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1、这个发生在1984年的英国的虚幻故事，却是处处可找到现实事件的影子，对全人类的整个历史都是一场反思。我们国内在文革以后写过很多反思文学，反思那段过去的历史，但却没有真正有力量可以传世的作品。1984写的虽然是一个近似科幻的小说：世界被分割成三个大格局（大洋国、东亚国、欧亚国），持续的争夺边界的战争，国内狂热的个人崇拜、思想奴役、篡改历史、大清洗、封闭、禁欲。这林林种种，在人类的历史中持续地被再现着，苏联斯大林的大清洗，中国的文革年代，都可在其中找到栩栩如生的例子。奥威尔的绝妙之处在于把我们都知道的这层意思给形象地传达了出来，那样地生动，扣人心弦。不仅是对历史的总结，也是对未来的一声警钟。 小说
2、的背景是1984年在由老大哥实行寡头政治，由核心党员、外围党员、无产阶级三个层面组成的一个几乎全封闭的国家中，主人公温斯顿是个四十岁左右的外围党员，在真理部工作，而真理部的职责就是负责造谣，不断地篡改历史，使历史完全接近于真实，与现实毫无差别。温斯顿干的就是这项工作。“全部历史都象一张不断刮干净重写的羊皮纸。这一工作完成以后，无论如何都无法证明曾经发生过伪造历史的事。最后连他也不知道到底何为真实。”“党史中说，飞机是党发明的，这并不确。他从小起就记得飞机。但是你无法证明。什么证据都从来没有过。”“每种事实的纪录都是这样，不论大小。一切都消隐在一个影子世界里，最后甚至连今年是哪一年都弄不清了。”
3、在日复一日虚假乏味物质匮乏的生活中，他对一切开始产生怀疑。生发出对过去岁月朦胧的记忆，和对未来幸福的期望。希望寄托在未来，可能在很多年之后，也许是一千年。但总还是有那么点希望，象绿苗一样，等待着人们意识的慢慢觉醒。 在小说中，这个党的三句口号是:“战争即和平自由即奴役 无知即力量。”在电幕里，在墙壁上，在楼梯口，这口号随处可见，其实质昭然若揭。“和平部负责战争，真理部负责造谣，友爱部负责诽谤，富裕部负责挨饿。这种矛盾不是偶然的，也不是出于一般的伪善，而是有意运用双重思想。”在这个世界里，充满了这样的词汇，被称为新词。真实的概念被无耻地贱踏了。从心理上、语言上，行为上把过去世界的记忆全抹杀掉，过
4、去变成十恶不赫，而现实世界的贫困乏味由于缺少参照物反而变成了一种幸福的象征。看不见的老大哥用这套思想奴役着无知的民众，白不顾明显事实地硬被说成了黑也被广义的接受了。失去了思考的力量最可怕。而在全民都失去思索的年代，是一个可悲的使人绝望的年代。温斯顿就是被这样一种绝望控制着，但他的内心却渐渐地觉醒，搜索着过去的记忆，冲破肉体的禁忌，寻求一条出路。 “他们的生活是完全被监视的生活，电幕日以继夜地监视着人们的一举一动，面部表情的改变都有可能引起怀疑。另外，无处不在的思想警察，左邻右舍，子女父母妻子丈夫都是监视者，都有可能揭发你无意中说出的一句话。身边不断地有人失踪，但这个人消失了就必然完全消失，连他
5、过去存在过的痕迹也在存在了，过去随时被篡改。”我记得我外婆家有个知识分子文革时二十多岁，刚从大学毕业，说错了一句话，被同事告发劳改了很多年，当时的女友也离开了他。出来后没几年就患癌症死了，时年也不过四十多岁。想想挺可怕的，一生就这么完了，其实当时，不知多少人的生命与青春都被葬送了。而当时大环境的构成，个人的无知盲目也得付相当大的责任。 看这部小说，情不自禁会想到许多，比如文化大革命，虽然我们这一代从未真实经历过那个年代，但在我们父辈的经历中，在各种传播媒体中也给我们留下了深刻的印象。狂热的不顾一切的个人崇拜，个人思想被抹杀不容保留，人人都自发成为密探，相互监视告发。广大的仇恨与热情。是的，无知
6、即力量，这力量如此强大，掩盖了真理的声音，使得真理部成为谣言部。虚假的高产量、虚假的幸福生活、统一的娱乐方式，禁欲。一切都是为了什么？ 战争即和平自由即奴役 无知即力量。 愿历史不会被遗忘，不会重演。 George OrwellWhy I Write From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon
7、 this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books.I was the middle child of three, but there was a gap of five years on either side, and I barely saw my father before I was eight. For this and oth
8、er reasons I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely childs habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up wi
9、th the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life. Nevertheless the volume of serious i.e. seriously i
10、ntended writing which I produced all through my childhood and boyhood would not amount to half a dozen pages. I wrote my first poem at the age of four or five, my mother taking it down to dictation. I cannot remember anything about it except that it was about a tiger and the tiger had chair-like tee
11、th a good enough phrase, but I fancy the poem was a plagiarism of Blakes Tiger, Tiger. At eleven, when the war or 1914-18 broke out, I wrote a patriotic poem which was printed in the local newspaper, as was another, two years later, on the death of Kitchener. From time to time, when I was a bit olde
12、r, I wrote bad and usually unfinished nature poems in the Georgian style. I also attempted a short story which was a ghastly failure. That was the total of the would-be serious work that I actually set down on paper during all those years.However, throughout this time I did in a sense engage in lite
13、rary activities. To begin with there was the made-to-order stuff which I produced quickly, easily and without much pleasure to myself. Apart from school work, I wrote vers doccasion, semi-comic poems which I could turn out at what now seems to me astonishing speed at fourteen I wrote a whole rhyming
14、 play, in imitation of Aristophanes, in about a week and helped to edit a school magazines, both printed and in manuscript. These magazines were the most pitiful burlesque stuff that you could imagine, and I took far less trouble with them than I now would with the cheapest journalism. But side by s
15、ide with all this, for fifteen years or more, I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different kind: this was the making up of a continuous story about myself, a sort of diary existing only in the mind. I believe this is a common habit of children and adolescents. As a very small child I
16、used to imagine that I was, say, Robin Hood, and picture myself as the hero of thrilling adventures, but quite soon my story ceased to be narcissistic in a crude way and became more and more a mere description of what I was doing and the things I saw. For minutes at a time this kind of thing would be running through my head: He pushed the door open and entered the room. A yellow beam of sunlight, filtering through the
