North Korea

Kim Jong-il died late last week, the grand dictator of North Korea. It was not regarded as that much of a tragedy in the West. Indeed, we were more amazed to see such deep and loud grief on the part of the North Koreans. It had been common to see North Korea as the living emodiment of Orwell's "1984" and Kim as its Big Brother, but until reading Kristof's column this morning, I did not know how diligently Kim followed the model.

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North Korea

Kim Jong-il died late last week, the grand dictator of North Korea. It was not regarded as that much of a tragedy in the West. Indeed, we were more amazed to see such deep and loud grief on the part of the North Koreans. It had been common to see North Korea as the living emodiment of Orwell's "1984" and Kim as its Big Brother, but until reading Kristof's column this morning, I did not know how diligently Kim followed the model.

( Read more... )

Quote of the Day

“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

-- E. L. Doctorow

Quote of the Day

“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

-- E. L. Doctorow

1984 (2,4) A Hopeless Fancy

The chapter opens with Winston in the extra room at Charrington’s curio shop down in the prole quarters. He has rented the room and is now tidying up the little love nest. Of course, he cannot entirely lose himself in the romance and lust, but he must worry himself about being caught by the Party, about torture and death.

Folly, folly, folly!

But he has held the young dark-haired girl in his hands and feasted on her tight, naked body. He is not backing off. Some chances are worth taking.

As he is waiting for Julia, he hears a prole woman singing nearby and he looks out the window, “a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pillar,” hanging out the laundry:

It was only an 'opeless fancy.
It passed like an Ipril dye,
But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred!
They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye!

The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless similar songs published for the benefit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department. The words of these songs were composed without any human intervention whatever on an instrument known as a versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound. He could hear the woman singing and the scrape of her shoes on the flagstones, and the cries of the children in the street, and somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and yet the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of a telescreen.

I like it myself. Some popular tunes can be pretty. In this way, too, some of the romance of Winston’s and Julia’s story is expressed in a way that Winston cannot manage, the sweeter side of it.

1984 (2,4) A Hopeless Fancy

The chapter opens with Winston in the extra room at Charrington’s curio shop down in the prole quarters. He has rented the room and is now tidying up the little love nest. Of course, he cannot entirely lose himself in the romance and lust, but he must worry himself about being caught by the Party, about torture and death.

Folly, folly, folly!

But he has held the young dark-haired girl in his hands and feasted on her tight, naked body. He is not backing off. Some chances are worth taking.

As he is waiting for Julia, he hears a prole woman singing nearby and he looks out the window, “a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pillar,” hanging out the laundry:

It was only an 'opeless fancy.
It passed like an Ipril dye,
But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred!
They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye!

The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless similar songs published for the benefit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department. The words of these songs were composed without any human intervention whatever on an instrument known as a versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound. He could hear the woman singing and the scrape of her shoes on the flagstones, and the cries of the children in the street, and somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and yet the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of a telescreen.

I like it myself. Some popular tunes can be pretty. In this way, too, some of the romance of Winston’s and Julia’s story is expressed in a way that Winston cannot manage, the sweeter side of it.