1984

           Butatanyratetheycouldpluginyourwirewhenevertheywantedto. Youhadtolive—didlive, fromhabitthatbecameinstinct—intheassumptionthateverysoundyoumadewasoverheard,and,exceptindarkness,everymovementscrutinized. 

           Winstonkepthisbackturnedtothetelescreen. Itwassafer;though,ashewellknew,evenabackcanberevealing. AkilometreawaytheMinistryofTruth,hisplaceofwork,toweredvastandwhiteabovethegrimylandscape. This,hethoughtwithasortofvaguedistaste—thiswasLondon,chiefcityofAirstripOne, itselfthethirdmostpopulousoftheprovincesofOceania. HetriedtosqueezeoutsomechildhoodmemorythatshouldtellhimwhetherLondonhadalwaysbeenquitelikethis. Weretherealwaysthesevistasofrottingnineteenth-centuryhouses, theirsidesshoredupwithbaulksoftimber, theirwindowspatchedwithcardboard andtheirroofswithcorrugatediron, theircrazygardenwallssagginginalldirections? Andthebombedsiteswheretheplasterdustswirledintheairandthewillow-herbstraggledovertheheapsofrubble; andtheplaceswherethebombshadclearedalargerpatchandtherehadsprungupsordidcoloniesofwoodendwellingslikechicken-houses? Butitwasnouse,hecouldnotremember: nothingremainedofhischildhoodexceptaseriesofbright-littableauxoccurringagainstnobackgroundandmostlyunintelligible. 

           TheMinistryofTruth—Minitrue,inNewspeak (NewspeakwastheofficiallanguageofOceania) —wasstartlinglydifferentfromanyotherobjectinsight. Itwasanenormouspyramidalstructureofglitteringwhiteconcrete, soaringup,terraceafterterrace,300metresintotheair.