There’s something quaint about reading futuristic novels after the future is, well, the past.
Obviously, Orwell’s predictions have not come to reality. My home decor doesn’t include a telescreen, I haven’t spotted a single Big Brother poster on my commute to work, my children haven’t donned spy apparel.
Those incredibly apparent places where he missed the mark give me a sense of relief. Hoorah! Society yielded his warning! But, there were a few other spots where his prophetic genius was just slightly off target, and instead of a striking fear in my heart, it brought a smile to my face.
For instance, had Orwell only known how teensy tiny surveillance equipment would become, his initial love scene would have needed a new setting.
“Yes. Look at the trees.” They were small ashes, which at some time had been cut down and had sprouted up again into a forest of poles, none of them thicker than one’s wrist. “There’s nothing big enough to hide a mike in.”