Posted in books, fragments, life, philiosophy, thoughts

1984 excerts.

Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimeters inside your skull…infront of him lay not death but annihilation. The diary would be reduced to ashes and he himself to vapor…How could you make an appeal to the future when not a trace of you, not even an anonymous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically survive?…He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear but so long as he uttered it,in some obscure way the continuity was not broken. It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the human heritage…When there was no external records you could refer to, even the outline of your own life lost its sharpness…how can you establish even the most obvious of facts when there exists no record outside of your own memory?…the innermost heart, whose workings were mysterious even to yourself, remained impregnable…we are the dead. Our only life is the future.we shall take part of it as handfuls of splinters of bone… If you clung to truth, even against the whole world, you were not mad…can man forget that he is human?… I want everybody to be corrupt to the bones…the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that is the force that will tear the party to piece….. Splinters of bone…” 

* From George Orwell’s ” 1984″

** Photograph by: Masao Yamamoto.



I am the author of and am currently working on a book of poems. To find out more check out my about me page as well as my page about my blog and welcome to the ink angels community.

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