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From somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of roasting coffee—real coffee, not Victory Coffee—came floating out into the street. Winston paused involuntarily. For perhaps two seconds he was back in the half-forgotten world of his childhood. Then a door banged, seeming to cut off the smell as abruptly as though it had been a sound.
He had walked several kilometres over pavements, and his varicose ulcer was throbbing. This was the second time in three weeks that he had missed an evening at the Community Centre: a rash act, since you could be certain that the number of your attendances at the Centre was carefully checked. In principle a Party member had no spare time, and was never alone except in bed. It was assumed that when he was not working, eating, or sleeping he would be taking part in some kind of communal recreation: to do anything that suggested a taste for solitude, even to go for a walk by yourself, was always slightly dangerous. There was a word for it in Newspeak: OWNLIFE, it was called, meaning individualism and eccentricity. But this evening as he came out of the Ministry the balminess of the April air had tempted him. The sky was a warmer blue than he had seen it that year, and suddenly the long, noisy evening at the Centre, the boring, exhausting games, the lectures, the creaking camaraderie oiled by gin, had seemed intolerable. On impulse he had turned away from the bus-stop and wandered off into the labyrinth of London, first south, then east, then north again, losing himself among unknown streets and hardly bothering in which direction he was going.
‘If there is hope,’ he had written in the diary,
‘it lies in the proles.’ The words kept coming back to
him, statement of a mystical truth and a palpable absurdity. He was
somewhere in the vague, brown-coloured slums to the north and east
of what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He was walking up a
cobbled street of little two-storey houses with battered doorways
which gave straight on the pavement and which were somehow
curiously suggestive of ratholes. There were puddles of filthy
water here and there among the cobbles. In and out of the dark
doorways, and down narrow alley-ways that branched off on either
side, people swarmed in astonishing numbers—girls in full
bloom, with crudely lipsticked mouths, and youths who chased the
girls, and swollen waddling women who showed you what the girls
would be like in ten years’ time, and old bent creatures
shuffling along on splayed feet, and ragged barefooted children who
played in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells from their
mothers. Perhaps a quarter of the windows in the street were broken
and boarded up. Most of the people paid no attention to Winston; a
few eyed him with a sort of guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women
with brick-red forearms folded across their aprons were talking
outside a doorway. Winston caught scraps of (...)
(......)
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