You were the first book I read in German,
almost the first book I read in English.
In my heart, the first book.
I read you, expecting spaceships or something,
pre-loss-of-virginity, post-Cold War,
and in my heart, I shook.
I was in that alcove with Winston Smith,
tasted the bad gin and boiled cabbage,
felt Big Brother’s eyes.
The bombsite dust flew up my nose,
I ran my fingers through Julia’s hair
and heard her sighs.
So many times across the years
you’ve come to me in slumbering hours
to ignite my dreams,
so many nights I’ve run with Winston
and hidden from the Thought Police
and their soul-crunching schemes
as politically-correct doublethinking Newspeak
leapt from brainwashed mouthpiece throats
across telescreens
and kitchens, campuses, offices, heads
filled with news reports and opinions formed
by government machines
while those in power squeezed and pressed
and minted people. Thank God the real world’s
not like that.
Thank God that Orwell got it wrong
and that you’re just a fantasy,
just idle chat.
Once, when I worked in a supermarket,
a girl was reading you in the canteen.
I smiled, “That book is ace.”
She whined, “Really? It’s quite boring so far.
I’m only reading it because I’ve heard
they put rats on his face.”
