Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold.
Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper
into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue,
there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were
plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed down from every
commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite.
BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked
deep into Winston's own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one
corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering
the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down
between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted
away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into
people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought
Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling
away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan.
The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound th