1984

He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish.

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

The pain of sitting on the narrow bench was such that often he got up and walked about

In the centres of civilization war means no more than a continuous shortage of consumption goods,