0 1984
Chapter 7
W
inston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Ju-
lia rolled sleepily against him, murmuring something
that might have been ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I dreamt—’ he began, and stopped short. It was too com-
plex to be put into words. There was the dream itself, and
there was a memory connected with it that had swum into
his mind in the few seconds after waking.
He lay back with his eyes shut, still sodden in the atmo-
sphere of the dream. It was a vast, luminous dream in which
his whole life seemed to stretch out before him like a land-
scape on a summer evening after rain. It had all occurred
inside the glass paperweight, but the surface of the glass
was the dome of the sky, and inside the dome everything
was flooded with clear soft light in which one could see into
interminable distances. The dream had also been compre-
hended by—indeed, in some sense it had consisted in—a
gesture of the arm made by his mother, and made again
thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the
news film, trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets,
before the helicopter blew them both to pieces.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that until this moment I believed
I had murdered my mother?’
‘Why did you murder her?’ said Julia, almost asleep.
‘I didn’t murder her. Not physically.’
