Ken from Chicago
December 25th 07, 06:48 PM
arrests invariably happened at night.
The sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shaking your shoulder, the
lights glaring in your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed. In the
vast majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest. People
simply disappeared, always during the night. Your name was removed from the
registers, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your
one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished,
annihilated: vapourized was the usual word.
For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He began writing in
a hurried untidy scrawl:
theyll shoot me i don't care theyll shoot me in the back of the
neck i dont care down with big brother they always shoot you in the back of
the neck i dont care down with big brother--
He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down
the pen. The next moment he started violently. There was a knocking at the
door.
Already! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that whoever
it was might go away after a single attempt. But no, the knocking was
repeated. The worst thing of all would be to delay. His heart was thumping
like a drum, but his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless. He
got up and moved heavily towards the door.
II
As he put his hand to the door-knob Winston saw that he had left the
diary open on the table. DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in
letters almost big enough to be legib
The sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shaking your shoulder, the
lights glaring in your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed. In the
vast majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest. People
simply disappeared, always during the night. Your name was removed from the
registers, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your
one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished,
annihilated: vapourized was the usual word.
For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He began writing in
a hurried untidy scrawl:
theyll shoot me i don't care theyll shoot me in the back of the
neck i dont care down with big brother they always shoot you in the back of
the neck i dont care down with big brother--
He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down
the pen. The next moment he started violently. There was a knocking at the
door.
Already! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that whoever
it was might go away after a single attempt. But no, the knocking was
repeated. The worst thing of all would be to delay. His heart was thumping
like a drum, but his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless. He
got up and moved heavily towards the door.
II
As he put his hand to the door-knob Winston saw that he had left the
diary open on the table. DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in
letters almost big enough to be legib