1984

           Thebookfascinatedhim,ormoreexactlyitreassuredhim. Inasenseittoldhimnothingthatwasnew,butthatwaspartoftheattraction. Itsaidwhathewouldhavesaid,ifithadbeenpossibleforhimtosethisscatteredthoughtsinorder. Itwastheproductofamindsimilartohisown,butenormouslymorepowerful,moresystematic,lessfear-ridden. Thebestbooks,heperceived,arethosethattellyouwhatyouknowalready. HehadjustturnedbacktoChapterIwhenheheardJulia’sfootsteponthestairandstartedoutofhischairtomeether. Shedumpedherbrowntool-bagonthefloorandflungherselfintohisarms. Itwasmorethanaweeksincetheyhadseenoneanother. 

           ‘I’vegotTHEBOOK,’hesaidastheydisentangledthemselves. 

           ‘Oh,you’vegotit?Good,’shesaidwithoutmuchinterest,andalmostimmediatelykneltdownbesidetheoilstovetomakethecoffee. 

           Theydidnotreturntothesubjectuntiltheyhadbeeninbedforhalfanhour. Theeveningwasjustcoolenoughtomakeitworthwhiletopullupthecounterpane. Frombelowcamethefamiliarsoundofsingingandthescrapeofbootsontheflagstones. Thebrawnyred-armedwomanwhomWinstonhadseenthereonhisfirstvisitwasalmostafixtureintheyard. Thereseemedtobenohourofdaylightwhenshewasnotmarchingtoandfrobetweenthewashtubandtheline,alternatelygaggingherselfwithclothespegsandbreakingforthintolustysong. Juliahadsettleddownonhersideandseemedtobealreadyonthepointoffallingasleep. Hereachedoutforthebook,whichwaslyingonthefloor,andsatupagainstthebedhead. 

           ‘Wemustreadit,’hesaid. ‘Youtoo. AllmembersoftheBrotherhoodhavetoreadit.’