The room was a world, a pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk.
He would read King Lear and forget this filthy century.
History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Party is always right.
A not unblack dog was chasing a not unsmall rabbit across a not ungreen field.
He had the sensation of stepping into the dampness of a grave, and it was not much better because he had always known that the grave was there and waiting for him.
What happens to you here is forever.