1984, George Orwell

1984, George Orwell

Just finished reading 1984, and am feeling a bit low. A powerful feeling of utter sadness has come upon me. The story is so tragic (if that is the right word). The grey world described in book I captured my attention. The rose tinted world of the glass encased piece of coral (and Shakespeare, and Julia, and the beautiful prole laundry grandma, and the way life should be...except for the hiding) in book II captured my heart. The black world of torture and illogic in book III pretty much made my brain hurt with sorrow.

I don't even blame Winston for giving up, or for Julia and Winston both losing affection (hating themselves for wishing pain on the other, and therefore hating to see the other and hate themselves anew at each meeting). I blame Winston for being too eager, for not being more cautious, for not changing hiding places, ... for trusting O'Brien (even though I really wanted to trust O'Brien from the very first mention of him).

I'm sad that Winston began to have a real life of freedom, and that he had to then live life without that freedom. I'm just sad.

Its the best book I wish I never read.

War is Peace.
Freedom is Slavery.
Ignorance in Strength.

Later.