It occurred to me at some point when I was writing about a utopian society that maybe I ought to read about a dystopian one, too. When it comes down to it — scratch the surface of a a utopia and you’ll find a dystopia screaming to get out. Ten years in the gaming industry have taught me at least this: it’s impossible to make everyone happy, ever, without lobotomizing 99% of the population or keeping them so drugged up they don’t know where or who they are. Even then, you’d still have a few complaining that their lobotomy wasn’t as nice as Mary Sue’s, who they heard got a lollipop when hers was over.
Ergo, and so, and thus, there’s a good reason to read this book: it’ll make my own better.
I find myself enjoying Orwell’s writing style. Of all the literary literature I’ve read (or had to read), I have to admit this is some of the most digestable. I like that Orwell’s observative on what reduces people to the state of nasty and brutish: desperation. Desperation over food. Desperation over shelter. Desperation over safety. There’s a lot of desperation in 1984.
What’s the point in commentary on a book that’s been a classic for nearly fifty years? Because “classics” can become swiftly dated. For all that 1984 was written long before the personal computer, the book holds up well, and so do the characters, their world, and their motivations.
Also, I can’t read it without thinking of John Hurt. If ever there was a man born to be Winston Smith, it was him.
