W.D. Clarke’s Reviews > Two Girls, Fat and Thin > Status Update
W.D. Clarke
is on page 126 of 320
I read 1984, by George Orwell. I read it voluptuously, loving the pitiless description of a panicked fat man weeping as he vainly tried to escape machine-gun fire, of a terrified woman trying to protect a doomed child with her body, of the toothless old whore that Winston had mistaken for a pretty child-harlot. It wasn’t the brutality I loved, it was [...]
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— Oct 17, 2025 02:19PM
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W.D.’s Previous Updates
W.D. Clarke
is on page 233 of 320
Justine had just awakened in the hellish but reassuringly familiar suburb of Hangover.
— Nov 07, 2025 06:00PM
W.D. Clarke
is on page 134 of 320
Kids in Deere Parke didn’t hang out on the street, at least not 13-year-olds, so Justine...drifted into a pleasant world of television and magazines which led, to her surprise, to reading books. Each book was an invisible tunnel leading to a phantom world that existed silently parallel to real life, into which one could vanish then emerge without anyone knowing. Hardy, Dickens, Poe, Chekhov—she could barely...
— Oct 19, 2025 10:38AM
W.D. Clarke
is on page 14 of 320
Justine was morbidly attracted to obsessions, particularly the useless, embarrassing obsessions of the thwarted. She could not help but be drawn to the spectacle of flesh-and-blood humans forming their lives in conjunction with the shadows invented by a mediocre novelist...she bought all of Granite’s books, &started reading The Last Woman Alive, the story of a young woman caught in the grip of a socialist...
— Aug 07, 2025 11:49AM
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Oct 17, 2025 02:20PM
[...] it was the bravado in Orwell’s monotonous treatment of horror, and the pathetic human efforts to stand against it, or even to believe in the existence of something else. The outburst of humanity between Winston and Julia was a feeble blow against the malign forces of Big Brother, beautiful only in the moment it dared to come into being before crumpling and dying like a leaf. The unbeautiful monotony of Orwell’s prose was like Winston’s affair with Julia: a slight, spare poem pitching itself against the horror it evoked, and dying in the attempt.
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