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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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