1984 - Part 1, Chapter 1 by George Orwell - The Diigo Meta page

stellaknox626

• thirteen
• Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax.
• because he wanted to go to bed with her
• there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.

2 more annotations...

murphystl

• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
• Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea,
• And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army -- row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar.
• Thus, at one moment Winston's hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police
• At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration,
• Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax.
• he hated her.
• because she was young and pretty
• because he wanted to go to bed with her
• round her sweet supple waist,
• there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.

9 more annotations...

almerow664

• thirteen

breezus

• ew that it was useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed -- would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper -- the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you. 
   
  It was always at night -- the 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

jcornileus

• . It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality.
• The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
• , the sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger automatically
• The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.
• his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.
• advancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio'd, full of power and mysterious calm,
• To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction.
• 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 --

6 more annotations...

jasmine alicia

• A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act.
• For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn.
• How could you communicate with the future?
• Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
• For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years
• then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never --
• emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips.
• Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her.
• The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.
• And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp.
• and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization. 
  
• Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston's entrails seemed to grow cold.
• Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye. O'Brien had stood up. He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture. But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew-yes, he knew!
• It was as though their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their eyes. 'I am with you,' O'Brien seemed to be saying to him. 'I know precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on your side!'
• That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened. Such incidents never had any sequel. All that they did was to keep alive in him the belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of the Party.
• For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
• He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed -- would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper -- the essential crime that contained all others in itself.

15 more annotations...

smmeredith

• corrugated iron
• truncheons.
• nebulous
• It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy.
• renegade
• backslider
• rapid polysyllabic

5 more annotations...

Hadassah Z.

• furtively
• tremor
• bowels
• decisive
• predicament
• interminable
• wallowing
• porpoise
• burrow
• nebulous
• spanner
• swift
• emblem
• bigoted adherents
• burly
• formidable
• mingled
• renegade
• diaphragm
• constricted
• orators
• specious
• claptrap
• bleating
• dupes
• compendium
• heresies
• clandestinely
• inexorably
• supple
• chastity
• voluptuously
• enterprise
• vaporized

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kainoaw02

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. 
  

aidenreason

• The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats.

monkeymo

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• 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 that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard.
• It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to.
• You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
• The Ministry of Truth -- Minitrue, in Newspeak
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• The Ministry of Truth
• The Ministry of Love
• Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club.
• This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off.
• A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him

13 more annotations...

carps14

• s were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent

winstonp1348

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

sabrinaayang

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

lilytran312

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. 
  
• varicose ulcer
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall
• a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• 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
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle
• telescreen
• The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously.
• the Thought Police
• the Ministry of Truth, his place of work,
• corrugated
• rubble
• tableaux
• The Ministry of Truth
• ramifications
• apparatus
• The Ministry of Peace
• The Ministry of Love
• Ministry of Plenty
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one
• It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.
• canteen
• For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual position
• It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do.
• He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession.
• archaic
• In small clumsy letters he wrote: 
   
  April 4th, 1984.
• A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him.
• he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
• For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn.
• How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
• strident
• anything would be needed except courage
• interminable
• He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin.
• Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down.
• first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise,
• nebulous
• One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department.
• She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips.
• He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones.
• It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy.
• O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party
• O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face.
• had a certain charm of manner.
• Much more it was because of a secretly held belief -- or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope -- that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was not perfect.
• Two Minutes Hate
• Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People
• defiler
• heresies
• conspiracies
• He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep
• doctrines
• perverse
• plausible
• In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy
• inexorably
• The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in
• A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp.
• derided heretic
• At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.
• flog her to death with a rubber truncheon.
• Saint Sebastian
• the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.
• bleat,
• The Hate rose to its climax
• din of battle
• Then the face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out in bold capitals:
• WAR IS PEACE
• FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
• IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• With a tremulous murmur that sounded like 'My Saviour!' she extended her arms towards the screen. Then she buried her face in her hands. It was apparent that she was uttering a prayer.
• delirium
• To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction
• conceivably
• But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew-yes, he knew!-that O'Brien was thinking the same thing as himself.
• inscrutable
• perhaps
• the Brotherhood really existed
• lavatory
• equivocal
• belch
• His pen had slid voluptuously
• DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
• filling half a page.
• over and over again
• absurd
• the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime,
• Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you.
• You were abolished, annihilated: vaporized was the usual word.
• hysteria
• 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 --
• futile
• His heart was thumping like a drum

94 more annotations...

jsprkwk

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

gingerz9

• Part One 
  
• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. 
  
• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• Winston
• Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• the eyes follow you about when you move.
• He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• 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.
• INGSOC
• hovered for an instant like a bluebottle
• The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
• snooping
• Ninth Three-Year Plan
• There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment.
• You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
• telescreen
• the Ministry of Truth, his place of work,
• London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania.
• vague distaste
• nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
• The Ministry of Truth -- Minitrue, in Newspeak
• It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air
• WAR IS PEACE 
  
• FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
  
• IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH 
  
• Victory Mansions
• The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts.
• The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war.
• The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order.
• Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs.
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
• a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN.
• The next moment, however, the burning in his belly died down and the world began to look more cheerful.
• VICTORY CIGARETTES
• He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen.
• It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least forty years past.
• Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops ('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way.
• Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession.
• This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• to open a diary.
• decisive act.
• April 4th, 1984.
• A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
• For the future, for the unborn.
• How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
• the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years.
• He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin.
• Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter when he sank.
• then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats
• It was, he now realized, because of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come home and begin the diary today.
• It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked,
• Two Minutes Hate
• She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips.
• He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones.
• unorthodoxy
• The idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police.
• Still, he continued to feel a peculiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.
• The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature.
• O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face.
• He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane manner and his prize-fighter's physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief -- or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope -- that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was not perfect.
• a hideous, grinding speech,
• The Hate had started.
• As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen.
• He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching.
• It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality.
• He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed
• the Eurasian army
• The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
• He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the other.
• He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood,
• In a lucid moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair.
• A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.
• And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp.
• Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia,
• and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.
• He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon.
• He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of 'B-B! ...B-B!' -- over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first 'B' and the second-a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms.
• Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise.
• to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction.
• An unmistakable message had passed.
• 'I know precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on your side!' And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O'Brien's face was as inscrutable as everybody else's.
• It was impossible, in spite of the endless arrests and confessions and executions, to be sure that the Brotherhood was not simply a myth.
• There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory walls
• guesswork
• equivocal
• But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
• automatic action
• His pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals
• DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
• a twinge of panic
• He had committed
• Thoughtcrime
• the arrests invariably happened at night.
• 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: vaporized was the usual word.
• There was a knocking at the door.
• He sat as still as a mouse,
• expressionless

100 more annotations...

blaze_chandler

• It was a bright cold day in April
• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats
• the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• a fruity voice
• oblong metal plaque

6 more annotations...

nikdelg1316

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled i
• o his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of
• Victory Mansio
• ns, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• e and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during da

3 more annotations...

noelle98

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. 
  

ashdestinyy

1984

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall.
• face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.
• Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle,
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
• Inside the flat a fruity voice
• The voice came from an oblong metal plaque
• frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized
• coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• 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.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU,
• It was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
• the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan
• simultaneously
• There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment.
• conceivable
• watched everybody all the time
• scrutinized.
• telescreen.
• A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth
• provinces of Oceania.
• baulks
• corrugated i
• willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble;
• ordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses
• nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible. 
  
• enormous pyramidal structure of glittering
• white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party: 
  
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• corresponding ramifications
• The Ministry of Love, which maintained l
• aw and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affai
• rs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love
• lometre of it.
• , nor within half a ki
• Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons. 
  
• April 4th, 1984. 
  
• He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
• the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio'd, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the screen.
• Then the face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out in bold capitals: 
  
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

40 more annotations...

dsg187

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

nate_dogg

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

   
  
• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. 
  
• The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats
• The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats.
• simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
• of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable.
• 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.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• flapped fitfully in the wind
• hovered for an instant like a bluebottle
• Only the Thought Police mattered.
• It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time
• But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
• Ministry of Truth
• this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania.
• But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
• was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air.
• The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs.
• through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.
• Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen.
• and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.
• nstantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club.
• f being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting,
• He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do.
• Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least forty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was much older than that.
• e had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession.
• The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• April 4th, 1984. 
  
• April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise
• little boy screaming with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting her arms round him and comforting him although she was blue with fright herself, all the time covering him up as much as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never -- 
  
• He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably -- since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner she had some mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her.
• he idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a peculiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.
• The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature. A momentary hush passed over the group of people round the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face.
• But at any rate he had the appearance of being a person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At this moment O'Brien glanced at his wrist-watch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple of places away.
• almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolutionary activities,
• Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even -- so it was occasionally rumoured -- in some hiding-place in Oceania itself.
• He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed -- and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life.
• ut what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less.
• It was a book without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book. But one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it
• The little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O'Brien's heavy face was flushed. He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a wave.
• Swine! Swine! Swine
• Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic
• And yet the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.
• Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her.
• 
  At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of 'B-B! ...B-B!' -- over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first 'B' and the second-a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms
• rium, but this sub-human chanting of 'B-B! ...B-B!' always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise. To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing,
• Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye. O'Brien had stood up. He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture.
• An unmistakable message had passed. It was as though their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their eyes. 'I am with you,' O'Brien seemed to be saying to him.
• He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at O'Brien again. The idea of following up their momentary contact hardly crossed his mind. It would have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
• DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

51 more annotations...

laurenc3118

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

raybhimz

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• boiled cabbage and old rag mats
• Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours.
• Hate Week
• contrived
• the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally
• sanguine
• the world looked cold
• there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere.
• It was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows
• You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
• London
• Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble
• like chicken-houses
• nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible
• 
  WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
• a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests.
• The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club.
• VICTORY CIGARETTES
• Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do.
• there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way.
• He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase.
• (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws)
• , but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote: 
   
  April 4th, 1984.
• A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him
• doublethink
• How could you communicate with the future?
• The telescreen had changed over to strident military music.
• All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up.
• he began writing in sheer panic
• audience shouting with laughter when he sank.
• 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood
• shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never
• in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate
• she had some mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines.
• It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her
• Once when they passed in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror
• He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane manner and his prize-fighter's physique.
• Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People
• had engaged in counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had
• mysteriously escaped and disappeared
• It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched.
• he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed
• polysyllabic speech
• Eurasian army
• in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less.
• Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it.
• In a lucid moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair. The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in.
• A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces
• And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp.
• sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies
• he realized why it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so,
• It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken.
• she was uttering a prayer.
• this sub-human chanting of 'B-B! ...B-B!' always filled him with horror
• To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing
• Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye.
• 'I am with you,' O'Brien seemed to be saying to him. 'I know precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on your side!'
• Perhaps the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true after all -- perhaps the Brotherhood really existed!
• It was all guesswork
• But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
• DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  over and over again, filling half a page.
• because he knew that it was useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made no difference.
• but sooner or later they were bound to get you.
• In the vast majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest.
• his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless.
• His heart was thumping like a drum

69 more annotations...

stephlambaren

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats.
• the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features
• Winston
• the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week.
• and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle,
• are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
• flat a fruity voice
• oblong
• meagreness
• His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• 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.
• It was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
• he could be seen as well as heard.
• There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment.
• How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswor
• scrutinized.
• Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania.
• London, chief city of
• Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with
• corrugated
• sordid
• tableaux
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH 
  
• ramifications
• apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
• It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.
• VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese ricespirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.
• alcove
• The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• archaic
• 1984.
• but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
• It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
• varicose
• but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i
• He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones.
• But this particular girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror.
• The idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police.
• O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face.
• appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming -- in some indefinable way, curiously civilized.
• Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself
• He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality.
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  over and over again, filling half a page.

46 more annotations...

austindy

• bright cold day in April
• vile wind
• Victory Mansions
• smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats
• no use trying the lift
• varicose ulcer
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• 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.
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one
• gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms
• VICTORY GIN
• VICTORY CIGARETTES

11 more annotations...

justinreyes1

• A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him.

oxyloft

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features
• The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats.
• BIG BROTHER
• Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall.
• distinguishable
• a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• 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.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• flapped fitfully in the wind
• Thought Police
• telescreen
• Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard.
• Thought Police
• Ministry of Truth
• his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape.
• even a back can be revealing
• London,
• and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
• The Ministry of Truth -- Minitrue, in Newspeak -- was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size.
• A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him
• DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

24 more annotations...

jchen98

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• effort
• It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours
• It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

2 more annotations...

chasek2455

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift.
• He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• harsh blue
• the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
• London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions?
• The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• Ministry of Love was the really frightening one
• How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible.
• She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones.
• But this particular girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police.
• Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself
• He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be
• The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had become an actual sheep's bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep. Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostil
• perhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was impossible, in spite of the endless arrests and confessions and executions, to be sure that the Brotherhood was not simply a myth.
• He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed -- would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper -- the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you.
• the arrests invariably happened at night

15 more annotations...

johnhong98

• 
  1 
  It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winsto
• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• ffort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly
• breast in an e
• of Victory Mansions, though not quickly en
• It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.

4 more annotations...

steph_19c14

1984

• and the clocks were striking thirteen.
• slipped quickly through the glass doors
• Victory Mansions
• It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU,
• He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• n 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.
• so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard.
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH 
  
• He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at O'Brien again.
• The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed -- would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper -- the essential crime that contained all others in itself.
• heyll 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 --

10 more annotations...

dstringfellow

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.
• Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle,
• On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran. 
   
  Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely.
• He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• 
  Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste -- this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and the
• The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.
• Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen
• Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes.
• For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual position.
• But it had also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least forty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town (just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops ('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession.
• The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• April 4th, 1984.
• It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say.
• April 4th, 1984.
• It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate.
• The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature
• The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's neck. The Hate had started. 
   
  As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even -- so it was occasionally rumoured -- in some hiding-place in Oceania itself. 
  
• Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party -- an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed -- and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life. And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army -- row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
• Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room.
• In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy.
• It was even possible, at moments, to switch one's hatred this way or that by a voluntary act.
• The Hate rose to its climax.
• At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of 'B-B! ...B-B!' -- over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first 'B' and the second-a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it up.
• Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye.

25 more annotations...

crystalkirch

1984

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

janmintz

1984

• It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
• varicose ulcer above his right ankle
• he poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
• (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely.
• his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
• 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.
• You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
• A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste -- this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• heir names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen
• April 4th, 1984. 
   
  He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
• then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never -- 
  
• Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room.
• He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be.
• The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in.
• At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.
• At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of 'B-B! ...B-B!' -- over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first 'B' and the second-a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms
• O'Brien's face was as inscrutable as everybody else's.
• But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
• Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed -- would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper -- the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you. 
  
• You were abolished, annihilated: vaporized was the usual word.

20 more annotations...

zoiewalters

• The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously.

makyla

• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston's own
• Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard.
• It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing.

1 more annotation...

brookebelair

• It was a bright cold day in April
• present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours.
• Hate Week
• inston, who was thirty-nine
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
• but there was no way of shutting it off completely.
• here seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere.
• Only the Thought Police mattered.
• hought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork.
• nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
• he three slogans of the Party: 
   
  WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• hey were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs.
• Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws

12 more annotations...

baseballkid18

• Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a belch. The gin was rising from his stomach.
• 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 --

Alexis Wright

• It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
• The voice came from an oblong metal plaque
• there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere.
• The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level,
• He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones.
• The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's neck. The Hate had started.

5 more annotations...

Jordan Griffin

• 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.
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• He took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese ricespirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine. 
   
  Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however, the burning in his belly died down and the world began to look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the floor. With the next he was more successful.

1 more annotation...

smears309

• t was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
• There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment.
• He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this
• 
  Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes.
• k and a marbled cover.
• The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• Momentarily

5 more annotations...

aleclittle

• a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN
• a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES
• It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945

1 more annotation...

anasleeman

• 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.
• in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.
• Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
• audience shouting with laughter when he sank.
• hen there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats
• but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never --
• Before

7 more annotations...

katherine hassett

• he hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats.
• ven through the shut window-pane,
• the world looked cold.
• he sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything,
• had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess it.
• At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose.
• nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws
• but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• the chairs
• A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current
• And it was no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals -
• 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 --

10 more annotations...

actualize

• bright cold day in April
• thirteen
• Winston Smith
• Hate Week
• telescreen
• no colour
• INGSOC
• Thought Police
• You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized
• Airstrip One
• Ministry of Truth -- Minitrue, in Newspeak
• the three slogans of the Party: 
   
  WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
• The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• Love was the really frightening one
• He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen
• VICTORY GIN
• VICTORY CIGARETTES
• It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do.
• But it had also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book.
• Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops ('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way.
• Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession.
• This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
• For the future, for the unborn.
• doublethink
• How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
• For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years.
• Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:
• until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never --
• stream of rubbish
• while he was doing so a totally different memory had clarified itself in his mind
• if anything so nebulous could be said to happen.
• Two Minutes Hate
• He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department.
• She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements
• Junior Anti-Sex League
• Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror.
• O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party
• O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming -- in some indefinable way, curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane manner and his prize-fighter's physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief -- or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope -- that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly. And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate he had the appearance of being a person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get him alone.
• Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience.
• renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared.
• programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure.
• He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even -- so it was occasionally rumoured -- in some hiding-place in Oceania itself.
• painful mixture of emotions.
• an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed -- and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life.
• He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book.
• The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.
• And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston's hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies. And yet the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.
• Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.
• The Hate rose to its climax.
• But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio'd, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken.
• At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of 'B-B! ...B-B!' -- over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first 'B' and the second-a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it up. It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of overwhelming emotion.
• an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise.
• this sub-human chanting of 'B-B! ...B-B!' always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise.
• To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him.
• O'Brien had stood up. He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture. But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew-yes, he knew!-that O'Brien was thinking the same thing as himself. An unmistakable message had passed. It was as though their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their eyes. 'I am with you,' O'Brien seemed to be saying to him. 'I know precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on your side!' And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O'Brien's face was as inscrutable as everybody else's.
• All that they did was to keep alive in him the belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of the Party
• The idea of following up their momentary contact hardly crossed his mind. It would have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
• He discovered that while he sat helplessly musing he had also been writing, as though by automatic action. And it was no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals
• DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
   
  DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER 
  
• It was absurd, since the writing of those particular words was not more dangerous than the initial act of opening the diary, but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether.
• The Thought Police would get him just the same
• Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you.
• It was always at night -- the 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: vaporized was the usual word. 
  
• 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.

63 more annotations...

katrinelind

• It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
• The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen
• dealing on the free market
• it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
• Two Minutes Hate
• Enemy of the People
• his influence never seemed to grow less
• The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in
• his secret loathing of Big Brother
• At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of 'B-B! ...B-B!' -- over and over again, very slowly
• I know precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on your side!'

10 more annotations...

Frank Barnes

Orwell 1984

• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

dejesmek000

• They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.

hamilabi000

• Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly

destiniraeross

• She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips.
• The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature.
• As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen.
• almost on a level with Big Brother himself
• He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching.
• It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched.
• There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book. But one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it. 
  
• nd yet the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.

6 more annotations...

Dylan Culp

• The Hate rose to its climax

lynchjod000

• Winston Smith
• a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin rough
• BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU

1 more annotation...

ruggsaly000

• Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty. 
  
• VICTORY CIGARETTES

lillyspringer

1984 Orwell

• t was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week.
• he instrument (the telescreen, it w
• as called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body m
• Only the Thought Police mattered
• ny sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard.
• every movement scrutinized.
• Minitrue, in Newspea
• WAR IS PEACE 
   
  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY 
   
  IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH 
  
• he Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which mainta
• ned law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs.
• VICTORY GIN
• VICTORY CIGARETTES
• By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen
• a kind that had not been manufactured for at least forty years past
• his was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labou
• he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984
• Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
• It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say

16 more annotations...

durahcia000

• contrived
• meagreness
• sanguine
• eddies
• sordid
• ramifications
• truncheons. 
  

5 more annotations...

heidrkir000

• It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week.
• They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs.
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all.
• Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops ('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way
• but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp
• but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
• in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate
• that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was not perfect.
• it was not even unorthodoxy that was written in his face, but simply intelligence.
• The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's neck. The Hate had started.
• Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People
• had been one of the leading figures of the Party
• then had engaged in counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared.
• none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure.
• the earliest defiler of the Party's purity.
• Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies

14 more annotations...

annotahsan

• Only the Thought Police mattered.
• There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment
• The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order.
• The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
• and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.
• peculiarly beautiful book
• his was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp.
• o mark the paper was the decisive act.
• he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984.
• How could you communicate with the future?
• Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
• Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic,
• then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood.
• lot of applause from the party seats
• Two Minutes Hate.
• He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones
• and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature
• unorthodoxy
• the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People,
• but there was none in which Goldstein was not t
• he principal figure.
• ace of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, wit
• He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed -- and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life.
• behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian arm
• expressionless Asiatic faces,
• the sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger automatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia,
• his influence never seemed to grow less.
• The Brotherhood,
• In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy.
• he horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in.
• nd yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp.
• It was even possible, at moments, to switch one's hatred this way or that by a voluntary act.
• He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.
• into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio'd, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken.

32 more annotations...

jessica baker

• a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features
• the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan.