"Listen. The more men you’ve had, the more I love you . . . I hate purity. I hate goodness. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones."
She did not understand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead, that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was better to think of yourself as a corpse.
The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was Julia’s life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal.
For the first time in his life he did not despise the proles or think of them merely as an inert force which would one day spring to life and regenerate the world. The proles had stayed human.
The best books, [Winston] perceived, are those that tell you what you know already.