Children of the Revolution
Chapter 1: A Terrible Beauty is Born
Harsh November winds tore through the proletarian district of Dublin. The dim grey light filtered through the light misty rain, softening the colours. Renee Pearse dodged through a crowded side street, wishing she had not decided to take the short route. Ducking into an alley, she stopped to breathe. She wrapped her thin coat around herself and continued on. She emerged from the prole quarter to face the Dublin branches of the four Ministries; Plenty, Truth, Peace and Love. She resisted the desire to make a surreptitious gesture at them, knowing very well that the telescreens around her would probably see it anyway.
Those great, shining pyramids that housed the Ministries, symbols of the greatness of the Party, the government of Oceania, and Big Brother. The telescreens were blaring something about an increase of coffee rations. Not that it mattered. The coffee was little more than coloured water when one finally drank it. And they were always saying that something had been increased. Things were constantly getting better, except in reality.
Renee strolled through the square, which had become something of a market area. A Party member jostled her aside. She turned to say something indignant, but he had disappeared. Bloody Party. She searched the stalls of the makeshift market for some combs. She found one for a fairly good price, but she suspected the seller would have settled for less.
The trip back home was less claustrophobic, since she took the longer way. She climbed up the stairs to her tiny flat, stopping only to greet Andrew, the young landlord who lived in the apartment below hers. Not many people lived in the rooming house, so the residents were on good terms. She fumbled with her key until Constance, the other occupant of their flat, opened the door. Renee sighed.
"Don't worry, they had combs. You owe me two dollars."
Constance graciously moved out of the doorway to allow her roommate entrance. She smiled and thanked Renee, who stepped into the room.
The apartment was small, even by prole standards. The single room housed two beds and a stove, with only a few cupboards for storage. There was only one bathroom in the house, and it was shared by the tenants of the three flats. Renee had a suspicion that Constance and Andrew sometimes occupied it simultaneously.
As for the flat's residents, they were both over twenty, but not by much. Renee was twenty-four, petite, with deep brown hair and blue eyes. Their meagre diet made her deceptively thin. She was attractive, though not beautiful, nor as pretty as Constance. Constance was twenty-five, taller than Renee, and with a fuller figure, red hair and dark eyes. Between the two there was the full spectrum of prole lifestyles. Renee worked in the Ministry of Truth, cleaning the building at night. Constance walked the streets at the same time, looking for men with money to spare and a healthy appetite. But Renee and Constance had known one another since childhood, and the loyalty had carried through into adulthood. They now shared everything; their home, money and food. Neither felt the need for independence.
Breakfast was waiting for Renee on the cupboards which served as counterspace. The food there was at least two days stale, and would have been meagre before that. The coffee was hot, though, and had enough caffeine to be useful after long hours. Renee poured herself a cup and took a slice of coarse brown bread as Constance disappeared to the bathroom with their new comb.
Renee reclined on her bed, coffee in one hand, and searched beneath it with the other. She finally found it and pulled it out from between the frame and the mattress. Its smooth green leather cover seemed to recall a time even more ancient than its origin. She opened the book to where her place had been marked.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
She snorted cynically at that. Yeats, in 1916, could never have guessed the horror of the world that would be created. Now, seventy-four years later, the words had a darker meaning. The daily sacrifices made by all citizens of Oceania, Party members and proles alike, had been made after their hearts had turned to stone. The Revolution had set down a doctrine of unfeeling for the Party members that forbade love, except for that of Big Brother, and any opinion contrary to Party dogma. For the proles, the invisible and unheard majority, life was a daily struggle for survival. Joy could come, but was quickly gone, and love grew, bloomed and wilted in the space of a few years.
Constance reappeared, now looking noticeably more presentable.
"Yeats again?"
"Course."
"Which one?" She moved to the cupboards and started wrapping up the bread.
"Easter 1916. Want help?"
"I think I can manage a loaf of bread." Constance placed the aforementioned bread into the cupboard and closed it. "Always Yeats. Why?"
"I like him. And it's the only book of poetry I own."
"You could buy other ones."
"Care to try? Most of the good ones were burnt. The ones out now are edited so badly by the Party that you're better off not reading them."
"You just like Yeats because he was republican."
"True, that."
It was true, she reflected later. Yeats spoke to her because of the revolutionary within her. She was an Irish Pearse, for Christ's sake! It was in her blood to rebel against a government she hated. And Ingsoc was probably worse than the English Crown her ancestors had fought in Yeats' day. Probably. History had been so warped by the Party (English Socialist Party) that one could never be quite sure as to whether things were getting better or worse. Renee herself only knew of her family's rebellion because it had been passed down by word of mouth. But she instinctively knew that a better life was possible, even if it had never existed in the past. It was just achieving it that was the problem.
Author's Note:
The names Pearse and Constance refer to Padraic Pearse and Constance Markievicz, two of the leaders of the Easter Rebellion of 1916, which precipitated the underground revolution that culminated in Irish independence from Great Britain. The poem Renee reads is Easter 1916 by Willaim Butler Yeats, from which the chapter title also is taken.
Disclaimer:
I do not own the following:
Children of the Revolution, a very good song by Marc Bolan. I borrowed its title. The lyrics come later.
Nineteen Eighty-Four, the excellent book by George Orwell. I borrowed his world, in which I am not worthy to tread.
Easter 1916, the beautiful poem by William Butler Yeats. You'll see bits and pieces of it throughout.
Please review. :)
Chapter 1: A Terrible Beauty is Born
Harsh November winds tore through the proletarian district of Dublin. The dim grey light filtered through the light misty rain, softening the colours. Renee Pearse dodged through a crowded side street, wishing she had not decided to take the short route. Ducking into an alley, she stopped to breathe. She wrapped her thin coat around herself and continued on. She emerged from the prole quarter to face the Dublin branches of the four Ministries; Plenty, Truth, Peace and Love. She resisted the desire to make a surreptitious gesture at them, knowing very well that the telescreens around her would probably see it anyway.
Those great, shining pyramids that housed the Ministries, symbols of the greatness of the Party, the government of Oceania, and Big Brother. The telescreens were blaring something about an increase of coffee rations. Not that it mattered. The coffee was little more than coloured water when one finally drank it. And they were always saying that something had been increased. Things were constantly getting better, except in reality.
Renee strolled through the square, which had become something of a market area. A Party member jostled her aside. She turned to say something indignant, but he had disappeared. Bloody Party. She searched the stalls of the makeshift market for some combs. She found one for a fairly good price, but she suspected the seller would have settled for less.
The trip back home was less claustrophobic, since she took the longer way. She climbed up the stairs to her tiny flat, stopping only to greet Andrew, the young landlord who lived in the apartment below hers. Not many people lived in the rooming house, so the residents were on good terms. She fumbled with her key until Constance, the other occupant of their flat, opened the door. Renee sighed.
"Don't worry, they had combs. You owe me two dollars."
Constance graciously moved out of the doorway to allow her roommate entrance. She smiled and thanked Renee, who stepped into the room.
The apartment was small, even by prole standards. The single room housed two beds and a stove, with only a few cupboards for storage. There was only one bathroom in the house, and it was shared by the tenants of the three flats. Renee had a suspicion that Constance and Andrew sometimes occupied it simultaneously.
As for the flat's residents, they were both over twenty, but not by much. Renee was twenty-four, petite, with deep brown hair and blue eyes. Their meagre diet made her deceptively thin. She was attractive, though not beautiful, nor as pretty as Constance. Constance was twenty-five, taller than Renee, and with a fuller figure, red hair and dark eyes. Between the two there was the full spectrum of prole lifestyles. Renee worked in the Ministry of Truth, cleaning the building at night. Constance walked the streets at the same time, looking for men with money to spare and a healthy appetite. But Renee and Constance had known one another since childhood, and the loyalty had carried through into adulthood. They now shared everything; their home, money and food. Neither felt the need for independence.
Breakfast was waiting for Renee on the cupboards which served as counterspace. The food there was at least two days stale, and would have been meagre before that. The coffee was hot, though, and had enough caffeine to be useful after long hours. Renee poured herself a cup and took a slice of coarse brown bread as Constance disappeared to the bathroom with their new comb.
Renee reclined on her bed, coffee in one hand, and searched beneath it with the other. She finally found it and pulled it out from between the frame and the mattress. Its smooth green leather cover seemed to recall a time even more ancient than its origin. She opened the book to where her place had been marked.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
She snorted cynically at that. Yeats, in 1916, could never have guessed the horror of the world that would be created. Now, seventy-four years later, the words had a darker meaning. The daily sacrifices made by all citizens of Oceania, Party members and proles alike, had been made after their hearts had turned to stone. The Revolution had set down a doctrine of unfeeling for the Party members that forbade love, except for that of Big Brother, and any opinion contrary to Party dogma. For the proles, the invisible and unheard majority, life was a daily struggle for survival. Joy could come, but was quickly gone, and love grew, bloomed and wilted in the space of a few years.
Constance reappeared, now looking noticeably more presentable.
"Yeats again?"
"Course."
"Which one?" She moved to the cupboards and started wrapping up the bread.
"Easter 1916. Want help?"
"I think I can manage a loaf of bread." Constance placed the aforementioned bread into the cupboard and closed it. "Always Yeats. Why?"
"I like him. And it's the only book of poetry I own."
"You could buy other ones."
"Care to try? Most of the good ones were burnt. The ones out now are edited so badly by the Party that you're better off not reading them."
"You just like Yeats because he was republican."
"True, that."
It was true, she reflected later. Yeats spoke to her because of the revolutionary within her. She was an Irish Pearse, for Christ's sake! It was in her blood to rebel against a government she hated. And Ingsoc was probably worse than the English Crown her ancestors had fought in Yeats' day. Probably. History had been so warped by the Party (English Socialist Party) that one could never be quite sure as to whether things were getting better or worse. Renee herself only knew of her family's rebellion because it had been passed down by word of mouth. But she instinctively knew that a better life was possible, even if it had never existed in the past. It was just achieving it that was the problem.
Author's Note:
The names Pearse and Constance refer to Padraic Pearse and Constance Markievicz, two of the leaders of the Easter Rebellion of 1916, which precipitated the underground revolution that culminated in Irish independence from Great Britain. The poem Renee reads is Easter 1916 by Willaim Butler Yeats, from which the chapter title also is taken.
Disclaimer:
I do not own the following:
Children of the Revolution, a very good song by Marc Bolan. I borrowed its title. The lyrics come later.
Nineteen Eighty-Four, the excellent book by George Orwell. I borrowed his world, in which I am not worthy to tread.
Easter 1916, the beautiful poem by William Butler Yeats. You'll see bits and pieces of it throughout.
Please review. :)