The Britain of 1984 is a socialist enclave, doing what it can to feed and care for its citizens though it is reeling from atomic war, surrounded by rogue states and beset by an extremist insurgency.
Though there are days when I can see snow on the peaks of the San Gabriel mountains, the only other way I know how to have a feeling of winter is to see an image of it in a painting or movie, or to read it, and sometimes to write it. I admit that I write and read partly for escape, or maybe to travel is a better way to say it.
There are moments on trains where you do not feel part of the world, frictionless and floating. You glide, powered by one simple push forward, your wheels spinning without gripping onto anything.
Would anyone watch basketball if it had no ethical component — i.e., if it were without mistakes, without some intimation of the fact that the players are as fragile as we are? Could our excitement for the game withstand a lack of blunderers, choke-artists, and scapegoats? Would there be such a thing as a game if no one ever missed?