Chapter 1

ItwasabrightcolddayinApril, andtheclockswerestrikingthirteen. WinstonSmith,hischinnuzzledintohisbreast inanefforttoescapethevilewind, slippedquicklythroughtheglassdoorsofVictoryMansions, thoughnotquicklyenoughtopreventaswirlofgrittydust fromenteringalongwithhim.  

Thehallwaysmeltofboiledcabbageandoldragmats. Atoneendofitacolouredposter, toolargeforindoordisplay,hadbeentackedtothewall. Itdepictedsimplyanenormousface, morethanametrewide: thefaceofamanofaboutforty-five, withaheavyblackmoustacheandruggedlyhandsomefeatures. Winstonmadeforthestairs. Itwasnousetryingthelift. Evenatthebestoftimesitwasseldomworking, andatpresenttheelectriccurrent wascutoffduringdaylighthours. Itwaspartoftheeconomydrive inpreparationforHateWeek. Theflatwassevenflightsup, andWinston,whowasthirty-nine andhadavaricoseulcerabovehisrightankle, wentslowly,restingseveraltimesontheway. Oneachlanding,oppositethelift-shaft, theposterwiththeenormousfacegazedfromthewall. Itwasoneofthosepictureswhicharesocontrived thattheeyesfollowyouaboutwhenyoumove. BIGBROTHERISWATCHINGYOU, thecaptionbeneathitran.  

Insidetheflatafruityvoicewasreadingout alistoffigures whichhadsomethingtodo withtheproductionofpig-iron. Thevoicecamefromanoblongmetalplaquelikeadulledmirror whichformedpartofthesurfaceoftheright-handwall. Winstonturnedaswitchandthevoicesanksomewhat, thoughthewordswerestilldistinguishable. Theinstrument (thetelescreen,itwascalled) couldbedimmed, buttherewasnowayofshuttingitoffcompletely. Hemovedovertothewindow: asmallish,frailfigure, themeagrenessofhisbodymerelyemphasizedbytheblueoveralls whichweretheuniformoftheparty. 

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