of pig-iron. The voice came from an
oblong  metal plaque  like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface
of  the  right-hand wall.  Winston  turned  a  switch  and the  voice  sank
somewhat,  though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the
telescreen,  it was  called)  could be  dimmed,  but there  was  no way  of
shutting  it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail
figure,  the meagreness  of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls
which  were  the uniform  of the  party. His  hair was  very fair, his face
naturally  sanguine, 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 eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper
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  blackmoustachio'd  face gazed  down from  every
commanding  corner. There  was one on the house-front immediately opposite.
BIG  BROTHER IS  WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked
deep  into Winston's  own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one
corner,  flapped fitfully  in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering
the  single word  INGSOC. In  the far  distance a  helicopter skimmed  down
between  the  roofs, hovered for  an instant  like a bluebottle, and darted
away  again with  a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into
people's  windows.  The patrols  did not matter,  however. Only the Thought
Police mattered.
     Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling
away  about  pig-iron and the  overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan.
The  telescreen received  and