Root Beer Olympics

Nineteen eighty-four

George Orwell

PART ONE

Chapter 1

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the

vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions,

though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering

along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a

coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall.

It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a

man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome

features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even

at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric

current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive

in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston,

who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went

slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the

lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was

one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about

when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had

something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an

oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface

of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank

somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument

(the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of

shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail

figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls

which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face

naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor

blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in

the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into

spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there

seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered

everywhere. The black-moustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding

corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER

IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into

Winston’s own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner,

flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the

single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between

the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again

with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people’s

windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police

mattered.

Behind Winston’s back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away

about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The

telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston

made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it,

moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal

plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course

no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How

often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual

wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all

the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to.

You had to live–did live, from habit that became instinct–in the

assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in

darkness, every movement scrutinized.

Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer; though, as he

well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of

Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape.

This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste–this was London, chief

city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of

Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him

whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these

vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with

baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs

with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions?

And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the

willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the

bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies

of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not

remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit

tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.

The Ministry of Truth–Minitrue, in Newspeak [Newspeak was the official

language of Oceania. For an account of its structure and etymology see

Appendix.]–was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It

was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring

up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston

stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in

elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:

  WAR IS PEACE

  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

Lingua Franca