1984

           ‘Totellyouthetruth—’HesatdownawkwardlyonthebenchoppositeWinston. ‘Thereisonlyoneoffence,istherenot?’hesaid. 

           ‘Andhaveyoucommittedit?’ 

           ‘ApparentlyIhave.’ 

           Heputahandtohisforeheadandpressedhistemplesforamoment,asthoughtryingtoremembersomething. 

           ‘Thesethingshappen,’hebeganvaguely. ‘Ihavebeenabletorecalloneinstance—apossibleinstance. Itwasanindiscretion,undoubtedly. WewereproducingadefinitiveeditionofthepoemsofKipling. Iallowedtheword"God"toremainattheendofaline. Icouldnothelpit!’headdedalmostindignantly,raisinghisfacetolookatWinston. ‘Itwasimpossibletochangetheline.Therhymewas"rod". Doyourealizethatthereareonlytwelverhymesto"rod"intheentirelanguage? FordaysIhadrackedmybrains. ThereWASnootherrhyme.’ 

           Theexpressiononhisfacechanged. Theannoyancepassedoutofitandforamomenthelookedalmostpleased. Asortofintellectualwarmth,thejoyofthepedantwhohasfoundoutsomeuselessfact,shonethroughthedirtandscrubbyhair. 

           ‘Hasiteveroccurredtoyou,’hesaid,‘thatthewholehistoryofEnglishpoetryhasbeendeterminedbythefactthattheEnglishlanguagelacksrhymes?’ 

           No,thatparticularthoughthadneveroccurredtoWinston. Nor,inthecircumstances,diditstrikehimasveryimportantorinteresting.