1984
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1984, The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was
not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws),
but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by
death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston
fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off.
The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and
he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because
of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on
with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually
he was not used to writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was
usual to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of course
impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and
then faltered for just a second.
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