Oct. 1st, 2011

monk222: (Little Bear)
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Ice cream!
monk222: (Little Bear)
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Ice cream!
monk222: (Flight)
Finally: the chapter I know I have been waiting for!

Four days have passed since Winston’s adventurous evening stroll through the prole quarters, and he is at work this morning at the Ministry of Truth. Walking to the restroom to refresh himself, he sees that woman again, the dark haired girl, walking toward him. Her arm is in a sling. Winston reasons:
Probably she had crushed her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots of novels were “roughed in.” It was a common accident in the Fiction Department.
As she nears him, she falls “almost flat on her face” with a “sharp cry of pain”.
The girl had risen to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow color against which her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his, with an appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain.
Despite his paranoiac suspicions and hate-filled fears that he has felt toward her, his more cooperative instinct takes over, which is fortunate as it can lead to good things.
“You haven’t broken anything?”

“No, I’m all right. It hurt for a moment, that’s all.”

She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had regained some of her color, and appeared very much better.

“It’s nothing,” she repeated shortly. “I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!”

And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going, as briskly though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one’s feelings appear in one’s face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, and in any case they had been standing straight in front of a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square.
We know what it is, of course. It is one of the big reasons why we love this novel. And even the sharp, first-time reader has probably guessed it, knowing what Orwell needs to pick up the narrative a bit, give it some speed and heft, that is, a little romance, a little tingly thrill.

But Winston cannot know and must be utterly flummoxed. He has projected all his fears and animosity onto her, and now this bizarre turn of events. A note? He is in the restroom, and you would think this is a great place to open it up and see what it says, but that is because we are not denizens of Oceania and do not have a Big Brother forever looking over our shoulder. Winston understands that he cannot count on enjoying some privacy even on the toilet: “There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens were watched continuously.” Maybe this is due to perversion as well as vigilance. In any case, Winston knows he will have to wait a while before he can open up his puzzle. And so will we.
monk222: (Flight)
Finally: the chapter I know I have been waiting for!

Four days have passed since Winston’s adventurous evening stroll through the prole quarters, and he is at work this morning at the Ministry of Truth. Walking to the restroom to refresh himself, he sees that woman again, the dark haired girl, walking toward him. Her arm is in a sling. Winston reasons:
Probably she had crushed her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots of novels were “roughed in.” It was a common accident in the Fiction Department.
As she nears him, she falls “almost flat on her face” with a “sharp cry of pain”.
The girl had risen to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow color against which her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his, with an appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain.
Despite his paranoiac suspicions and hate-filled fears that he has felt toward her, his more cooperative instinct takes over, which is fortunate as it can lead to good things.
“You haven’t broken anything?”

“No, I’m all right. It hurt for a moment, that’s all.”

She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had regained some of her color, and appeared very much better.

“It’s nothing,” she repeated shortly. “I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!”

And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going, as briskly though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one’s feelings appear in one’s face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, and in any case they had been standing straight in front of a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square.
We know what it is, of course. It is one of the big reasons why we love this novel. And even the sharp, first-time reader has probably guessed it, knowing what Orwell needs to pick up the narrative a bit, give it some speed and heft, that is, a little romance, a little tingly thrill.

But Winston cannot know and must be utterly flummoxed. He has projected all his fears and animosity onto her, and now this bizarre turn of events. A note? He is in the restroom, and you would think this is a great place to open it up and see what it says, but that is because we are not denizens of Oceania and do not have a Big Brother forever looking over our shoulder. Winston understands that he cannot count on enjoying some privacy even on the toilet: “There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens were watched continuously.” Maybe this is due to perversion as well as vigilance. In any case, Winston knows he will have to wait a while before he can open up his puzzle. And so will we.

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