a definitive edition of the poems of Kipling. I allowed
the word "God" to remain at the end of a line. I could not help it!' he
added almost indignantly, raising his face to look at Winston. 'It was
impossible to change the line. The rhyme was "rod". Do you realize that
there are only twelve rhymes to "rod" in the entire language? For days I
had racked my brains. There was no other rhyme.'
The expression on his face changed. The annoyance passed out of it and
for a moment he looked almost pleased. A sort of intellectual warmth, the
joy of the pedant who has found out some useless fact, shone through the
dirt and scrubby hair.
'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, 'that the whole history of
English poetry has been determined by the fact that the English language
lacks rhymes?'
No, that particular thought had never occurred to Winston. Nor, in the
circumstances, did it strike him as very important or interesting.
'Do you know what time of day it is?' he said.
Ampleforth looked startled again. 'I had hardly thought about it. They
arrested me -- it could be two days ago -- perhaps three.' His eyes flitted
round the walls, as though he half expected to find a window somewhere.
'There is no difference between night and day in this place. I do not see
how one can calculate the time.'
They talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without apparent
reason, a yell from the telescreen bade them be silent. Winston sat
quietly, his hands crossed. Ampleforth, too large to sit in comfort on the
narrow bench, fidgeted from side to side, clasping his lank hands first
round one knee, then round the other. The telescreen barked at him to keep
still. Time passed. Twenty minutes, an hour -- it was difficult to judge.
Once more