As soon as she woke up, Julia was a completely different person. The graceful way she took off her clothes soon turned businesslike. She put her clothes on, knotted the scarlet sash around her waist and began arranging the details of her journey home. She seemed to have a strange knowledge of the countryside around London and she evened planned out a place where we could meet after school. Unfortunately, the time came that she had to leave. After having a violent kiss, she disappeared into the woods and before I knew it, she was gone.
Julia decided seeing each other for no more than half an hour at a time was the safest way to go, so that’s exactly what we did. Whenever we met up, we made sure we didn’t get carried away; eventually, we had starting to “talk in installments.” Since my work week was 60 hours and Julia’s was even longer, our free days varied and didn’t often coincide.
She was 26 years old and lived in a hostel with 30 other girls. I found out she worked on the novel-writing machines in the Fiction Department and that she hated books. Oh, the irony. She hated the Party and made the crudest remarks towards them, but she never criticized them in public. What I didn’t understand, though, was that she considered any kind of organized revolt against the Party to be stupid. If she hated the Party so much, why didn’t she stand up and fight for her beliefs? Was she scared? But she was young and she, of course, still expected something from life. She didn’t understand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the only victory lay in the far future.
- Winston Smith