1984 is one of the great clas­sic nov­els. One of the great­est of all time in fact. This is what every­one will tell you. It’s some­thing I never truly realised until I sat down and read it for myself. It’s a book who’s influ­ence far sur­passes the con­fines of the lit­er­ary world. It’s affect can be seen on every­thing from tele­vi­sion, to com­put­ers to food and even sci­ence fic­tion itself.

As I read the book, one thing became appar­ent. What lit­tle knowl­edge of the book I had accu­mu­lated over the years, through pop cul­ture and the like, didn’t match up with the nar­ra­tive. Every­thing I knew about the story was in fact myth!

In a way I’m glad I didn’t have any true fore­knowl­edge of the book. Knowl­edge of con­cepts and themes like era­sure of the past, the war (and it’s pro­pa­ganda), Room 101 and the loss of the self. It would’ve spoilt some­thing that, unlike many post-war fic­tions still remains rel­e­vant today, 60 years after it was first published.

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