Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. - George Orwell

"إلى المستقبل أو الماضي , إلى الزمن الذي يكون فيه الفكر حراً طليقاً , إلى زمن يختلف فيه الأشخاص عن بعضهم البعض ولا يعيش كل منهم في عزلة عن الآخر وإلى زمن تظل الحقيقة فيه قائمة ولا يمكن لأحد أم يمحو ما ينتجه الآخرون . وإليكم , من هذا العصر الذي يعيش فيه الناس متشابهين , متناسخين , لا يختلف الواحد منهم عن الآخر . من عصر العزلة , من عصر الأخ الكبير . من عصر التفكير المزدوج , تحياتي ! "
شعر آنذاك كأنه في عالم الأموات , وبدا له أنه في هذه اللحظة فقط , لحظة بات فيها قادرا على صياغة أفكاره , قد اتخذ الخطوة الحاسمة . إن عواقب كل عمل تكمن في العمل نفسه , وكتب :
"إن جريمة الفكر لا تفضي إلى الموت , إنها الموت نفسه !"

Totalitarianism, however, does not so much promise an age of faith as an age of schizophrenia. A society becomes totalitarian when its structure becomes flagrantly artificial: that is, when its ruling class has lost its function but succeeds in clinging to power by force or fraud. Such a society, no matter how long it persists, can never afford to become either tolerant or intellectually stable. It can never permit either the truthful recording of facts or the emotional sincerity that literary creation demands. But to be corrupted by totalitarianism one does not have to live in a totalitarian country. The mere prevalence of certain ideas can spread a kind of poison that makes one subject after another impossible for literary purposes. Wherever there is an enforced orthodoxy — or even two orthodoxies, as often happens — good writing stops. This was well illustrated by the Spanish civil war. To many English intellectuals the war was a deeply moving experience, but not an experience about which they could write sincerely. There were only two things that you were allowed to say, and both of them were palpable lies: as a result, the war produced acres of print but almost nothing worth reading.

"...out from the door of the farmhouse came a long file of pigs, all walking on their hind legs...out came Napoleon himself, majestically upright, casting haughty glances from side to side, and with his dogs gambolling round him.

He carried a whip in his trotter.

There was a deadly silence. Amazed, terrified, huddling together, the animals watched the long line of pigs march slowly round the yard. It was as though the world had turned upside-down. Then there came a moment when the first shock had worn off and when, in spite of everything-in spite of their terror of the dogs, and of the habit, developed through long years, of never complaining, never criticising, no matter what happened-they might have uttered some word of protest. But just at that moment, as though at a signal, all the sheep burst out into a tremendous bleating of-

"Four legs good, two legs better! Four legs good, two legs better! Four legs good, two legs better!"

It went on for five minutes without stopping. And by the time the sheep had quieted down, the chance to utter any protest had passed, for the pigs had marched back into the farmhouse."