1984-bilingue

George Orwell 1 9 8 4
memory failed and written records were falsified—
when that happened, the claim of the Party to have
improved the conditions of human life had got to be
accepted, because there did not exist, and never
again could exist, any standard against which it
could be tested.
At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly.
He halted and looked up. He was in a narrow street,
with a few dark little shops, interspersed among
dwelling-houses. Immediately above his head there
hung three discoloured metal balls which looked as
if they had once been gilded. He seemed to know the
place. Of course! He was standing outside the junkshop
where he had bought the diary.
A twinge of fear went through him. It had been a
sufficiently rash act to buy the book in the
beginning, and he had sworn never to come near the
place again. And yet the instant that he allowed his
thoughts to wander, his feet had brought him back
here of their own accord. It was precisely against
suicidal impulses of this kind that he had hoped to
guard himself by opening the diary. At the same
time he noticed that although it was nearly twentyone
hours the shop was still open. With the feeling
that he would be less conspicuous inside than
hanging about on the pavement, he stepped through
the doorway. If questioned, he could plausibly say
that he was trying to buy razor blades.
The proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp
which gave off an unclean but friendly smell. He
was a man of perhaps sixty, frail and bowed, with a
long, benevolent nose, and mild eyes distorted by
thick spectacles. His hair was almost white, but his
eyebrows were bushy and still black. His spectacles,
his gentle, fussy movements, and the fact that he was
wearing an aged jacket of black velvet, gave him a
vague air of intellectuality, as though he had been
some kind of literary man, orperhaps a musician. His
voice was soft, as though faded, and his accent less
debased than that of the majority of proles.
117
de su atención. Eran como las hormigas, que
pueden ver los objetos pequeños, pero no los
grandes. Y cuando la memoria fallaba y los
testimonios escritos eran falsificados, la:
pretensiones del Partido de haber mejorado las
condiciones de la vida humana tenían que ser
aceptadas necesariamente porque no existía ni
volvería nunca a existir un nivel de vida con el cual
pudieran ser comparadas.
En aquel momento el fluir de sus pensamientos se
interrumpió de repente. Se detuvo y levantó la
vista. Se halle ha en una calle estrecha con unas
cuantas tiendecitas oscura salpicadas entre casas de
vecinos. Exactamente encima de su cabeza pendían
unas bolas de metal descoloridas que habían sido
doradas. Conocía este sitio. Era la tienda donde
había comprado el Diario. Sintió miedo.
Ya había sido bastante, arriesgado comprar el libro
y se había jurado a sí mismo no aparecer nunca más
por allí. Sin embargo, en cuanto permitió a sus
pensamientos que corrieran en libertad, le habían
traído sus pies a aquel mismo sitio. Precisamente,
había iniciado su Diario para librarse de impulsos
suicidas como aquél. Al mismo tiempo, notó que
aunque eran las veintiuna seguía abierta la tienda.
Creyendo que sería más prudente estar oculto
dentro de la tienda que a la vista de todos en medio
de la calle, entró. Si le preguntaban podía decir que
andaba buscando hojas de afeitar.
El dueño acababa de encender una lámpara de
aceite que echaba un olor molesto, pero
tranquilizador. Era un hombre de unos sesenta
años, de aspecto frágil, y un poco encorvado, con
una nariz larga y simpática y ojos de suave mirar a
pesar de las gafas de gruesos cristales. Su cabello
era casi blanco, pero las cejas, muy pobladas, se
conservaban negras. Sus gafas, sus movimientos
acompañados y el hecho de que llevaba una vieja
chaqueta de terciopelo negro le daban un cierto aire
intelectual como si hubiera sido un hombre de
letras o quizás un músico. De voz suave, algo
apagada, tenía un acento menos marcado que la
mayoría de los proles.