The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head$$$ literally for years.

It struck him that the true characteristic thing about modern life was not its cruelty and insecurity$$$ but simply its bareness$$$ its dinginess$$$ its listlessness.

The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect.

But if thought corrupts language$$$ language can also corrupt thought.

The problem was how to keep the wheels of industry turning without increasing the real wealth of the world. Goods must be produced$$$ but they must not be distributed.

For a second$$$ two seconds$$$ they had exchanged an equivocal glance$$$ and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable event$$$ in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.

It was a vast$$$ luminous dream in which his whole life seemed to stretch out before him like a landscape on a summer evening after rain.

Inequality was the price of civilization.

If you want a picture of the future$$$ imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever.

Reality only exerts its pressure through the needs of everyday life - the need to eat and drink$$$ to get shelter and clothing$$$ to avoid swallowing poison or stepping out of top-storey windows$$$ and the like.