THE LAST MAN IN EUROPE
by Ernest Hemingway
[In the spirit of Fighters from Mars (1897, 1898) an American publisher asked Papa to do his version of this Limey’s novel. So . . .]
It was a bright cold day. It was a day in April. All the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith was walking. He had his chin nuzzled into his coat. The wind was cold. He slipped through the door. Victory Mansions had a glass door. The wind blew in after him.
The hallway smelled. It was a smell of boiled cabbage. There was also a smell of old rag mats. There was a poster on the wall. The poster was of an enormous face. The face was of a man in his forties.
Winston went for the stairs. It was no use trying the elevator. The elevator never worked. The power was off. It was turned off now for economy. They were preparing for Hate Week. That was good.
Winston had an apartment. It was on the seventh floor. He went upstairs slowly. His ankle hurt. He had an ulcer on it. He had to rest often.
There was another poster on the wall. The eyes of the poster followed him. It was of the same man. It said BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.
He entered his apartment. The telescreen was on. It never went off. The report was on the production of pig-iron. Iron made for strong things.
They could hear him on the telescreen. Winston was careful about what he said and did. The Ministry of Love watched all the time.
Winston went to the window. He was a frail man. He wore blue coveralls. Blue coveralls were the uniform of the Party. They made him look like a working man. That was good.
He looked out of the window. The sun was shining. The sky was blue. The world looked cold. The world looked colorless. There were spirals of wind. The spirals had dust and torn paper.
There were posters everywhere. The posters had pictures of Big Brother. The posters read BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.
One poster was torn. It was flapping in the breeze. It said INGSOC.
There was a helicopter flying by. The Thought Police flew them. They looked into people’s windows.
Winston Smith went to the cupboard. He took out the bottle. He had six stiff drinks of Victory Gin . . .
by Ernest Hemingway
[In the spirit of Fighters from Mars (1897, 1898) an American publisher asked Papa to do his version of this Limey’s novel. So . . .]
It was a bright cold day. It was a day in April. All the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith was walking. He had his chin nuzzled into his coat. The wind was cold. He slipped through the door. Victory Mansions had a glass door. The wind blew in after him.
The hallway smelled. It was a smell of boiled cabbage. There was also a smell of old rag mats. There was a poster on the wall. The poster was of an enormous face. The face was of a man in his forties.
Winston went for the stairs. It was no use trying the elevator. The elevator never worked. The power was off. It was turned off now for economy. They were preparing for Hate Week. That was good.
Winston had an apartment. It was on the seventh floor. He went upstairs slowly. His ankle hurt. He had an ulcer on it. He had to rest often.
There was another poster on the wall. The eyes of the poster followed him. It was of the same man. It said BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.
He entered his apartment. The telescreen was on. It never went off. The report was on the production of pig-iron. Iron made for strong things.
They could hear him on the telescreen. Winston was careful about what he said and did. The Ministry of Love watched all the time.
Winston went to the window. He was a frail man. He wore blue coveralls. Blue coveralls were the uniform of the Party. They made him look like a working man. That was good.
He looked out of the window. The sun was shining. The sky was blue. The world looked cold. The world looked colorless. There were spirals of wind. The spirals had dust and torn paper.
There were posters everywhere. The posters had pictures of Big Brother. The posters read BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.
One poster was torn. It was flapping in the breeze. It said INGSOC.
There was a helicopter flying by. The Thought Police flew them. They looked into people’s windows.
Winston Smith went to the cupboard. He took out the bottle. He had six stiff drinks of Victory Gin . . .