1984: Conversations with my Dad
1984 is an ancient book from my perspective. I’d never heard of George Orwell before I started reading it and I wasn’t psyched about reading it when it was assigned. I felt that other novels about the future, like the Hunger Games or the Giver, were better. So I asked my dad the big question: Why does everyone seem to think 1984 is sospecial.
And I asked him because as sub-psyched as I was, my dad was uber-psyched. “That’s a great book,” he told me.Naturally I mocked him for a day or two, but then I asked him – what’s so great about it? I wanted to know. Some of what he told me I understood. Some I didn’t – and I know I didn’t because he was absolutely clear when he explained everything and then told me that I didn’t understand. So here’s his unvarnished wisdom.
He told me that the book was “prescient.” I have spelled it correctly so you can look it up. He told me that Orwell had foreseen a world of surveillance, of manipulated language, of powerful governments that managed public opinion. He talked about Black Mirror, the new series on Netflix, thatshows how we all disappear into screens just as the people do in 1984. He told me that in Britain, most people didn’t even have TV in 1948, so it was pretty cool that Orwell foresaw its impact. I understood all of that.
Then he told me that the book was daring. I asked him what he meant and he told me that most books now have happy endings. In the Giver, Jonas escapes – probably. In the Hunger Games, Katniss lives to fight another day. But in 1984 everyone is tortured until they can barely remember what their name was or what they used to love and value. He suggested I look up the war on terror to find out about that and I probably will at some point. I think I got that bit.
Then it got weird. He told me that he had read this book when he was 13 and there was one thing he hadn’t understood. He hadn’t understood why Winston had thrown everything away for Julia. Then he grew up and then he understood. He still remembered the passage in which Winston’s “eyes were anchored by the freckled face with its faint, bold smile.” He says he understands now but that I couldn’t possibly.
