EnLit Part 2 chap 1-5

• 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
• Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political meaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One, much the more likely, was that the girl was an agent of the Thought Police, just as he had feared. SECOND, This was, that the message did not come from the Thought Police at all, but from some kind of un- derground organization. Perhaps the Brotherhood existed after all! Perhaps the girl was part of it! No doubt the idea was absurd, but it had sprung into his mind in the very in-
• It consisted in falsifying a series of production reports of two years ago, in such a way as to cast discredit on a prominent member of the Inner Party, who was now under a cloud.
• Tonight was one of his nights at the Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal in the canteen, hurried off to the Centre, took part in the solemn foolery of a ‘discussion group’, played two games of table tennis, swallowed several glasses of gin, and sat for half an hour through a lecture entitled ‘Ingsoc in relation to Chess’
• The sight of the words I LOVE YOU, the desire to stay alive had welled up in him, and the taking of minor risks suddenly seemed stupid. It was not till twenty-three hours, when he was home and in bed—in the darkness, where you were safe even from the telescreen so long as you kept silent—that he was able to think continuously.
• The queue edged forward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was held up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that he had not received his tablet of saccharine.
• He might have flinched altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering limply round the room with a tray, looking for a place to sit down.
• ‘What time do you leave work?’

  ‘Eighteen-thirty.’

  ‘Where can we meet?’

  ‘Victory Square, near the monument.’

  ’‘What time?’‘Nineteen hours.’‘All right.’
• He wandered round the base of the enormous fluted column, at the top of which Big Brother’s statue gazed southward towards the skies where he had vanquished the Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been,a few years ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One.
• He walked slowly up to the north side of the square and got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure from identifying St Martin’s Church, whose bells, when it had bells, had chimed ‘You owe me three farthings.’
• A half-hour railway journey; turn left outside the station; two kilometers along the road; a gate with the top bar missing; a path across a field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes; a dead tree with moss on it. It was as though she had a map inside her head. ‘Can you remember all that?’ she murmured finally.
• ‘Yes.’‘You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate’s got no top bar.’‘Yes. What time?’‘About fifteen. You may have to wait. I’ll get there by another way. Are you sure you remember everything?’ ‘Yes.’‘Then get away from me as quick as you can.’
• For distances of less than 100 kilometres it was not necessary to get your passport endorsed, but sometimes there were patrols hanging about the railway stations, who examined the papers of any Party member they found there and asked awkward questions.
• The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was filled to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from a toothless great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going out to spend an afternoon with ‘in-laws’ in the country, and, as they freely explained to Winston, to get hold of a little blackmarket butter.
• He had got together a big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly scent when a sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle of a foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells.
• ‘Would you believe,’ he said, ‘that till this moment I didn’t know what colour your eyes were?’ They were brown, he noted, a rather light shade of brown, with dark lashes. ‘Now that you’ve seen what I’m really like, can you still bear to look at me?’ ‘Yes, easily.’ ‘I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve got a wife that I can’t get rid of. I’ve got varicose veins. I’ve got five false teeth.’ ‘I couldn’t care less,’ said the girl.
• Then, as though touching her waist had reminded her of something, she felt in the pocket of her overalls and produced a small slab of chocolate.
• ‘Where did you get this stuff?’ he said. ‘Black market,’ she said indifferently. ‘Actually I am that sort of girl, to look at. I’m good at games. I was a troop-leader in the Spies. I do voluntary work three evenings a week for the Junior Anti-Sex League. Hours and hours I’ve spent pasting their bloody rot all over London. I always carry one end of a banner in the processions. I always Iook cheerful and I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd, that’s what I say. It’s the only way to be safe.’
• ‘Isn’t there a stream somewhere near here?’ he whispered. ‘That’s right, there is a stream. It’s at the edge of the next field, actually. There are fish in it, great big ones. You can watch them lying in the pools under the willow trees, waving their tails.’ ‘It’s the Golden Country—almost,’ he murmured. ‘The Golden Country?’ ‘It’s nothing, really. A landscape I’ve seen sometimes in a dream.’
• ‘Have you done this before?’ ‘Of course. Hundreds of times—well, scores of times, anyway.’ ‘With Party members?’ ‘Yes, always with Party members.’ ‘With members of the Inner Party?’ ‘Not with those swine, no.
• ‘Listen. The more men you’ve had, the more I love you. Do you understand that?’ ‘Yes, perfectly.’ ‘I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don’t want any virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.’
• Almost immediately they fell asleep and slept for about half an hour.
• But the mindless tenderness that he had felt under the hazel tree, while the thrush was singing, had not quite come back.
• ‘I’m due back at nineteen-thirty. I’ve got to put in two hours for the Junior Anti-Sex League, handing out leaflets, or something. Isn’t it bloody? Give me a brushdown, would you? Have I got any twigs in my hair? Are you sure? Then good-bye, my love, good-bye!’
• That was in another hiding-place known to Julia, the belfry of a ruinous church in an almost-deserted stretch of country where an atomic bomb had fallen thirty years earlier
• If you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones. She even induced Winston to mortgage yet another of his evenings by enrolling himself for the part-time munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Party members.
• She had no memories of anything before the early sixties and the only person she had ever known who talked frequently of the days before the Revolution was a grandfather who had disappeared when she was eight.
• She had even (an infallible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who worked in it, she remarked.
• There she remained for a year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with titles like ‘Spanking Stories’ or ‘One Night in a Girls’ School’, to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were under the impression that they were buying something illegal.
• I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I was never in the Rewrite Squad. I’m not literary, dear—not even enough for that.’
• He learned with astonishment that all the workers in Pornosec, except the heads of the departments, were girls. The theory was that men, whose sex instincts were less controllable than those of women, were in greater danger of being corrupted by the filth they handled.
• ‘They don’t even like having married women there,’ she added. Girls are always supposed to be so pure. Here’s one who isn’t, anyway.
• She had had her first love-affair when she was sixteen, with a Party member of sixty who later committed suicide to avoid arrest
• ‘When you make love you’re using up energy; and afterwards you feel happy and don’t give a damn for anything. They can’t bear to feel like that. They want you to be bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour. If you’re happy inside yourself, why should you get excited about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot?’
• They had played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood. The family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people were encouraged to be fond of their children, in almost the old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand, were systematically turned against their parents and taught to spy on them and report their deviations. The family had become in effect an extension of the Thought Police. It was a device by means of which everyone could be surrounded night and day by informers who knew him intimately.
• It was three or four months after they were married. They had lost their way on a community hike somewhere in Kent.
• 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.
• There it lay, fixed in future times, preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100.
• ‘It’s a church, or at least it used to be. St Clement Danes,

  its name was.’
• He was vaporized when I was eight—at any rate, he

  disappeared.