Chapter 7

           Winstonhadwokenupwithhiseyesfulloftears. Juliarolledsleepilyagainsthim,murmuringsomethingthatmighthavebeen ‘What’sthematter?’ 

           ‘Idreamt—’hebegan,andstoppedshort. Itwastoocomplextobeputintowords. Therewasthedreamitself,andtherewasamemoryconnectedwithitthathadswumintohismindinthefewsecondsafterwaking. 

           Helaybackwithhiseyesshut,stillsoddenintheatmosphereofthedream. Itwasavast,luminousdreaminwhichhiswholelifeseemedtostretchoutbeforehimlikealandscapeonasummereveningafterrain. Ithadalloccurredinsidetheglasspaperweight,butthesurfaceoftheglasswasthedomeofthesky,andinsidethedomeeverythingwasfloodedwithclearsoftlightinwhichonecouldseeintointerminabledistances. Thedreamhadalsobeencomprehendedby—indeed,insomesenseithadconsistedin—agestureofthearmmadebyhismother,andmadeagainthirtyyearslaterbytheJewishwomanhehadseenonthenewsfilm,tryingtoshelterthesmallboyfromthebullets,beforethehelicopterblewthembothtopieces. 

           ‘Doyouknow,’hesaid,‘thatuntilthismomentIbelievedIhadmurderedmymother?’ 

           ‘Whydidyoumurderher?’saidJulia,almostasleep. 

           ‘Ididn’tmurderher.Notphysically.’ 

           Inthedreamhehadrememberedhislastglimpseofhismother,andwithinafewmomentsofwakingtheclusterofsmalleventssurroundingithadallcomeback.