George Orwell - 1984
Inviato: 04/06/2009, 19:23
Scritto nel 1948 ma ambientato in un futuro 1984, l' inglese Orwell ci catapulta in un futuro distopico, dominato dagli interessi di classi politiche rappresentate da una entità immateriale che controlla le vite di tutti gli abitanti del mondo, il Grande Fratello. Il protagonista è alla continua ricerca di uno sprazzo di libertà.
Questo è l' inizio dell' originale.
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though non quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a colored poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a meter wide: the face of a man about forty-five, with a heavy black mustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use tryling the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation of thr Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine, and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures whitch are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATHCHING YOU., the caption beneath it ran.
Questo è l' inizio dell' originale.
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though non quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a colored poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a meter wide: the face of a man about forty-five, with a heavy black mustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use tryling the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation of thr Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine, and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures whitch are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATHCHING YOU., the caption beneath it ran.