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In discussing his sour relationship with his wife Katharine, Winston relates to Julia the time that he and Katharine strayed from a community hike and got lost. They were near a cliff, and he spotted some striking flowers, and he calls her over to take a look. When she is bent over looking, a dark thought comes to him, which Julia finishes for him. She says, “Why didn’t you giver her a good shove?”
Winston says he would have done it if he were the same person that he is today. The reader chuckles, “Oh, sure, now that you have a hot, buxom brunette who loves sex!”
Pretty dark. I am not sure that Orwell is making a statement about human nature in general, or if he is saying that human nature is degraded and coarsened in a totalitarian society. However, Winston does have some reservations about the idea of pushing his wife to her death, as he brings out his fatalistic philosophy: “to push an inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing.” He says that there is no winning, no matter what.
She does not care for this old-man pessimism, and they have a sharp little exchange, nothing serious, but a playful clash of temperament.
_ _ _
She would not accept it as a law of nature that the individual is always defeated. In a way she realized that she herself was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind she believed that it was somehow possible to construct a secret world in which you could live as you chose. All you needed was luck and cunning and boldness. She did not understand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead, that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was better to think of yourself as a corpse.
'We are the dead,' he said.
'We're not dead yet,' said Julia prosaically.
'Not physically. Six months, a year -- five years, conceivably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably you're more afraid of it than I am. Obviously we shall put it off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So long as human beings stay human, death and life are the same thing.'
'Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or a skeleton? Don't you enjoy being alive? Don't you like feeling: This is me, this is my hand, this is my leg, I'm real, I'm solid, I'm alive! Don't you like this?'
She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against him. He could feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her overalls. Her body seemed to be pouring some of its youth and vigour into his.
'Yes, I like that,' he said.
-- 1984
_ _ _
Death is not as compelling a reality when you are in your twenties. Nevertheless, we will close the chapter on that note, with our lovebirds still happy, and Winston in Titty Heaven.
Winston says he would have done it if he were the same person that he is today. The reader chuckles, “Oh, sure, now that you have a hot, buxom brunette who loves sex!”
Pretty dark. I am not sure that Orwell is making a statement about human nature in general, or if he is saying that human nature is degraded and coarsened in a totalitarian society. However, Winston does have some reservations about the idea of pushing his wife to her death, as he brings out his fatalistic philosophy: “to push an inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing.” He says that there is no winning, no matter what.
She does not care for this old-man pessimism, and they have a sharp little exchange, nothing serious, but a playful clash of temperament.
_ _ _
She would not accept it as a law of nature that the individual is always defeated. In a way she realized that she herself was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind she believed that it was somehow possible to construct a secret world in which you could live as you chose. All you needed was luck and cunning and boldness. She did not understand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead, that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was better to think of yourself as a corpse.
'We are the dead,' he said.
'We're not dead yet,' said Julia prosaically.
'Not physically. Six months, a year -- five years, conceivably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably you're more afraid of it than I am. Obviously we shall put it off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So long as human beings stay human, death and life are the same thing.'
'Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or a skeleton? Don't you enjoy being alive? Don't you like feeling: This is me, this is my hand, this is my leg, I'm real, I'm solid, I'm alive! Don't you like this?'
She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against him. He could feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her overalls. Her body seemed to be pouring some of its youth and vigour into his.
'Yes, I like that,' he said.
-- 1984
_ _ _
Death is not as compelling a reality when you are in your twenties. Nevertheless, we will close the chapter on that note, with our lovebirds still happy, and Winston in Titty Heaven.
