[3美國直購] 美國暢銷書 1984 Mass Market Paperback – Unabridged, January 1, 1961
▐ 自2024/1/1 00:00起，台灣樂天市場「屈臣氏」將不贈送 LINE POINTS 點數
▐ 自2023/2/1 00:00起，樂天Kobo電子書不贈送 LINE POINTS 點數，請會員多加留意。
▐ LINE POINT點數回饋依照樂天提供扣除折價券(優惠券)、與運費後之最終金額進行計算。
▐ 愛買與愛票網、a la sha（2023/8/1生效）、GAME休閒館（2023/8/1生效）、專品藥局（2023/8/1生效）等部分店家不參與全站加碼，請詳閱LINE Points 加碼店家清單:https://lin.ee/Y2CcVdk/rcfk
▐ 注意事項
(1)部分服務及店家不符合贈點資格，購買後將不贈送 LINE Points 點數，亦不得使用點數紅包，如：比漾廣場、神腦生活、MyCard、愛美麗福利社、展翔通訊、ezcook 美食廚房、葳豐數位商城、吉盈數位商城、森林巨人、包材中心、KABO佳麗寶家電批發、LuLuLu精品店、NewSTYLE新風尚潮流、0216零食會社、美寶家電、純米小鋪、LILY科技新櫃、登芳3C電子雜貨賣場、豐饌御鴨、鼎耀通訊、誠選3C、Smile、葳豐數位商城二店、米蘭寶、BoBo Outlet代購屋、楊家食品（2022/10/1生效）、樂天Kobo電子書（2023/2/1生效）、屈臣氏（2024/1/1生效）等，請詳閱LINE Points 加碼店家清單。
(2)需透過LINE購物前往台灣樂天市場，並在同一瀏覽器於24小時內結帳，才享有 LINE Points 回饋。
(3)若購買之訂單（包含預購商品）未符合樂天市場 45 天內完成訂單出貨及結帳，則不符合贈點資格。
(4)如使用App、或中途瀏覽比價網、回饋網、Google等其他網頁、或由網頁版(電腦版/手機版網頁)切換為App都將會造成追蹤中斷而無法進行 LINE Points 回饋。
(5) LINE 購物為購物資訊整合性平台，商品資料更新會有時間差，如顯示之商品規格、顏色、價位、贈品與台灣樂天市場銷售網頁不符，以銷售網頁標示為準。
(6)Pickup店家之有效訂單需於下單後40天內使用完畢才符合分潤條件
(7) 若上述或其他原因，致使消費者無接收到點數回饋或點數回饋有爭議，台灣樂天市場保有更改條款與法律追訴之權利，活動詳情以樂天市場網站公告為準。商品描述
PS.圖片僅供參考,商品以實物為准! Editorial Reviews About the Author George Orwell (pseudonym for Eric Blair [1903-50]) was born in Bengal and educated at Eton; after service with the Indian Imperial Police in Burma, he returned to Europe to earn his living penning novels and essays. He was essentially a political writer who focused his attention on his own times, a man of intense feelings and intense hates. An opponent of totalitarianism, he served in the Loyalist forces in the Spanish Civil War. Besides his classic Animal Farm, his works include a novel based on his experiences as a colonial policeman, Burmese Days, two firsthand studies of poverty, Down and Out in Paris and London and The Road to Wigan Pier, an account of his experiences in the Spanish Civil War, Homage to Catalonia; and the extraordinary novel of political prophecy whose title became part of our language, 1984. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. ONE It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a colored poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a meter wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black mustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine, and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran. Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagerness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uni- form of the Party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended. Outside, even through the shut window pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no color in anything except the posters that were plastered every- where. The black-mustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a blue-bottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the Police Patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered. Behind Winston’s back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig iron and the overfulfillment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it; moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live— did live, from habit that became instinct—in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized. Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer; though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometer away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste—this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth- century houses, their sides shored up with balks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger path and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux, occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible. Product details ASIN ? : ? 0451524934 Publisher ? : ? Signet Classic (January 1, 1961) Language ? : ? English Mass Market Paperback ? : ? 328 pages ISBN-10 ? : ? 9780451524935 ISBN-13 ? : ? 978-0451524935 Lexile measure ? : ? 1090L Item Weight ? : ? 7.2 ounces Dimensions ? : ? 4.2 x 0.85 x 7.5 inches