new edition. contemporary publishing magazine. august 2013

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Issue 5, August 2013 of New Edition, Authoright's monthly magazine for authors. In this issue, we tackle the hot topic of author discoverability, delve into the world of biography writing, and wonder whether the future of eBooks is more sinister than we could ever have suspected.

TRANSCRIPT

  • It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his ________ in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of f from entering along with him.

    The hallway smelt of ________ and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty_five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.

    Bonfire of the e_vanitiesWinston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty_nine and had a varicose ulcer ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift_shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BiG Brother is WatChinG YoU, the caption beneath it ran.

    C O N T E M P O R A R Y P U B L I S H I N G M A G A Z I N EI S S U E 5 , A U G U S T 2 0 1 3

  • It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking

    thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an

    effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass

    doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a

    swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

    The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end

    of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been

    tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than

    a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty five, with a heavy

    black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for

    the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of

    times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current

    was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive

    in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and

    Winston, who was thirty nine and had a varicose ulcer above his

    right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On

    each landing, opposite the lift shaft, the poster with the enormous

    face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so

    contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER

    IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

    Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures

    which had something to do with the production of pig iron. The

    voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which

    formed part of the surface of the right hand wall. Winston turned

    a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were

    still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was

    called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off

    completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure,

    the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls

    which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his

    face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt

    razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

    Outside, even through the shut window pane, the world looked cold.

    Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and

    torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky

    a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the

    posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachiod face

    gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-

    front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption

    NEW EDITION, AUGUST 2013

    This Month

    6 SHHHHHH!

    16

    4PEEK-A-

    BOOK

    SUMMER READS

    8 Bonfire of the e_vanities

    10

    12DANGEROUSTO KNOW

    CA$H

  • the caption

    said, while

    the dark eye

    s looked dee

    p into Winst

    ons

    own. Down at

    streetlevel

    another pos

    ter, torn at

    one corner,

    flapped

    fitfully in

    the wind, al

    ternately co

    vering and u

    ncovering th

    e single

    word INGSOC.

    In the far

    distance a h

    elicopter sk

    immed down b

    etween

    the roofs, h

    overed for a

    n instant li

    ke a bluebot

    tle, and dar

    ted away

    again with a

    curving fli

    ght. It was

    the police p

    atrol, snoop

    ing

    into peoples

    windows. Th

    e patrols di

    d not matter

    , however. O

    nly the

    Thought Poli

    ce mattered.

    Behind Winst

    ons back the

    voice from

    the telescre

    en was still

    babbling a

    way about

    pig-iron a

    nd the ove

    rfulfilmen

    t of the

    Ninth Thre

    e-Year Pla

    n. The tel

    escreen re

    ceived and

    transmitt

    ed

    simultaneous

    ly. Any soun

    d that Winst

    on made, abo

    ve the level

    of

    a very low w

    hisper, woul

    d be picked

    up by it, mo

    reover, so l

    ong

    as he remain

    ed within th

    e field of v

    ision which

    the metal pl

    aque

    commanded, h

    e could be s

    een as well

    as heard. Th

    ere was of c

    ourse no

    way of knowi

    ng whether y

    ou were bein

    g watched at

    any given m

    oment.

    How often, o

    r on what sy

    stem, the Th

    ought Police

    plugged in

    on any

    individual w

    ire was gues

    swork. It wa

    s even conce

    ivable that

    they

    watched ever

    ybody all th

    e time. But

    at any rate

    they could p

    lug

    in your wire

    whenever th

    ey wanted to

    . You had to

    live: did l

    ive,

    from habit t

    hat became i

    nstinct in

    the assumpti

    on that ever

    y sound

    you made was

    overheard,

    and, except

    in darkness,

    every movem

    ent

    scrutinized.

    Winston kept

    his back tu

    rned to the

    telescreen.

    It was safer

    ,

    though, as h

    e well knew,

    even a back

    can be reve

    aling. A kil

    ometre

    away the Min

    istry of Tru

    th, his plac

    e of work, t

    owered vast

    and

    white above

    the grimy la

    ndscape. Thi

    s, he though

    t with a sor

    t of

    vague dist

    aste -- th

    is was Lon

    don, chief

    city of A

    irstrip On

    e,

    itself the t

    hird most po

    pulous of th

    e provinces

    of Oceania.

    He tried

    to squeeze o

    ut some chil

    dhood memory

    that should

    tell him wh

    ether

    London had

    always be

    en quite l

    ike this.

    Were there

    always th

    ese

    vistas of

    rotting ni

    neteenth-c

    entury hou

    ses, their

    sides sho

    red up

    with baulks

    of timber, t

    heir windows

    patched wit

    h cardboard

    and

    their roofs

    with corruga

    ted iron, th

    eir crazy ga

    rden walls s

    agging

    in all direc

    tions? And t

    he bombed si

    tes where th

    e plaster du

    st

    swirled in

    the air a

    nd the wil

    low-herb s

    traggled o

    ver the he

    aps of

    rubble- an

    d the plac

    es where t

    he bombs h

    ad cleared

    a larger

    patch

    and there ha

    d sprung up

    sordid colon

    ies of woode

    n dwellings

    like

    chicken-ho

    uses? But

    it was no

    use, he co

    uld not re

    member: no

    thing

    remained o

    f his chil

    dhood exce

    pt a serie

    s of brigh

    t-lit tabl

    eaux

    It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking

    thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an

    effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass

    doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a

    swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

    The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end

    of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been

    tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than

    a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty five, with a heavy

    black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for

    the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of

    times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current

    was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive

    in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and

    Winston, who was thirty nine and had a varicose ulcer above his

    right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On

    each landing, opposite the lift shaft, the poster with the enormous

    face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so

    contrived that the eyes follow you about when you m

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