“They flung their clothes off and climbed into the huge mahogany bed. It was the first time that he has stripped himself naked in her presence. Until now he had been too much ashamed of his pale and meagre body, with the varicose veins standing out on his calves and the discoloured patch over his ankle. There were no sheets, but the blanket they lay on was threadbare and smooth, and the size and springiness of the bed astonished both of them.”
1984 (George Orwell; chapter IV: 165)
I am currently – and for the first time, as much as I am ashamed to admit it (if I was ever to write a list of all things I have never read, seen, listened to, although I really should have by now, it would be endlessly long, which makes me feel really small on occasions) - reading Orwell’s ‘1984’. And I am absolutely loving every page of it. However, I was hoping it would re-awaken in me my love of political theory, make me crave for re-reading Hannah Arendt, remind me of my childhood fascination with ‘Logan’s Run’ (and, as funny as it sounds now, Michael York), or at least leave me wanting to see the film made after the famous novel, which I have not seen either. And it did, at first. Until I came to the crucial words.
“I love you.”
