1984-bilingue

George Orwell 1 9 8 4
He remembered the room where they lived, a
dark, close-smelling room that seemed half filled
by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a
gas ring in the fender, and a shelf where food was
kept, and on the landing outside there was a
brown earthenware sink, common to several
rooms. He remembered his mother's statuesque
body bending over the gas ring to stir at
something in a saucepan. Above all he
remembered his continuous hunger, and the
fierce sordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask
his mother naggingly, over and over again, why
there was not more food, he would shout and
storm at her (he even remembered the tones of
his voice, which was beginning to break
prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar
way), or he would attempt a snivelling note of
pathos in his efforts to get more than his share.
His mother was quite ready to give him more
than his share. She took it for granted that he, 'the
boy', should have the biggest portion; but
however much she gave him he invariably
demanded more. At every meal she would
beseech him not to be selfish and to remember
that his little sister was sick and also needed
food, but it was no use. He would cry out with
rage when she stopped ladling, he would try to
wrench the saucepan and spoon out of her hands,
he would grab bits from his sister's plate. He
knew that he was starving the other two, but he
could not help it; he even felt that he had a right
to do it. The clamorous hunger in his belly
seemed to justify him. Between meals, if his
mother did not stand guard, he was constantly
pilfering at the wretched store of food on the
shelf.
One day a chocolate ration was issued. There had
been no such issue for weeks or months past. He
remembered quite clearly that precious little
morsel of chocolate. It was a two-ounce slab
(they still talked about ounces in those days)
between the three of them. It was obvious that it
ought to be divided into three equal parts.
Suddenly, as though he were listening to
somebody else, Winston heard himself
demanding in a loud booming voice that he
should be given the whole piece. His mother told
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Recordaba la habitación donde vivían, una estancia
oscura y siempre cerrada casi totalmente ocupada por
la cama. Había un hornillo de gas y un estante donde
ponía los alimentos.
Recordaba el cuerpo estatuario de su madre inclinado
sobre el hornillo de gas moviendo algo en la sartén.
Sobre todo recordaba su continua hambre y las
sórdidas y feroces batallas a las horas de comer.
Winston le preguntaba a su madre, con reproche una
y otra vez, por qué no había más comida. Gritaba y la
fastidiaba, descompuesto en su afán de lograr una
parte mayor.
Daba por descontado que él, el varón, debía tener la
ración mayor. Pero por mucho que la pobre mujer le
diera, él pedía invariablemente más.
En cada comida la madre le suplicaba que no fuera
tan egoísta y recordase que su hermanita estaba
enferma y necesitaba alimentarse; pero era inútil.
Winston cogía pedazos de comida del plato de su
hermanita y trataba de apoderarse de la fuente.
Sabía que con su conducta condenaba al hambre a su
madre y a su hermana, pero no podía evitarlo.
Incluso creía tener derecho a ello. El hambre que le
torturaba parecía justificarlo. Entre comidas, si su
madre no tenía mucho cuidado, se apoderaba de la
escasa cantidad de alimento guardado en la alacena.
Un día dieron una ración de chocolate. Hacía mucho
tiempo — meses enteros — que no daban chocolate.
Winston recordaba con toda claridad aquel cuadrito
oscuro y preciadísimo. Era una tableta de dos onzas
(por entonces se hablaba todavía de onzas) que les
correspondía para los tres. Parecía lógico que la
tableta fuera dividida en tres partes iguales. De
pronto — en el ensueño —, como si estuviera
escuchando a otra persona, Winston se oyó gritar
exigiendo que le dieran todo el chocolate. Su madre
le dijo que no fuese ansioso. Discutieron mucho;