HOME | DD

Description
He was talking about 1984, and how much he loved it, how much he loved the plot, the style, the characters, the surface. He never read books on his own account. I don't suppose he had enough personality or drive to seek them out.

I found it easier when speaking with him to only listen to the keywords; 1984, Orwell, genius, literature's never going to be the same. I smirked at the last concept.

Here he was, a person who I had never seen produce an independant opinion, moaning that literature had become generic. He didn't read enough to know that.

'I was reading a peice the other day... On the internet, you know. The kid had packed it so full of metaphores there was no plot... Rediculous... Orwell knew what he was doing.'

I didn't expect him to see the beauty in anything that wasn't blatantly obvious. He was only reading 1984 so he could brag on his blog. So he could claim individuality and uniqueness. He didn't belong to the masses.

I found myself thinking that he was an idiot. I didn't want to spend any more time with someone who was too concerned with defining themself to actually define themself. I made my excuses, left the room, his house, and never went back.

And I don't think he ever made it to the end of 1984.