In the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch line moved slowly. The room was already full and noisy. Steam from the stew rose from the iron bars on the counter, with a sour, iron smell that was no match for the Victory gin. At the far end of the room there was a little bar, really just a hole in the wall, where you could buy a large glass of gin for a dime.
“That’s exactly what I was looking for,” said someone behind Winston.
He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research Department. Perhaps, to be exact, he could not be called a ‘friend’. There were no friends these days, only comrades. But some comrades were more pleasant to be with than others. Syme was a linguist, a Newspeak expert. In fact, he was one of a large group of experts who were recently compiling the eleventh edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a very small man, smaller than Winston, with dark hair and prominent eyes, which had a look that was at once sad and mocking, and which seemed to be searching your face as he spoke.
“I want to ask you, do you have a razor blade?” he said.
‘Not a single one!’ said Winston hastily, somewhat guiltily. ‘I’ve asked everywhere. They don’t exist any more.’
Everyone asks you for razor blades. In fact, he has saved two unused razor blades. For months, razor blades have been out of stock. At any time, there are always some necessities.
The shops didn’t have any. Sometimes it was buttons, sometimes it was thread, sometimes it was shoelaces; now it was razor blades. You could only get some by sneaking around in the “free” market.
“I’ve had this one for six weeks,” he added untruthfully. The team took another step forward. When they stopped he turned back to Samai. They both took a greasy plate from a pile of iron plates at the counter.
“I have a job,” said Winston coldly. "I think you can see it in the films.
“Didn’t you go to see the hanging of prisoners yesterday?” asked Syme.
“That’s terrible,” said Syme.
His mocking eyes moved from one face to the other.
His eyes seemed to say, "I see through you, I know why you don’t go to the hanging
"For an intellectual, Sai Mai’s ideas were orthodox to the point of being vicious.
Machine translation:
In the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch line moved slowly. The room was already full and noisy. Steam from the stew rose from the iron bars on the counter, with a sour, iron smell that was no match for the Victory gin. At the far end of the room there was a little bar, really just a hole in the wall, where you could buy a large glass of gin for a dime.
“That’s exactly what I was looking for,” said someone behind Winston.
He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research Department. Perhaps, to be exact, he could not be called a ‘friend’. There were no friends these days, only comrades. But some comrades were more pleasant to be with than others. Syme was a linguist, a Newspeak expert. In fact, he was one of a large group of experts who were recently compiling the eleventh edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a very small man, smaller than Winston, with dark hair and prominent eyes, which had a look that was at once sad and mocking, and which seemed to be searching your face as he spoke.
“I want to ask you, do you have a razor blade?” he said.
‘Not a single one!’ said Winston hastily, somewhat guiltily. ‘I’ve asked everywhere. They don’t exist any more.’
Everyone asks you for razor blades. In fact, he has saved two unused razor blades. For months, razor blades have been out of stock. At any time, there are always some necessities.
The shops didn’t have any. Sometimes it was buttons, sometimes it was thread, sometimes it was shoelaces; now it was razor blades. You could only get some by sneaking around in the “free” market.
“I’ve had this one for six weeks,” he added untruthfully. The team took another step forward. When they stopped he turned back to Samai. They both took a greasy plate from a pile of iron plates at the counter.
“I have a job,” said Winston coldly. "I think you can see it in the films.
“Didn’t you go to see the hanging of prisoners yesterday?” asked Syme.
“That’s terrible,” said Syme.
His mocking eyes moved from one face to the other.
His eyes seemed to say, "I see through you, I know why you don’t go to the hanging
"For an intellectual, Sai Mai’s ideas were orthodox to the point of being vicious.
Literally 1984