Eric Arthur Blair (25 June 1903 – 21 January 1950), better known by his pen name George Orwell

It was three years ago. It was on a dark evening, in a 
narrow side-street near one of the big railway stations. She 
was standing near a doorway in the wall, under a street lamp 
that hardly gave any light. She had a young face, painted 
very thick. It was really the paint that appealed to me, the 
whiteness of it, like a mask, and the bright red lips. Party 
women never paint their faces. There was nobody else in the 
street, and no telescreens. She said two dollars. I——
For the moment it was too difficult to go on. He shut his 
eyes and pressed his fingers against them, trying to squeeze 
out the vision that kept recurring. He had an almost over-
whelming temptation to shout a string of filthy words at the 
top of his voice. Or to bang his head against the wall, to kick 
over the table, and hurl the inkpot through the window—to 
do any violent or noisy or painful thing that might black 
out the memory that was tormenting him.
Your worst enemy, he reflected, was your own nervous 
system. At any moment the tension inside you was liable to 
translate itself into some visible symptom. He thought of 
a man whom he had passed in the street a few weeks back; 
a quite ordinary-looking man, a Party member, aged thir-

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1984
8
ty-five to forty, tallish and thin, carrying a brief-case. They 
were a few metres apart when the left side of the man’s face 
was suddenly contorted by a sort of spasm. It happened 
again just as they were passing one another: it was only a 
twitch, a quiver, rapid as the clicking of a camera shutter, 
but obviously habitual. He remembered thinking at the 
time: That poor devil is done for. And what was frighten-
ing was that the action was quite possibly unconscious. The 
most deadly danger of all was talking in your sleep. There 
was no way of guarding against that, so far as he could see.
He drew his breath and went on writing:
I went with her through the doorway and across a backyard 
into a basement kitchen. There was a bed against the wall, 
and a lamp on the table, turned down very low. She——
His teeth were set on edge. He would have liked to spit. 
Simultaneously with the woman in the basement kitchen 
he thought of Katharine, his wife. Winston was married—
had been married, at any rate: probably he still was married, 
so far as he knew his wife was not dead. He seemed to 
breathe again the warm stuffy odour of the basement kitch-
en, an odour compounded of bugs and dirty clothes and 
villainous cheap scent, but nevertheless alluring, because 
no woman of the Party ever used scent, or could be imag-
ined as doing so. Only the proles used scent. In his mind the 
smell of it was inextricably mixed up with fornication.
When he had gone with that woman it had been his first 
lapse in two years or thereabouts. Consorting with prosti-

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tutes was forbidden, of course, but it was one of those rules 
that you could occasionally nerve yourself to break. It was 
dangerous, but it was not a life-and-death matter. To be 
caught with a prostitute might mean five years in a forced-
labour camp: not more, if you had committed no other 
offence. And it was easy enough, provided that you could 
avoid being caught in the act. The poorer quarters swarmed 
with women who were ready to sell themselves. Some could 
even be purchased for a bottle of gin, which the proles were 
not supposed to drink. Tacitly the Party was even inclined 
to encourage prostitution, as an outlet for instincts which 
could not be altogether suppressed. Mere debauchery did 
not matter very much, so long as it was furtive and joyless 
and only involved the women of a submerged and despised 
class. The unforgivable crime was promiscuity between