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1
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. 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 prepara-
tion for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston,
who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above hi . . .
