There is good and mediocre writing within every genre.

You don't look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.

The facts of this world seen clearly are seen through tears.

Being edited is like falling face down into a threshing machine.

What fabrications they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into, crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit ourselves -- our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies.

Without the light, no chance; without the dark, no dance.

'1984' is not a wonder tale. Not only could it happen, but it has happened, but under different names.