Julia And Winston Quotes

She's beautiful,' he murmured. 'She's a metre across the hips, easily,' said Julia. 'That is her style of beauty,' said Winston.

Miranda was nineteen. Her experience with men consisted of Winston and himself. Both of whom had heretofore been brotherly figures. The poor girl must be confused as hell. Winston had suddenly decided that she was Venus, Queen Elizabeth, and the Virgin Mary all rolled into one,and Turner had all but forced himself on her. Not exactly an average day in the life of a young country miss

It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of a song. In the afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Winston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were deliberately showing off its virtuosity ... For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and pour its music into nothingness?

She’s beautiful,” he murmured. “She’s a meter across the hips, easily,” said Julia. “That is her style of beauty,” said Winston.

Often, when we say it is “too late” for us to begin something, what we are really saying is that we aren’t willing to be a beginner. But when we are willing to dip our toe in, even just a little, we are rewarded with a sense of youthful wonder. Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never. —WINSTON CHURCHILL

Julia had once been picked out to work in Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for a year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with titles like Spanking Stories or One Night in a Girls’ School, to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were under the impression that they were buying something illegal. “What are these books like?” said Winston curiously. “Oh, ghastly rubbish. They’re boring, really. They only have six plots, but they swap them round a bit.

Chapter I. Ignorance is Strength.   Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have borne countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium, however far it is pushed one way or the other.   ‘Julia, are you awake?’ said Winston. ‘Yes, my love, I’m listening. Go on. It’s marvellous.’ He continued reading:   The aims of these three groups are entirely irreconcilable. The aim of the High is to remain where they are. The aim of the Middle is to change places with the High. The aim of the Low, when they have an aim—for it is an abiding characteristic of the Low that they are too much crushed by drudgery to be more than intermittently conscious of anything outside their daily lives—is to abolish all distinctions and create a society in which all men shall be equal. Thus throughout history a struggle which is the same in its main outlines recurs over and over again. For long periods the High seem to be securely in power, but sooner or later there always comes a moment when they lose either their belief in themselves or their capacity to govern efficiently, or both. They are then overthrown by the Middle, who enlist the Low on their side by pretending to them that they are fighting for liberty and justice. As soon as they have reached their objective, the Middle thrust the Low back into their old position of servitude, and themselves become the High. Presently a new Middle group splits off from one of the other groups, or from both of them, and the struggle begins over again. Of the three groups, only the Low are never even temporarily successful in achieving their aims. It would be an exaggeration to say that throughout history there has been no progress of a material kind. Even today, in a period of decline, the average human being is physically better off than he was a few centuries ago. But no advance in wealth, no softening of manners, no reform or revolution has ever brought human equality a millimetre nearer. From the point of view of the Low, no historic change has ever meant much more than a change in the name of their masters.

Winston, Julia'yla konuşurken, bağnazlığın ne anlama geldiğini azıcık olsun kavramadan bağnaz gibi görünmenin ne kadar kolay olduğunu fark etmişti.

was walking down the long corridor at the Ministry, and he was almost at the spot where Julia had slipped the note into his hand when he became aware that someone larger than himself was walking just behind him. The person, whoever it was, gave a small cough, evidently as a prelude to speaking. Winston stopped abruptly and turned. It was O’Brien.

Richard looked in horror at the piano. “Oh, no,” Iris quickly assured him. “There will be no music. At least not that I know of. It’s not a concert.” Still, Richard’s eyes widened with panic. Where was Winston and his little balls of cotton when he needed him? “You’re frightening me, Miss Smythe-Smith.

He halted his words, sinking into a chair, trying very hard to get past the fact that he was perilously close to tears. Right here, in John’s study, with this damnable little man who didn’t seem to understand that a man had died, not just an earl, but a man, Michael wanted to cry. And he would, he suspected. As soon as Lord Winston left, and Michael could lock the door and make sure that no one could see him, he would probably bury his face in his hands and cry.

Virou-se para a luz e ficou admirando o peso de papéis de vidro. A fonte inesgotável de seu interesse não era o fragmento de coral, mas o próprio interior do vidro. Havia tamanha profundidade ali, e no entanto o vidro era quase tão transparente quanto o ar. Era como se a superfície do vidro fosse o arco do céu, encerrando um mundo minúsculo em sua atmosfera completa. Winston tonha a sensação de que seria capaz de entrar ali e de que na verdade estava ali dentro, ele, a cama de mogno, a mesinha de abas dobráveis, o relógio, a gravura de aço e o próprio peso de papéis. O peso de papéis era o quarto onde ele estava, e o coral era a vida dele e a de Julia, fixadas numa espécie de eternidade no coração do cristal.

unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner meaning of the Party's sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex instinct created a world of its own which was outside the Party's control and which therefore had to be destroyed if possible. What was more important was that sexual privation induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship. The way she put it was: "When you make love you're using up energy; and afterwards you feel happy and don't give a damn for anything. They can't bear you to feel like that. They want you to be bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour. If you're happy inside yourself, why should you get excited about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot?" That was very true, he thought. There was a direct intimate connection between chastity and political orthodoxy. For how could the fear, the hatred, and the lunatic credulity which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to the Party, and the Party had turned it to account. They had played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood. The family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people were encouraged to be fond of their children, in almost the old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand, were systematically turned against their parents and taught to spy on them and report their deviations. The family had become in effect an extension of the Thought Police. It was a device by means of which everyone could be surrounded night and day by informers who knew him intimately. (2.3.25-27) Julia teaches Winston about her musings on the dangerous effects of sex on loyalty to the Party: The Party not only seeks to sever private loyalties in encouraging chastity, but also to control its constituents’ use of time by advocating the abolition of sex at all.

He had planned so much for Julia, had watched her grow from a scarcely separable entity, seen her nature unfold, the very beginning of traits and characteristics make their quaint showing. It was hardly believable that they would never develop, that all that potential sweetness should dry up at its fount and turn to dust. Hardly believable and hardly bearable.

sigh, for her returning life was a tonic to his soul. Whatever she suffered, whatever loss came to her, she would throw it off, for it was not in her nature to go under. Although she was the woman and he a fierce and sometimes arrogant man, hers was the stronger nature because the more pliant. That did not mean that she did not feel Julia’s death as deeply and as bitterly, but he saw that she would recover first.

Lo que le interesaba inagotablemente no era el pedacito de coral, sino el interior del cristal mismo. Tenía tanta profundidad, y sin embargo era transparente, como hecho con aire. Como si la superficie cristalina hubiera sido la cubierta del cielo que encerrase un diminuto mundo con toda su atmósfera. Tenía Winston la sensación de que podría penetrar en ese mundo cerrado, que ya estaba dentro de él con la cama de caoba y la mesa rota y el reloj y el grabado e incluso con el mismo pisapapeles. Sí, el pisapapeles era la habitación en que se hallaba Winston, y el coral era la vida de Julia y la suya clavadas eternamente en el corazón del cristal.

And Demelza had been the active conniver in the change, so she could not complain. Indeed, it was Verity’s elopement that had caused a sharper breach between the families, and, in spite of Demelza’s self-sacrifice of last Christmas, the breach was not properly closed. The responsibility was not now Francis’s. Since the illnesses of last Christmas and little Julia’s death he seemed most anxious to show his gratitude for what Demelza had done. But Ross would have none of it. The failure of the Carnmore Copper Company lay insuperably between them. And if what Ross suspected about that failure was right, then Demelza could not blame him. But she would have been much happier with it otherwise. Her nature always preferred the straightforward settlement to the lingering bitter suspicion.

Since the loss of Julia and the opening of the prosecution against him, he had forced himself to make this walk daily. Or if the mood took him and the weather was favorable he would go out in the new dinghy and sail as far as St. Ann’s. Such activity didn’t lift the cloud from his mind, but it helped to set it in proportion for the rest of the day’s tasks. His daughter was dead, his cousin had betrayed him, his much-labored-over smelting scheme was in ashes, he faced charges in the criminal court for which he might well be sentenced to death or life transportation, and if by some chance he survived that, it would be only a matter of months before bankruptcy and imprisonment for debt followed. But, in the meantime, fields had to be sown and reaped, copper had to be raised and marketed, Demelza had to be clothed and fed and cherished—so far as it was in his scope to cherish anyone at this stage. It was Julia’s death that still hit him hardest. Demelza had grieved no less than he, but hers was a more pliant nature, responding involuntarily to stimuli that meant little to him. A celandine flowering out of season, a litter of kittens found unexpectedly in a loft, warm sunshine after a cold spell, the smell of the first swathe of hay: these were always temporary reliefs for her, and so sorrow had less power to injure her. Although he didn’t realize it, much of the cherishing this year had been on her side.

The clouds broke in a shower and drove them in, and they stood a minute in the window of the parlor watching the big drops pattering on the leaves of the lilac tree, staining them dark. When rain came suddenly, Demelza still had the instinct to go see if Julia were sleeping outside. She thought of saying this to Ross but checked herself. The child’s name was hardly ever mentioned. Sometimes she suspected that Julia was a bar between them, that though he tried his utmost not to, the memory of her courting infection to help at Trenwith still rankled.

A thrush had alighted on a bough not five meters away, almost at the level of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen them. It was in the sun, they in the shade. It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In the afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Winston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston watched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and pour its music into nothingness? ... But by degrees the flood of music drove all speculations out of his mind. It was as though it were a kind of liquid stuff that poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and merely felt.

Why should the fruit be held inferior to the flower? “She’s beautiful,” he murmured. “She’s a meter across the hips, easily,” said Julia. “That is her style of beauty,” said Winston.

Winston riflettè per qualche momento. "Ti è mai venuto in mente" disse "che per noi due la cosa migliore da fare sarebbe quella di uscire di qui prima che sia troppo tardi e non rivederci mai più?" "Sì, caro, ci ho pensato parecchie volte, però ugualmente non ho alcuna intenzione di farlo." "Finora la fortuna ci ha assistiti" disse Winston, "ma non potrà durare a lungo. Tu sei giovane, sembri una persona norale, innocente. Se ti tieni alla larga da gente come me potrai vivere per altri cinquant'anni." "No. Ci ho pensato, quello che farai tu, lo farò anch'io. E non ti scoraggiare. Conosco fin troppo bene l'arte del vivere." "Possiamo restare insieme per altri sei mesi, forse per un anno, ma è certo che alla fine ci separeremo. Ti rendi conto di quale sarà allora la nostra solitudine? Una volta che ci avranno presi non ci sarà nulla, letteralmente, che l'uno potrà fare per l'altro. Se confesso, ti spareranno, e se mi rifiuto di confessare ti uccideranno lo stesso. Nulla che io possa fare o dire o astenermi dal dire varrà a rinviare anche solo di cinque minuti la tua morte. Nessuno di noi due saprà mai se l'altro è vivo o morto. Non potremo fare nulla. E comunque, anche se nemmeno questo cambirerbbe alcunchè, l'unica cosa che conta è che nessuno di noi tradisca l'altro." "Quanto al confessare" disse Julia "confesseremo certamente. Lo fanno tutti. è impossibile fare altrimenti: ti torturano. " "Non intendo questo. Confessare non è tradire. Non importa quello che dici o non dici, ciò che conta sono i sentimenti. Se riuscissero a fare in modo che io non ami più... quello sarebbe tradire." Julia restò per qualche attimo a riflettere "Non lo possono fare." disse infine. "è l'unica cosa che non possono fare. Possono farci dire tutto, tutto, ma non possono obbligarti a crederci. Non possono entrare dentro di te." "No" disse Winston un po' rinfrancato, "No, quel che dici è verissimo, non possono entrare dentro di te. Se riesci a sentire fino in fondo che vale la pena di conservare la propria condizione di esseri umani anche quando non ne sortisce alcun effetto pratico, sei riuscito a sconfiggerli.

Winston did not get up for a few minutes more. The room was darkening. He turned over towards the light and lay gazing into the glass paperweight. The inexhaustibly interesting thing was not the fragment of coral but the interior of the glass itself. There was such a depth of it, and yet it was almost as transparent as air. It was as though the surface of the glass had been the arch of the sky, enclosing a tiny world with its atmosphere complete. He had the feeling that he could get inside it, and that in fact he was inside it, along with the mahogany bed and the gateleg table, and the clock and the steel engraving and the paperweight itself. The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was Julia’s life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal.

Quel corpo massiccio e privo di contorni come un blocco di granito e quella pelle ruvida e violacea avevano col corpo di una ragazza lo stesso rapporto che esiste fra il falso frutto di una rosa e la rosa stessa. Perché mai il frutto avrebbe dovuto valere meno del fiore? «È bella» mormorò Winston. «Ha i fianchi larghi almeno un metro» disse Julia. «È il suo modo di essere bella.»

In Winston’s dream, his woman would agree to any moral enormity, if it was what he wished.