Author Topic: Palimpsest

« on: October 21, 2022 »
I'm not entirely sure what the plan is here, other than to reprint excerpts from 1984 along with pictures and videos (the following image is clickable too). As usual, I'll mess around with this collage until I'm happy with it – possibly even to the point of erasing and starting again. Thus the name of the thread.

Having opened the book at random and blindly stuck my finger in the middle of a page (101!), this is where it landed:

Winston came across to examine the picture. It was a steel engraving of an oval building with rectangular windows, and a small tower in front. There was a railing running round the building, and at the rear end there was what appeared to be a statue. Winston gazed at it for some moments. It seemed vaguely familiar, though he did not remember the statue.

« Reply #1 on: October 22, 2022 »
I had, and just about still have, better hopes for this nascent thread, but my head's not currently in the right place.

Today's quote doesn't help:
They had been talking to one another for a couple of minutes at the most. There was only one meaning that the episode could possible have. It had been contrived as a way of letting Winston know O'Brien's address. This was necessary, because except by direct enquiry it was never possible to discover where anyone lived. There were no directories of any kind. 'If you ever want to see me, this is where I can be found,' was what O'Brien had been saying to him. Perhaps there would even be a message concealed somewhere in the Dictionary. But at any rate, one thing was certain. The conspiracy that he had dreamed of did exist, and he had reached the outer edges of it.

Maybe I'll just keep posting them until something comes to me.

« Reply #2 on: October 23, 2022 »
Scrolling back to the OP, the building in question is St. Clement's of oranges and lemons and choppers chopping off heads fame; so the video the next post down turned out to be a happy accident. Still, I prefer Palimpsest to Serendipity as a title, even if I don't end up doing much erasing.

Dear reader, it's a bit clunky having W;inston quote the narrator describe what Winston is up to. I've considered switching to first person, but for the time being shall carry on without altering the text. Were I more ambitious I'd narrate current events in his voice.

This got me wondering if there was a sequel to 1984, and indeed, there was: 1985, by Gyrgy Dalos. Anthony Burgess also had a crack at it, sort of.

A feminist retelling is in the works. The author, Sandra Newman, uses "She/they" pronouns in her twitter bio. So there's that.

Onward and without further ado:

Quote from: finger of fate
In the walls of the cubical there were three orifices. To the right of the speak-write, a small pneumatic tube for written messages; to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston's arm, a large oblong slip protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm are to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building.

« Reply #3 on: October 24, 2022 »
Today I landed on page 254, a wall of text without a paragraph break. Here it is, touch typed at speed, with typos intact. Because not fixing typos is like torture to me.

simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of arguing and reasoning. Their real weapon was the merciliess questioning that went on and on, hour after hour, tripig him up, laying traps for him, twisting everything that he said, convicting him at every step of lies and self-contradiction, until he began weepig as much from shame as from nervous fatigue. Someties he would weep half a dozen ties in a single session. Most of the time they screamed abuse at him and threatened at every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes they would suddenly change their tune,

call him comrade, appeal to him in hte name of Ingsoc and Bi Brother, and ask him sorrowfully whether even ow he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil he had done. When his nerves were in rages after hours of questioning, even this apeal could reduce him to snivelling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down more completely than the boots and ;fists of the guards. He became simply a mouht that uttered, a hand that signed, whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to find out what they wanted him to confess, and then confess it quickly, before the bullying started anew. He confessed to the assassination of eminent Party members, the distrubution of seditious pamphlets, embezjzlement of public funds, sale of military secrets, sabatage of every kind. he confessed that he had been a spy in the pay of the Eastasian government as far back as 1958. He donfessed that he was a religious believer, and admirer of capitalism and a secxual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his wife, although he knew, and his questioners must have known that his wife as still alive. He confessed that for yoears he had been in person touch with Goldtein and had been a member of an underground organisation which had included almost every human being he had ever known. It was easier to cofess everything and implicate everybody.