This month, we’ve been sending out 1984 as our Classic of the Month.
It’s one of those books that never quite stays in the past. Every few years, it seems to resurface, feeling a little less like fiction than it should.
A while back, it was Brave New World that people pointed to when talking about modern life. The constant distractions, the comfort of easy pleasures, the sense that we’re all being kept just content enough not to question things too closely. It didn’t feel exact, but it felt close enough to be unsettling.
Now, it’s 1984 that seems to be creeping in at the edges.
Not in an obvious, dystopian way. There are no telescreens in our living rooms, at least not quite in that form, and no one’s rewriting history quite so bluntly. But some of the smaller things feel familiar. The language of constant crisis. The sense that truth depends on where you’re standing. The quiet acceptance that we’re being watched, tracked, measured, all the time.
Orwell understood how power works, and how it shifts shape rather than disappearing. His time in colonial Burma showed him what control looked like up close, and how easily those systems can be justified. What feels different now is how some of those same patterns feel less distant than they once did.
It’s the kind of book that makes you pause halfway through and wonder when things started to feel so familiar.
When I think about 1984, I always picture it in shades of grey. A world flattened of colour, stripped back to something functional and joyless. No softness, no humour, no real sense of connection. It’s not exactly an inviting place to spend your time.
And yet, it’s still one of those books that feels worth returning to. Not because it’s enjoyable in the usual sense, but because it sharpens something. It makes you notice things. It lingers.
Not a right old romp, then. But one that stays with you.
