1984. Книга для чтения на английском языке - Джордж Оруэлл

George Orwell / Джордж Оруэлл

1984. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Комментарии и словарь Е. Г. Тигонен

Об авторе

Эрик Артур Блэр (1903–1950) писал под простоватым псевдонимом Джордж Оруэлл. Такое имя подходит, скорее, какому-нибудь английскому рабочему, нежели человеку, занятому литературным трудом.

Он родился на самой периферии Британской империи, цивилизации вообще и литературного мира в частности, в индийской деревушке Мотихари где-то на границе с Непалом. Родители будущего писателя не были богатыми, и когда Эрику исполнилось восемь лет, его не без труда устроили в частную подготовительную школу в графстве Суссекс. Спустя несколько лет, проявив недюжинные способности в учебе, мальчик на конкурсной основе получил стипендию для дальнейшего обучения в Итоне, самой привилегированной частной школе Великобритании, открывавшей путь в Оксфорд или Кембридж. Но позже он навсегда покинул это учебное заведение, чтобы работать простым полицейским в Индии, а потом в Бирме. Там, пожалуй, и сформировался писатель Джордж Оруэлл.

Дух авантюризма открыл ему низы английского общества. В 1936 году эта же склонность к приключениям привела его в Испанию, где полыхала гражданская война. Будучи военным корреспондентом BBC, Джордж Оруэлл вступил в революционную борьбу против фашистов, был серьезно ранен, вернулся в Англию и начал писать. Появляются его лучшие книги, среди которых, конечно же, «Скотный двор» и «1984». Помимо них писатель во множестве публикует романы, статьи, газетные заметки, рецензии.

Роман «1984», без сомнения, является вершиной творчества писателя. В нем показана жизнь страны, в которой люди четко разделены на классы: верхний, привилегированный, партийная верхушка, которая вкусно ест, красиво живет, изящно развлекается и прелюбодействует; средний, не имеющий права ни на что, круглые сутки находящийся под постоянным прицелом телекамер и подслушивающих устройств, лишенный общения и эмоций, делающий механическую работу по регулярному переписыванию истории, обделенный во всем (даже супружеский секс – и тот на благо партии, т. е. для продолжения рода); низший – как бы пролетариат.

В этом обществе искореняется любая мысль; человек живет в страхе наказания, которое неизбежно последует за любую провинность, будь то неравнодушное выражение лица или протест против начальства. Такое общество уничтожает в человеке все человеческое. Чтобы человек меньше думал, примитивизируется язык, переписываются книги и газеты, поощряется доносительство, предательство – даже своих близких. Не остается ничего святого и, соответственно, ничего, для чего хотелось бы жить. Этот роман – захватывающее, но страшное повествование о том, что могло бы произойти и в СССР времен Сталина, если бы история повернулась иначе.

Part I

I

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs[1]. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The black-moustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.

Behind Winston’s back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live – did live, from habit that became instinct – in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.

Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste – this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.