I see her sit in the center of this web of wires like a watchful robot, tend her network with mechanical insect skill, know every second which wire runs where and just what current to send up to get the results she wants.

I’m like an animal who’s been locked out of his nice, safe cage.

It was a foolish impulse, but the devil begotten of fear and blind anger was ill curbed and still eager to take advantage of my perplexity.

“Did you ever feel,” he asked, “as though you had something inside you that was only waiting for you to give it a chance to come out? Some sort of extra power that you aren’t using – you know, like all the water that goes down the falls instead of through the turbines?”

Words can be like X-rays, if you use them properly – they’ll go through anything. You read and you're pierced.

“…Yes, babies. Mewling and puking,” he added, exasperated by their bestial stupidity into throwing insults at those he had come to save. The insults bounced off their carapace of thick stupidity…

The words “Throw it all away” pierced through the enfolding layers of incomprehension...

Во мне был какой-то граммофон: он отвечал на все вопросы быстро и точно, а я, не переставая, – внутри, о своем.[…] – Так держать, – крикнул я в машину, – или не я, а тот самый граммофон во мне – и граммофон механической, шарнирной рукой сунул командную трубку Второму Строителю. […] …граммофон во мне – шарнирно, точно взял трубку, скомандовал «малый ход»… (Развернутая метафора граммофона – запись 34-я, с. 136-140.)

Я чувствовал: бледнею – и вот сейчас все увидят это… Но граммофон во мне проделывал 50 установленных жевательных движений на каждый кусок… (Развернутая метафора граммофона – запись 34-я, с. 136-140.)

Я пишу это и чувствую: у меня горят щеки. Вероятно, это похоже на то, что испытывает женщина, когда впервые услышит в себе пульс нового, еще крошечного, слепого человечка. Это я и одновременно не я. И долгие месяцы надо будет питать его своим соком, своей кровью, а потом – с болью оторвать его от себя и положить к ногам Единого Государства. (Запись 1-я, с. 9.)

И я вместе с ним мысленно озираю сверху: намеченные тонким голубым пунктиром концентрические круги трибун – как бы круги паутины, осыпанные микроскопическими солнцами (сияние блях); и в центре ее – сейчас сядет белый, мудрый Паук – в белых одеждах Благодетель, мудро связавший нас по рукам и ногам благодетельными тенетами счастья. (запись 25-я, с. 97).

“My Papa was a full Chief and his name was Tee Ah Millatoona. That means The-Pine-That-Stands-Tallest-on-the-Mountain, and we didn’t live on a mountain. He was real big when I was a kid. My mother got twice his size.”

“You must of had a real moose of an old lady. How big was she?”

“Oh – big, big.”

“I mean how many feet and inches?”

“Feet and inches? A guy at the carnival looked her over and says five feet nine and weight a hundred and thirty pounds, but that was because he’d just saw her. She got bigger all the time.[…]

“Just one day took to growin’, huh? Well, that’s a new one on me: I never heard of an Indian woman doing something like that.”

In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most successfully on people incapable of understanding it. […] By lack of understanding they remained sane. They simply swallowed everything, and what they swallowed did them no harm, because it left no residue behind, just as a grain of corn will pass undigested through the body of a bird.

A wave of admiration, almost of worship, flowed out from Winston…

His mind sagged round and round on the same trick, like a ball falling again and again into the same series of slots. He had only six thoughts. The pain in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the screaming; O'Brien; Julia; the razor blade.

“You are thinking,” he said, “that my face is old and tired. You are thinking that I talk of power, and yet I am not even able to prevent the decay of my own body. Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell? The weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. Do you die when you cut your fingernails?”

There were things, your own acts, from which you could never recover. Something was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out.

Anyway Burt says if the experimint werks Ill be able to understand all those things the studints are talking about and I said do you think Ill be smart like them and he laffed and said those kids arent so smart youll pass them as if their standing still.

Like this morning just after I woke up, I was laying in bed with my eyes open. It was like a big hole opened up in the walls of my mind and I can just walk through.

Shadows out of the past clutch at my legs and drag me down. I open my mouth to scream, but I am voiceless.

I have often reread my early progress reports and seen the illiteracy, the childish naiveté, the mind of low intelligence peering from a dark room, through the keyhole, at the dazzling light outside.

About my perception: everything is sharp and clear, each sensation heightened and illuminated so that reds and yellows and blues glow. […] It’s as if all the things I’ve learned have fused into a crystal universe spinning before me so that I can see all the facets of it reflected in gorgeous bursts of light...

But then it hit me like a fist against the side of my head that I didn’t remember what I had to do.

It was as if I had been looking at the whole thing clearly on the blackboard of my mind, but when I turned to read it, part of it had been erased and the rest didn’t make sense. At first, I refused to believe it. I went through the cards in a panic… […] And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t remember what I had to say. All missing.

…how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often – he searched for a simile, found one in his work – torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?

If only they could have taken her mind along to the dry-cleaner’s and emptied the pockets and steamed and cleansed it and re-blocked it and brought it back in the morning.

…the women who were burning with tension. Any moment they might hiss a long sputtering hiss and explode.

Ivor had taken care to inform me that she was a deaf-mute and such a shy one, too, that even now, at twenty-one, she could not make herself learn to read male lips. That sounded odd. I had always thought that the infirmity in question confined the patient in an absolutely safe shell as limpid and strong as shatterproof glass, within which no shame or sham could exist.