I don't know why George Orwell was let alive after he wrote 1984. I don't know why I haven't been arrested yet for reading it! It is chucking dung in the faces of so many things, and without even that much class to make it inoffensive. The words, the lines, the overall picture is so intense and poignant, so in-your-face, so incredible. My heart rate goes crazy every now and again, and then all of a sudden, in the final chapter of Part 2, I realise that something awful and terrifying is happening, and I desperately don't want to be sitting alone in bed in semi darkness reading it anymore.
You know, it's funny how fiction works, isn't it? Because in the Grand Scheme of Things, many works of fiction spend their lifetimes hurling dung at people, nations etcetera... and don't get in trouble. While if somebody writes it down prosaically, plain as day, with no pretence other than sticking it to people, they have it in for them. It's incredible that the World tolerates fiction saying just the same thing as the all-out fanatics. In 1949 when 1984 was written, it was all happening. Everyone understood what he was pointing out, but as he never actually said who it was doing what, he could not be accused - to accuse him of flinging dung in their faces, they would have to admit that his portrayal of them was accurate. What he did was a very clever thing, presenting it in such a way that he couldn't get in trouble. He made you understand without putting the words into your mouth. George Orwell is the Invincible Man, who stood in the firing line and was never wounded.
Good luck, my dears! It's got more plot twists to squeeze out of its entrails yet!