communism, fueled by a desire to expose the societal failures that arise from ideological extremism. Orwell's unique background'—ranging from his time as a colonial police officer in Burma to his focus on the plight of the working class'—imbues his writing with authenticity and urgency. Readers seeking a deeper understanding of political dynamics and the fragility of freedom will find "1984" and "Animal Farm" invaluable. Together, these works challenge us to reflect on our societal structures, urging vigilance against the encroachments of power. Engaging, thought-provoking, and hauntingly relevant, Orwell's masterpieces remain essential reading for anyone committed to the principles of liberty and justice. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A comprehensive Introduction outlines these selected works' unifying features, themes, or stylistic evolutions. - The Author Biography highlights personal milestones and literary influences that shape the entire body of writing. - A Historical Context section situates the works in their broader era—social currents, cultural trends, and key events that underpin their creation. - A concise Synopsis (Selection) offers an accessible overview of the included texts, helping readers navigate plotlines and main ideas without revealing critical twists. - A unified Analysis examines recurring motifs and stylistic hallmarks across the collection, tying the stories together while spotlighting the different work's strengths. - Reflection questions inspire deeper contemplation of the author's overarching message, inviting readers to draw connections among different texts and relate them to modern contexts. - Lastly, our hand‐picked Memorable Quotes distill pivotal lines and turning points, serving as touchstones for the collection's central themes.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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1984 & Animal Farm
Table of Contents
Introduction
This collection, '1984 & Animal Farm' by George Orwell, aims to present two of the author's most seminal works side by side, allowing readers a comprehensive insight into Orwell's insightful critique of society. It serves as a compilation that not only preserves the texts but also contextualizes and analyzes the overarching themes that are vital to understanding the political and social landscapes of both the past and present. By bringing these significant novels together, the collection invites readers to contemplate the implications of totalitarianism, oppression, and the struggle for freedom.
Within this single-author collection, readers will find two full-length novels: '1984' and 'Animal Farm.' These works represent different yet intertwined perspectives on the trials of human existence under oppressive regimes. By focusing on fiction, the collection specifically emphasizes narrative storytelling as a powerful means of engaging readers with complex moral and ethical dilemmas. Unlike anthologies that mix various genres, this collection is firmly rooted in the realm of novels, showcasing Orwell's ability to weave intricate plots with profound political undertones.
One of the most profound unifying themes within this collection is the exploration of power dynamics and the mechanisms through which power is maintained or subverted. In '1984', Orwell presents a chilling portrait of a dystopian future dominated by surveillance and propaganda, while 'Animal Farm' employs allegory to critique the corruption of socialist ideals. This thematic focus on authority’s impact on human relationships and societal structures further affirms Orwell's significance as a political thinker and literary figure. Such themes remain relevant, resonating in today's sociopolitical climate, making these works timeless.
Beyond their thematic coherence, both novels demonstrate Orwell's stylistic hallmark of clarity paired with incisive observation. His use of concise prose and vivid imagery enhances the emotional weight of the narratives, pulling readers into the horrific realities faced by the characters. Furthermore, Orwell's masterful construction of dialectical interactions makes each work a study in the art of persuasion and manipulation, compellingly illustrating how language is wielded as power. This stylistic consistency adds depth to both texts, reinforcing their enduring impact.
Another noteworthy aspect of this collection is its ability to serve as a vehicle for political commentary. Both '1984' and 'Animal Farm' challenge readers to question political ideologies, the nature of reality, and the ethical responsibilities of individuals within a society. By examining these works in tandem, one can discern a broader narrative around resistance and complicity in the face of oppression. The political underpinnings of these texts contribute significantly to their status as essential reading in both academic and casual settings.
The societal critique evident in both novels invites readers to reflect upon their own realities through the lens of Orwell's cautionary tales. '1984' confronts the extremes of governmental intrusion into personal lives and the erosion of truth, while 'Animal Farm' subtly underscores the betrayal of revolutionary ideals by those in power. This dual examination of tyranny and idealism compels readers to engage with the historical and contemporary implications of Orwell's insights, fostering a critical awareness of ongoing issues of governance and individual rights.
Moreover, Orwell’s vivid characterizations in both texts allow for an emotional connection that transcends the factual chilling narratives. His characters often embody the struggles, aspirations, and pitfalls of the human condition, prompting readers to empathize with their plights. This emotional depth enhances the reader's understanding of the psychological toll of living under repressive regimes, making the messages of hope and despair in both novels even more impactful. Each character serves as a reflection of the moral and ethical dilemmas faced in the pursuit of freedom.
The pervasive influence of George Orwell extends far beyond the confines of literature; his ideas have permeated global consciousness and continue to shape contemporary discourse. The terms 'Orwellian' and 'Big Brother' have entered popular vocabulary, evoking a particular worldview associated with oppressive governmental control. By situating '1984' alongside 'Animal Farm,' this collection underscores the far-reaching effects of Orwell's thoughts on culture, governance, and individual agency, highlighting why these works warrant critical engagement.
In recent years, the urgency of Orwell's messages has gained renewed attention amidst discussions of surveillance, fake news, and authoritarian regimes. This collection serves as an essential reminder of the vigilance required to safeguard against the vulnerabilities present in any society. As long as these issues remain pertinent, Orwell's work will continue to resonate, elevating the relevance of this collection to scholars and casual readers alike. The interconnection of his themes creates a holistic understanding that deepens the reading experience.
Furthermore, both '1984' and 'Animal Farm' challenge readers to analyze the role of language in shaping reality and controlling narratives. Through the concept of Newspeak in '1984' and the revision of commandments in 'Animal Farm,' Orwell illustrates how manipulation of language can serve as a tool of oppression. This examination of linguistic power invites readers to scrutinize the language they encounter in their own lives, fostering a critical perspective on media, politics, and communication.
This collection invites readers to explore the enduring relevance of George Orwell's works. Rather than merely being historical artifacts, '1984' and 'Animal Farm' serve as lenses through which we can examine current political and social realities. Each novel's cautionary tale encourages critical thinking and active engagement with the world, empowering readers to question accepted norms and challenge injustices, thus prompting a sense of responsibility towards societal change.
In addition to the thematic exploration of power and language, the ethical dilemmas faced by Orwell's characters resonate with readers on a personal level. The struggles of individuals against oppressive forces encourage a reflection on one's values and moral choices. This introspection is vital, as it fosters a greater understanding of one's agency in seeking truth and justice, encouraging readers to become resilient advocates for their beliefs.
Through the lens of literature, Orwell masterfully illustrates the convergence of political and human dimensions, crafting narratives that resonate across generations. Both '1984' and 'Animal Farm' encourage readers to engage deeply with the consequences of societal systems, making them ideal for an analytical environment. The inclusion of both texts in this collection positions them as crucial works for study, debate, and reflection in academic circles as well as for general readership.
The aesthetic quality of Orwell’s narratives captivates readers, marked by the stark reality and emotional resonance he captures. His narrative structure in both novels paces the unfolding events masterfully, building suspense and evoking poignant responses. This artistry transforms the reading experience into a powerful emotional journey, one that leaves readers grappling with the implications of Orwell's thought-provoking conclusions long after the last page is turned.
As readers embark upon this exploration of '1984' and 'Animal Farm,' they will discover how Orwell's incisive critiques extend challenges to conventional wisdom, redefining the boundaries of literature as a site of moral inquiry. This collection is not merely an assemblage of texts; it embodies a rich landscape of philosophical engagement, raising imperative questions about humanity, society, and the trajectory of freedom.
This unique collection asserts the enduring importance of Orwell's literary contributions, showcasing works that have undeniably shaped literary and political discourse. By juxtaposing these two novels, readers are offered a comprehensive window into Orwell's critique of power dynamics and the human experience under them. Such an arrangement allows for a multifaceted understanding of the texts, enriching both the collective reading experience and the individual exploration of their themes.
In conclusion, the '1984 & Animal Farm' collection serves as an essential gateway for readers to engage meaningfully with George Orwell's profound insights. The thematic interconnections and stylistic nuances within the chosen works invite thoughtful reflection and inspire action regarding contemporary challenges. We warmly invite you to immerse yourself in this rich exploration of Orwell’s genius, secure in the knowledge that these stories continue to speak powerfully to each new generation.
Author Biography
Introduction
George Orwell, born Eric Arthur Blair, was an English novelist, essayist, and journalist whose work reshaped modern political and cultural discourse. Best known for Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, he scrutinized power, ideology, and the corrosion of truth with lucid prose and moral urgency. His reportage on poverty, imperialism, and war broadened the scope of literary nonfiction, while his essays set a standard for clarity and argumentative rigor. Writing across the 1930s and 1940s, he developed a distinct voice: unsentimental, humane, and fiercely independent. Orwell’s insights into propaganda, surveillance, and language remain central to debates about democracy, freedom, and the responsibilities of intellectuals.
Education and Literary Influences
Orwell spent his early childhood in British India before growing up in England. He attended preparatory school and later Eton College, an elite institution where he read widely and wrote for student publications. Instead of university, he joined the Indian Imperial Police in Burma in the mid-1920s, an experience that profoundly shaped his views on empire and authority. Disillusioned, he left colonial service and lived frugally in Paris and London, observing working-class life firsthand. These experiences became the basis for Down and Out in Paris and London and informed the anti-imperial critique at the heart of Burmese Days and the essay Shooting an Elephant.
Orwell’s style and ideas drew on a wide, well-documented set of influences. He admired the moral vision and social critique of Charles Dickens, the satirical edge of Jonathan Swift, and the unflinching reportage of Jack London. French naturalists such as Émile Zola shaped his commitment to depicting social realities. Early exposure to Rudyard Kipling and H. G. Wells left traces he later examined critically. He also valued the plain style of English essayists and the cadences of the King James Bible. Above all, lived experience—poverty, imperial policing, and civil war—hardened his suspicion of cant and his devotion to clear, exact language.
Literary Career
Adopting the pen name George Orwell in the early 1930s, he began publishing books that blended documentary observation with fiction. Down and Out in Paris and London presented the crisis of poverty with unsparing detail. Burmese Days probed the moral decay of colonial rule. A Clergyman’s Daughter and Keep the Aspidistra Flying examined alienation, creative failure, and the pressures of class and money. Even in these early works, Orwell’s hallmarks emerge: a refusal to romanticize suffering, a distrust of abstraction, and a drive to report what he had seen. He was still finding his audience, but he had found his subject—truth against power.
In the mid-1930s Orwell investigated working-class conditions in northern England, producing The Road to Wigan Pier, a hybrid of reportage and reflection on English socialism. Soon after, he traveled to Spain to fight against fascism and witnessed internecine repression among anti-fascist factions. Homage to Catalonia recounts these experiences with candor, anger, and analytic calm. The book’s defense of decency and its exposure of propaganda and political betrayal clarified Orwell’s anti-totalitarian stance. Although not a bestseller on release, it solidified his reputation as a writer whose testimony was grounded in firsthand risk and a willingness to challenge orthodoxies on the left and right.
During World War II, Orwell worked in broadcasting and cultural programming while continuing as a reviewer and essayist. He later became associated with the left-wing weekly Tribune, where his “As I Please” column showcased a supple, personal essay style attentive to politics, culture, and everyday life. Essays such as The Lion and the Unicorn: Socialism and the English Genius, “Politics and the English Language,” and “Shooting an Elephant” display his range—from wartime patriotism tempered by critique to rigorous analysis of how bad prose enables political deceit. By the mid-1940s, he had become a respected public intellectual and a master of the English essay.
Animal Farm, published in the mid-1940s, transformed Orwell’s standing. A political fable about a farm revolution that descends into tyranny, it satirized the betrayal of revolutionary ideals and the mechanisms of authoritarian control. Publication was initially complicated by wartime alliances, but the book quickly achieved international success. Its aphorisms—especially the mordant “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others”—entered common speech. Critics praised its economy, moral clarity, and allegorical power, while some readers debated its implications for contemporary politics. Animal Farm secured Orwell a broad readership and demonstrated his ability to unite artistic craft with political insight.
Orwell’s final novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four, appeared in the late 1940s. It depicted a surveillance state where language itself is engineered to cripple dissent. Concepts such as Big Brother, Newspeak, doublethink, and thoughtcrime have since become touchstones for understanding modern propaganda and control. The book’s bleak vision drew on his observations of totalitarianism, wartime propaganda, and the fragility of truth. Critics recognized its imaginative force and cautionary urgency, even as they debated its pessimism. The novel’s immediate cultural impact was immense, consolidating Orwell’s global reputation and positioning him as one of the twentieth century’s most influential political novelists.
Beliefs and Advocacy
Orwell identified as a democratic socialist committed to civil liberties, economic justice, and the dignity of ordinary people. His anti-imperialism stemmed from direct experience in Burma; his anti-totalitarianism was hardened by Spain and by observing the falsification of history under dictatorial regimes. He opposed authoritarianism from both the right and the left, insisting that ends never justify means that destroy freedom and truth. In books, essays, journalism, and broadcast work, he defended open debate and the right to dissent. His positions were not doctrinaire; he revised views in light of evidence, keeping allegiance to the ethical core of fairness and honesty.
A central tenet of Orwell’s advocacy was the ethical importance of clear language. In “Politics and the English Language,” he argued that evasive prose and political euphemism conceal brutality and discourage independent thought. He urged writers to prefer plain words, concrete imagery, and verifiable facts. This principle shaped his journalism and literary criticism, where he praised vigor and condemned cant. He warned against nationalism, conspiracy-minded politics, and the cult of power, notably in essays like “Notes on Nationalism.” Across genres, Orwell urged readers to resist manipulation by examining evidence, distrusting slogans, and remembering that freedom depends upon telling—and hearing—the truth.
Final Years & Legacy
Orwell’s health deteriorated in the late 1940s, and he spent periods in remote settings to work and recuperate. He completed Nineteen Eighty-Four under difficult conditions, a testament to his discipline and sense of urgency. After its publication, he continued to write and correspond about literature and politics, though illness increasingly limited his activity. He died in 1950 in London, and obituaries recognized him as a writer of rare integrity whose warnings had immediate relevance. Friends and critics noted the unity of his life and work: a man who insisted on seeing clearly, writing plainly, and speaking for those without a voice.
Orwell’s legacy is profound and enduring. “Orwellian” now signifies the manipulation of truth and the bureaucratization of power he anatomized. Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four remain fixtures in curricula worldwide, while his essays model critical independence for journalists and scholars. Later novelists and essayists, including Margaret Atwood and Christopher Hitchens, have acknowledged their debt to his methods and concerns. His work informs debates on surveillance, disinformation, and the ethics of political speech, offering a vocabulary and framework for resistance. In literary history, Orwell stands as a stylist of exemplary clarity and a conscience of the twentieth century whose warnings remain starkly contemporary.
Historical Context
George Orwell, born Eric Arthur Blair in 1903 in Motihari, India, grew up amid the complexities of colonial rule and the social tensions of early 20th-century Britain. Educated at Eton College and having served in the Indian Imperial Police in Burma, he developed a critical perspective on imperialism and authority. These early experiences informed his lifelong interest in how power operates and is maintained in society.
The aftermath of World War I brought sweeping changes across Europe: democratic institutions struggled, fascist movements arose in Germany and Italy, and the Soviet state consolidated under Stalin’s leadership. Observing these shifts deepened his concern about unchecked political power and its impact on ordinary lives.
Orwell’s decision to join the POUM militia during the Spanish Civil War exposed him to internal conflicts among anti-fascist forces and to the suppression of dissent by Soviet-aligned elements. That episode reinforced his wariness of rigid ideology and propaganda—issues he later wove into both his allegorical novella and his dystopian narrative.
The ascent of Hitler’s regime and the spread of fascism heightened his sense of urgency to warn against all forms of totalitarian rule. His work from this period increasingly focused on the mechanisms by which governments control information, enforce conformity, and undermine individual freedom.
Published in 1945, Animal Farm draws directly on his reflections about the Russian Revolution and its betrayal by authoritarian successors. In allegorical form, it illustrates how revolutionary promises of equality can be subverted when power becomes concentrated in the hands of a few.
During the Great Depression, widespread hardship and social unrest shaped his commitment to economic fairness as an essential component of liberty. He saw poverty not merely as an economic issue but as a force that limits individual autonomy and political participation.
Though the Allies defeated fascism in 1945, democratic renewal was followed almost immediately by tensions between Western democracies and the Soviet bloc. This new climate of distrust and ideological rivalry helped inspire his later novel, in which pervasive surveillance and manipulated truths mirror early Cold War anxieties.
His exploration of language as an instrument of control—most famously illustrated by the concept of Newspeak—reflects contemporary debates over censorship and media influence. Governments of the era increasingly harnessed radio, print, film and, in nascent form, television to shape public opinion.
In the broader cultural context of the 1940s, writers grappled with moral ambiguity and the aftermath of global conflict. Orwell’s stark narrative style and unflinching moral questions align with that period’s literary turn toward realism and social critique.
Technological innovations in mass communication foreshadow the novel’s depiction of constant monitoring and propaganda. Radio broadcasts and early television demonstrated how information could be disseminated—and controlled—on an unprecedented scale.
Orwell’s career as a journalist, including his work for the BBC during World War II, reinforced his belief in factual reporting and clear expression. That commitment underlies the persuasive authority of both his allegory and his dystopia.
In post-war Britain, discussions about human rights and civil liberties gained momentum. His writing engages directly with these conversations, examining the moral duties of individuals under oppressive systems and emphasizing the necessity of dissent.
Dialogues with fellow writers and political thinkers provided Orwell with a collaborative environment in which to refine his ideas about socialism, ethics and the role of the state. These exchanges contributed to the intellectual depth of his later works.
Rejecting ornate literary flourishes in favor of plain, direct prose, he held that writing should serve practical social and political ends. This stylistic choice heightens the immediacy of his warnings against tyranny.
Early exposure to Marxist theory offered a lens for understanding class relations and power dynamics. While he distanced himself from authoritarian interpretations, aspects of that framework persist in his critique of exploitation and propaganda.
The shifting global balance after World War II, defined by the rivalry between capitalist democracies and the Soviet sphere, underpins both his allegorical critique and his vision of a surveillance state. Through these narratives, he cautions against extremism of any kind and highlights the human costs of ideological strife.
Ultimately, his body of work addresses enduring questions about authority, individual freedom and the resilience of democratic institutions. By examining how language, technology and political structures can erode personal liberties, he crafted timeless cautionary tales that remain relevant in ongoing debates about governance and rights.
Synopsis (Selection)
1984
Set in a dystopian future where totalitarianism reigns, '1984' follows Winston Smith, a government worker who begins to rebel against the oppressive regime of Big Brother, grappling with the consequences of surveillance, manipulation, and control over truth.
Animal Farm
A satirical allegory of the Russian Revolution, 'Animal Farm' depicts the rise of a group of farm animals who revolt against their human farmer, only to find themselves under the tyranny of their own kind, illustrating the corruption of ideals and the cyclical nature of power.
1984 & Animal Farm
1984
(1949)
One
I
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.
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, more 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[1q], 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 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 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 everywhere. The black-mustachio'd 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 Winston's 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 bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the Police Patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's 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; moreover, 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 instinct—in 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 distaste—this 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 patch 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 Truth—Minitrue, in Newspeak1—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 SLAVERY IGNORANCE 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 tomorrow's 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 moreover, in swallowing 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 more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out onto the floor. With the next he was more 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 supposed not to go into ordinary shops ("dealing on the free market," 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 purpose. 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 instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured 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 descended 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 running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, 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 helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged 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 round him and comforting 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 applause 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 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 never—
Winston 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 middle 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. Presumably—since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner—she 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 round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston 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 more 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 O'Brien, 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 momentary hush passed over the group of people round the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming—in some indefinable way, curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane manner and his prizefighter's physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief—or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope—that O'Brien's 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 O'Brien glanced at his wristwatch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, 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 one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's 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 counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously 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 primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's purity. All subsequent 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 even—so it was occasionally rumored—in some hiding place in Oceania itself.
Winston's 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 beard—a clever face, and yet somehow 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 Party—an attack 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 crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed—and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more 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 Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army—row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless 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 Goldstein's 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 more 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 theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were—in 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 toned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O'Brien's 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 behind 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 Goldstein's nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston 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 unnecessary. 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 one's 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 Winston's hatred was not turned against Goldstein 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 protector, 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 one's hatred this way or that by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one wrenches one's 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 moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, 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 sheep's 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 mustachio'd, 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 SLAVERY IGNORANCE 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 everyone's 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 apparent 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 second—a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow 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 overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston's entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this subhuman chanting of "B-B!... B-B!" always 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 happened—if, indeed, it did happen.
Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye. O'Brien had stood up. He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling 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 knew—yes, he knew!—that O'Brien was thinking the same thing as himself. An unmistakable 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," O'Brien seemed to be saying to him. "I know precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on your side!" And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O'Brien's face was as inscrutable as everybody else's.
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 besides himself were the enemies of the Party. Perhaps the rumors of vast underground conspiracies were true after all—perhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was impossible, in spite of the endless arrests and confessions and executions, 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 walls—once, 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 O'Brien again. The idea of following 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 awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals—
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
over 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 more dangerous than the initial act of opening the diary; but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether.
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 committed—would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper—the 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 night—the 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 registers, 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 was the 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 always shoot you in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother—
He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down the pen. The next moment he started violently. There was a knocking at the 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.
II
As 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? It's got blocked up and—"
It was Mrs. Parsons, the wife of a neighbor on the same floor. ("Mrs." was a word somewhat discountenanced by the Party—you were supposed to call everyone "comrade"—but 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.
