George Orwell - 1984

The phrase „our new, happy life“ recurred several times. It had been a favorite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Parsons, his attention caught by the trumpet call, sat listening with a sort of gaping solemnity, a sort of edified boredom. He could not follow the figures, but he was aware that they were in some way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged out a huge and filthy pipe which was already half full of charred tobacco. With the tobacco ration at a hundred grams a week it was seldom possible to fill a pipe up to the top. Winston was smoking a Victory Cigarette which he held carefully horizontal. The new ration did not start till tomorrow and he had only four cigarettes left. For the moment he had shut his ears to the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that there had even been demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty grams a week. And only yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the ration was to be reduced to twenty grams a week. Was it possible, that they could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature at the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a furious desire to track down, denounce and vaporize anyone who should suggest that last week the ration had been thirty grams. Syme, too – in some more complex way, involving double-think – Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, alone in the possession of a memory?

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Pozůstatek mých občasných protiamerických nálad. Je to pořád geniální kniha, člověk si říká, jak to všechno zná a pak ji otevře po čase a zjistí, že je daleko lepší, než si to pamatoval. A diví se a raduje. Člověk Ofélie.
Ten samý člověk dnes rozhání bouře, oslavuje obřími margaritami jednu čerstvou paní inženýrku a čte další skvělou knihu.