George Orwell. One thousand nine hundred eighty four (№ 387910)

Everything that surrounded Winston, caused an attack of anger. Has always been? Is it the taste of food has always been so? He looked around the dining room. Close, a crowded room with a low ceiling and walls zameshannye from thousands and thousands of backs and sides. A rickety metal tables and chairs were so tightly that people were touching each other's elbows. Bent spoons, broken trays, coarse white mugs, fatty, embedded in every crack dirt. And the constant sour smell disgusting Gina, bad coffee, burnt roast and unwashed clothes. Always stomach skin - you felt that you took away something that you have every right to. Yes, of course, he didn't remember that life was at least something significantly better. Always his memory was not enough food, everyone had worn socks and underwear, furniture is old and rickety, room - unheated, subway trains - crowded house falling apart, the bread was dark, the tea was the greatest rarity, and coffee taste disgusting, and the cigarettes were not enough. Only was lacking, and everything was very expensive, except for the artificial gene. Of course, it is understandable why, the longer you're taking this harder and harder. But isn't that a sign of abnormality of life if you to the inside sneaks from this disorder and dirt, this perpetual deficit, endless winters, sticky socks, broken elevators, cold water, rough soap, crumbling cigarettes and nasty food? Why it all seems unbearable?