1984

           Hishairwasveryfair, hisfacenaturallysanguine, hisskinroughenedbycoarsesoapandbluntrazorblades andthecoldofthewinterthathadjustended. 

           Outside,eventhroughtheshutwindow-pane, theworldlookedcold. Downinthestreetlittleeddiesofwindwerewhirlingdustandtornpaperintospirals, andthoughthesunwasshiningandtheskyaharshblue, thereseemedtobenocolourinanything, exceptthepostersthatwereplasteredeverywhere. Theblack-moustachio’dfacegazeddownfromeverycommandingcorner. Therewasoneonthehouse-frontimmediatelyopposite. BIGBROTHERISWATCHINGYOU,thecaptionsaid, whilethedarkeyeslookeddeepintoWinston’sown. Downatstreetlevelanotherposter,tornatonecorner,flappedfitfullyinthewind, alternatelycoveringanduncoveringthesinglewordINGSOC. Inthefardistanceahelicopterskimmeddownbetweentheroofs, hoveredforaninstantlikeabluebottle, anddartedawayagainwithacurvingflight. Itwasthepolicepatrol,snoopingintopeople’swindows. Thepatrolsdidnotmatter,however. OnlytheThoughtPolicemattered. 

           BehindWinston’sbackthevoicefromthetelescreenwasstillbabblingawayaboutpig-iron andtheoverfulfilmentoftheNinthThree-YearPlan. Thetelescreenreceivedandtransmittedsimultaneously. AnysoundthatWinstonmade,abovethelevelofaverylowwhisper,wouldbepickedupbyit, moreover,solongasheremainedwithinthefieldofvisionwhichthemetalplaquecommanded, hecouldbeseenaswellasheard. Therewasofcoursenowayofknowing whetheryouwerebeingwatchedatanygivenmoment. Howoften,oronwhatsystem, theThoughtPolicepluggedinonanyindividualwirewasguesswork. Itwasevenconceivablethattheywatchedeverybodyallthetime.