1984-bilingue

George Orwell 1 9 8 4
physical sensations, mixed up somehow with the
tiredness of his body, the softness of the chair, the
touch of the faint breeze from the window that
played upon his cheek. The book fascinated him,
or more exactly it reassured him. In a sense it told
him nothing that was new, but that was part of the
attraction. It said what he would have said, if it had
been possible for him to set his scattered thoughts
in order. It was the product of a mind similar to his
own, but enormously more powerful, more
systematic, less fear-ridden. The best books, he
perceived, are those that tell you what you know
already. He had just turned back to Chapter I when
he heard Julia’s footstep on the stair and started
out of his chair to meet her. She dumped her
brown tool-bag on the floor and flung herself into
his arms. It was more than a week since they had
seen one another.
‘I’ve got THE BOOK,’ he said as they
disentangled themselves.
‘Oh, you’ve got it? Good,’ she said without much
interest, and almost immediately knelt down
beside the oil stove to make the coffee.
They did not return to the subject until they had
been in bed for half an hour. The evening was just
cool enough to make it worth while to pull up the
counterpane. From below came the familiar sound
of singing and the scrape of boots on the
flagstones. The brawny red-armed woman whom
Winston had seen there on his first visit was
almost a fixture in the yard. There seemed to be no
hour of daylight when she was not marching to and
fro between the washtub and the line, alternately
gagging herself with clothes pegs and breaking
forth into lusty song. Julia had settled down on her
side and seemed to be already on the point of
falling asleep. He reached out for the book, which
was lying on the floor, and sat up against the
bedhead.
‘We must read it,’ he said. ‘You too. All members
of the Brotherhood have to read it.’
230
sensaciones físicas, mezcladas por el cansancio de
su cuerpo, la suavidad de la alfombra, la caricia de
la débil brisa que entraba por la ventana... El libro
le fascinaba o, más exactamente, lo tranquilizaba.
En cierto sentido, no le enseñaba nada nuevo, pero
esto era una parte de su encanto. Decía lo que el
propio Winston podía haber dicho, si le hubiera
sido posible ordenar sus propios pensamientos y
darles una clara expresión. Este libro era el
producto de una mente semejante a la suya, pero
mucho más poderosa, más sistemática y libre de
temores. Pensó Winston que los mejores libros son
los que nos dicen lo que ya sabemos. Había vuelto
al capítulo I cuando oyó los pasos de Julia en la
escalera. Se levantó del sillón para salirle al
encuentro. Julia entró en ese momento, tiró su bolsa
al suelo y se lanzó a los brazos de él. Hacía más de
una semana que no se habían visto.
— Tengo el libro —dijo Winston en cuanto se
apartaron.
— ¿Ah, sí? Muy bien —dijo ella sin gran interés y
casi inmediatamente se arrodilló junto a la estufa
para hacer café.
No volvieron a hablar del libro hasta después de
media hora de estar en la cama. La tarde era
bastante fresca para que mereciera la pena cerrar la
ventana. De abajo llegaban las habituales canciones
y el ruido de botas sobre el empedrado. La mujer de
los brazos rojizos parecía no moverse del patio. A
todas horas del día estaba lavando y tendiendo
ropa. Julia tenía sueño, Winston volvió a coger el
libro, que estaba en el suelo, y se sentó apoyando la
espalda en la cabecera de la cama.
— Tenemos que leerlo —dijo —. Y tú también.
Todos los miembros de la Hermandad deben leerlo.
‘You read it,’ she said with her eyes shut. ‘Read it — Léelo tú —dijo Julia con los ojos cerrados —.