"I love you."

If you have not read 1984 by George Orwell, and don't want to have part of the plot blown for you, I suggest you disregard my post and go READ THE DANG BOOK.

The novel 1984, by George Orwell, has given me a lot to think about lately. The subplot between the main character, Winston, and his fellow party member, Julia, has been the most interesting (also the only one I've really read yet). Early on, Winston believes Julia-- though he doesn't know her name yet-- is a spy from the dreaded Thought Police. He is absolutely convinced that Julia will wait for the right moment to turn him over for various thoughtcrimes he commits while he searches, philosophically, through the rubble of London to anchor his life to something concrete.

He has thoughts of killing her to escape punishment. The dread of facing the ramifications of rejecting the truth fed to him by the Party consumes him, but does not stop him. It is not anger, but despair that drives him. His empty life would be ended without any meaning or memory if she turns him into the Thought Police. He would be "vaporized", removed from the books completely-- in the vocabulary of the Party, unpersoned.

One day, at work in the so-called Ministry of Truth, she falls in the hallway in front of Winston. As he goes to help her up, she cunningly slips a note into his hand. Of course, he is stunned. Fearing the worst, he disregards the note as he heads back to his desk. After finishing his work, he decides to end the suspense and read the note.

"He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large unformed handwriting:

I love you.

For several seconds he was too stunned to even throw the incriminating thing into the memory hole [trash incinerator]. When he did so, although he knew very well the danger of showing too much interest, he could not resist reading it once again, just to make sure that the words were really there."

I have to admit that I responded vocally to this passage, much to the surprise of everyone around me. Sometimes, it feels like the one thing I desire, as Winston desired Julia, is the thing I fear. My judge. My jury. My execution. As it seems, the object of my desire has intentionally pursued me, and delivered the written life of "I love you" straight to me; which disarms my plots and despair in exchange for the freedom of true intimacy. And suddenly, life is no longer empty.