Cheryl
December 26th 07, 01:41 AM
used to
sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference,
except that one's dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all
through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden
Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his
mother, with Julia, with O'Brien -- not doing anything, merely sitting in
the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was
awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of
intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had been removed. He was
not bored, he had no desire for conversation or distraction. Merely to be
alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be
clean all over, was completely satisfying.
By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no
impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the
strength gathering in his body. He would finger himself here and there,
trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were
growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a
doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now definitely thicker
than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising
himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres,
measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing
straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and
humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a
walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm's length, he could not stand
on one leg without falling over. He squatted down on his heels, and found
that with agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift
sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference,
except that one's dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all
through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden
Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his
mother, with Julia, with O'Brien -- not doing anything, merely sitting in
the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was
awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of
intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had been removed. He was
not bored, he had no desire for conversation or distraction. Merely to be
alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be
clean all over, was completely satisfying.
By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no
impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the
strength gathering in his body. He would finger himself here and there,
trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were
growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a
doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now definitely thicker
than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising
himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres,
measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing
straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and
humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a
walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm's length, he could not stand
on one leg without falling over. He squatted down on his heels, and found
that with agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift