Chapter 7

           Winstonhadwokenupwithhiseyesfulloftears. Juliarolledsleepilyagainsthim,murmuringsomethingthatmighthavebeen ‘What’sthematter?’ 

           ‘Idreamthebegan,andstoppedshort. Itwastoocomplextobeputintowords. Therewasthedreamitself,andtherewasamemoryconnectedwithitthathadswumintohismindinthefewsecondsafterwaking. 

           Helaybackwithhiseyesshut,stillsoddenintheatmosphereofthedream. Itwasavast,luminousdreaminwhichhiswholelifeseemedtostretchoutbeforehimlikealandscapeonasummereveningafterrain. Ithadalloccurredinsidetheglasspaperweight,butthesurfaceoftheglasswasthedomeofthesky,andinsidethedomeeverythingwasfloodedwithclearsoftlightinwhichonecouldseeintointerminabledistances. Thedreamhadalsobeencomprehendedbyindeed,insomesenseithadconsistedinagestureofthearmmadebyhismother,andmadeagainthirtyyearslaterbytheJewishwomanhehadseenonthenewsfilm,tryingtoshelterthesmallboyfromthebullets,beforethehelicopterblewthembothtopieces. 

           ‘Doyouknow,’hesaid,‘thatuntilthismomentIbelievedIhadmurderedmymother?’ 

           ‘Whydidyoumurderher?’saidJulia,almostasleep. 

           ‘Ididn’tmurderher.Notphysically.’ 

           Inthedreamhehadrememberedhislastglimpseofhismother,andwithinafewmomentsofwakingtheclusterofsmalleventssurroundingithadallcomeback. 

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