Elisabeth U. Stasulis
December 20th 07, 06:21 AM
please. Thirties to forties!'
Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the
image of a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-
shoes, had already appeared.
'Arms bending and stretching!' she rapped out. 'Take your time by me.
One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit
of life into it! One, two, three four! One two, three, four!...'
The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of Winston's
mind the impression made by his dream, and the rhythmic movements of the
exercise restored it somewhat. As he mechanically shot his arms back and
forth, wearing on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered
proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling to think his way
backward into the dim period of his early childhood. It was extraordinarily
difficult. Beyond the late fifties everything faded. When there were no
external records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life
lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which had quite probably not
happened, you remembered the detail of incidents without being able to
recapture their atmosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you
could assign nothing. Everything had been different then. Even the names of
countries, and their shapes on the map, had been different. Airstrip One,
for instance, had not been so called in those days: it had been called
England or Britain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had always been
called London.
Winston could not definitely remember a time when his country had not
been at war, but it was evident that there had been a fairly long interval
of peace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an
air raid which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was
Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the
image of a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-
shoes, had already appeared.
'Arms bending and stretching!' she rapped out. 'Take your time by me.
One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit
of life into it! One, two, three four! One two, three, four!...'
The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of Winston's
mind the impression made by his dream, and the rhythmic movements of the
exercise restored it somewhat. As he mechanically shot his arms back and
forth, wearing on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered
proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling to think his way
backward into the dim period of his early childhood. It was extraordinarily
difficult. Beyond the late fifties everything faded. When there were no
external records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life
lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which had quite probably not
happened, you remembered the detail of incidents without being able to
recapture their atmosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you
could assign nothing. Everything had been different then. Even the names of
countries, and their shapes on the map, had been different. Airstrip One,
for instance, had not been so called in those days: it had been called
England or Britain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had always been
called London.
Winston could not definitely remember a time when his country had not
been at war, but it was evident that there had been a fairly long interval
of peace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an
air raid which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was