George Orwell - 1984 and Animal Farm

Here are two classic books by George Orwell, Animal Farm and 1984:
PART I
It was a brig ht cold day in April, an d 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 Vict ory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
The hallway sm elt of boiled cabbage and old rag m ats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been ta cked to the wall. It depicted simply an enorm ous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black m oustache and ruggedly handsom e features.
Winston made for the stairs. It was no use tr ying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldo m working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for H ate Week.
The flat was seven flights up, and W inston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, we nt slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the eno rmous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you m ove. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU , the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was r eading ou t a lis t of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice cam e from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled m irror which formed part of the surface of the righ t-hand wall. W inston turned a switch and the voice sank som ewhat, though the words were still d istinguishable. T he in strument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off co mpletely. He moved over to the window: a s mallish, frail figur e, the m eagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the unifor m of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sangui ne, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little edd ies of wind were whirli ng dust and torn pape r into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The black- moustachio'd face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front imm ediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes l ooked deep into W inston's own. Down at streetlevel another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the singl e word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimm ed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It wa s the police patrol, snooping into people' s windows. The patrol s did not m atter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
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