Bob Lucas
December 25th 07, 11:17 PM
Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the
Middle, and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have
borne countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as
their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the
essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous
upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always
reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium,
however far it is pushed one way or the other.
The aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable...
Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact that
he was reading, in comfort and safety. He was alone: no telescreen, no ear
at the keyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the
page with his hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From
somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of children: in the room
itself there was no sound except the insect voice of the clock. He settled
deeper into the arm-chair and put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss,
it was etemity. Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one
knows that one will ultimately read and re-read every word, he opened it at
a different place and found himself at Chapter III. He went
Middle, and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have
borne countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as
their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the
essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous
upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always
reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium,
however far it is pushed one way or the other.
The aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable...
Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact that
he was reading, in comfort and safety. He was alone: no telescreen, no ear
at the keyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the
page with his hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From
somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of children: in the room
itself there was no sound except the insect voice of the clock. He settled
deeper into the arm-chair and put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss,
it was etemity. Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one
knows that one will ultimately read and re-read every word, he opened it at
a different place and found himself at Chapter III. He went