It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were strikingthirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in aneffort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glassdoors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to preventa swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. Atone end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, hadbeen 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. It was no use trying the lift. Even atthe best of times it was seldom working,and at present theelectric current was cut off during daylight hours.It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat wasseven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine, and hadvaricose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting severaltimes on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift shaft, theposter with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one ofthose pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow youabout when you move.BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, thecaption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figureswhich had something to do with the production of pig iron. Thevoice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirrorwhich formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winstonturned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the wordswere still distinguishable.The instrument (the telescreen, it wascalled) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it offcompletely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure,the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blueoveralls which were the uniform of the Party.His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarsesoap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that hadjust ended.
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