1984

           Itseemedtohimthatheknewexactlywhatitfeltliketositinaroomlikethis,inanarm-chairbesideanopenfirewithyourfeetinthefenderandakettleonthehob; utterlyalone,utterlysecure,withnobodywatchingyou,novoicepursuingyou,nosoundexceptthesingingofthekettleandthefriendlytickingoftheclock. 

           ‘There’snotelescreen!’hecouldnothelpmurmuring. 

           ‘Ah,’saidtheoldman,‘Ineverhadoneofthosethings. Tooexpensive. AndIneverseemedtofeeltheneedofit,somehow. Nowthat’sanicegatelegtableinthecornerthere. Thoughofcourseyou’dhavetoputnewhingesonitifyouwantedtousetheflaps.’ 

           Therewasasmallbookcaseintheothercorner,andWinstonhadalreadygravitatedtowardsit. Itcontainednothingbutrubbish. Thehunting-downanddestructionofbookshadbeendonewiththesamethoroughnessintheprolequartersaseverywhereelse. ItwasveryunlikelythatthereexistedanywhereinOceaniaacopyofabookprintedearlierthan1960. Theoldman,stillcarryingthelamp,wasstandinginfrontofapictureinarosewoodframewhichhungontheothersideofthefireplace,oppositethebed. 

           ‘Now,ifyouhappentobeinterestedinoldprintsatall——’hebegandelicately. 

           Winstoncameacrosstoexaminethepicture. Itwasasteelengravingofanovalbuildingwithrectangularwindows,andasmalltowerinfront. Therewasarailingrunningroundthebuilding,andattherearendtherewaswhatappearedtobeastatue.Winstongazedatitforsomemoments.Itseemedvaguelyfamiliar,thoughhedidnotrememberthestatue.