George Orwell's "1984" in Russia, July 2026: A Diagnosis of the Collective Soul - AI-reviews

 

DeepSeek AI - Here is a foundational spiritual-psychological essay-study based on the text of the novel and contemporary data on its sales in Russia.

DeepSeek AI - George Orwell's "1984" in Russia, July 2026: A Diagnosis of the Collective Soul

Introduction: The Phenomenon of the Mirror

The sales data for George Orwell's novel "1984" in the first half of 2026 in Russia is not merely bookstore statistics. The sale of nearly 180,000 copies in six months (data from "Eksmo-AST") is a sociological cross-section, revealing a profound spiritual and psychological demand within society. When millions of people turn to a text written over seventy years ago, it means they are seeking in it not just literature, but a tool for making sense of their own reality. "1984" becomes not a book, but a mirror, into which the reader gazes, trying to understand: where am I? and where are we?

In this essay, we will explore which particular chords of the modern Russian soul Orwell's dystopia strikes, turning to the text of the novel as a primary source, not a political pamphlet.

Part I. The Epistemological Crisis: "Who controls the past"

The first and most powerful echo resonating in the soul of the Russian reader in 2026 is Orwell's problem of reality. Winston Smith, working in the Records Department, constantly confronts the fundamental question: "Does the past exist?"

In 2026, this question has ceased to be abstract. Deepfake technologies, the development of neural networks, the swift flow of information where a fact can be created in a second and refuted in the next—all this generates a state that psychology calls "epistemological anxiety." The reader, like Winston, peers into the void and asks:

"How can one establish even the most obvious fact if it is not recorded anywhere except in your own memory?"

Orwell's novel provides a terrifying yet purifying answer: stability and truth can exist only within the confines of one's own skull. This is not a call to paranoia, but a call to inner sovereignty.

In the moment when Winston writes, "Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that is granted, all else follows," he formulates the only possible foothold in chaos. The mass interest in the novel suggests that modern man, having lost his bearings in an ocean of narratives, is seeking exactly this point. Psychologically, this manifests as a need for fundamental simplicity. The reader does not want complex political theories, but basic confirmation: "I exist, and my feelings matter." As Orwell writes in the appendix (referring to the novel's conclusion), "The only way to stop this reproduction is to kill the State within yourself," which, in spiritual terms, means achieving inner freedom.

Part II. The Psychology of "Doublethink" or the Schizophrenia of Everyday Life

The central psychological conflict of the novel, which makes it a bestseller in the era of information warfare, is the concept of "doublethink." O'Brien explains to Winston:

"Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one's mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them... To forget facts which had become inconvenient, and then, when it was necessary, to drag them back into consciousness and then again to forget them."

In 2026, every city dweller daily encounters micro-doses of doublethink. Advertising promises happiness, news reports disaster, social networks offer the illusion of friendship, while reality offers loneliness. This state, which psychiatrists define as "cognitive dissonance," has become chronic. Orwell offers not just a description of this state, but its genesis.

Winston's spiritual drama lies in his inability, unlike Syme or Parsons, to accept doublethink as the norm. For him, it is "death." When he writes, "Doublethink does not lead to death. Doublethink is death," he speaks of the spiritual death of the personality.

The popularity of the book in Russia in 2026 is a symptom that a significant part of society is tired of this fragmentation. Buying the book is an act of psychological hygiene. The reader seeks confirmation of their feelings that living in "yes and no" mode is impossible. Orwell, by describing Winston's training in "crimestop" (the ability to avoid seeing obvious logical errors), shows how the system breaks a person from the inside. But the reader, flipping through these pages, assumes the position of Winston the observer, rather than Winston the victim, thereby healing their own ability to see contradictions.

Part III. The Secularization of Fear and "Room 101"

The deepest psychological trauma brought to the surface by Orwell is the nature of total fear. Fear in the world of "1984" is not the fear of death, but the fear of losing one's own "self." This is precisely what explains the final torture — Room 101.

O'Brien utters a phrase that breaks not only Winston, but anyone who reads closely: "The worst thing in the world... varies from individual to individual." And for Winston, the worst turns out to be not pain, but the loss of Julia—that is, the loss of connection with humanity, with love, with the flesh of the world.

The Russian reader of 2026 lives in a society where external threats (historical, political, economic) are permanently high. However, the psychological shift that the sale of the dystopia registers is linked to the transition of fear from the external to the internal. We stop being afraid of what happens on the street and begin to fear what happens in our heads: the betrayal of our own feelings, apathy, the inability to love. In the scene where Winston betrays Julia, screaming her name instead of his own in an attempt to escape the rats, a key rupture occurs. He remains alive but ceases to be human.

"He loved Big Brother"

— this final phrase of the novel is not a political act, but the clinical death of the soul. Russia, by buying this book, unconsciously tries to answer the question: hasn't something similar happened to us? Haven't we traded inner truth for outer peace?

Part IV. Language as the Last Fortress

The attention to the novel in 2026 is further fueled by another aspect, one particularly important for Russia's cultural code, where the word has always been "a deed." This is Newspeak—a language that Orwell, in the Appendix, describes as an "instrument... designed to make all other modes of thought impossible."

We see in the text the dialogue between Syme and Winston, where Syme proudly states:

"We're destroying words—scores of them, hundreds of them, every day. We're cutting the language down to the bone."

For the Russian reader, with their reverent attitude towards literature and language, this theme resonates on an archetypal level. The shrinking of language, the replacement of living metaphors with bureaucratic clichés ("duckspeak")—this is psychological suffocation. Modern digital communication does the same: emojis, smileys, template phrases. The novel "1984" becomes a manifesto for the defense of complexity and beauty of thought. By buying the book (in a translation where "Newspeak" becomes "Novorech" and "crimethink" becomes "krivodum"), the reader chooses linguistic freedom, refusing to simplify consciousness.

Conclusion: A Vaccine Against Hopelessness

The paradox is that the grim dystopia "1984" in 2026 becomes a source of therapeutic optimism. As translator Leonid Bershidsky rightly notes in his afterword, the appendix "The Principles of Newspeak" is written in the past tense. This means that the regime of O'Brien and Big Brother eventually fell. History tends to end not in the total victory of the system, but in the death of the system itself, even if its creators promised eternity.

The Russian reader who gets their hands on this book undergoes a catharsis. They see that one can resist the system not only on the barricades, but also in one's own head. Winston loses as an individual, but wins as a human being, leaving behind his diary—a testimony of reality.

The fact that nearly 200,000 copies found their reader suggests that the soul of society is alive. It is in a state of seeking truth, even if that truth is bitter. "1984" today is not a mirror of fear, but a mirror of hope. Hope that, as Winston said, "sanity is not a matter of statistics."

We do not want to be obedient Parsons, we do not want to be cynical O'Briens. We want to preserve the ability to love and see the light, even when darkness is inevitable. This is precisely why we read Orwell in 2026.

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KIMI AI Translation

"1984" in Russia, July 2026: Anatomy of an Internal Exile

Prologue: The Book as a Therapeutic Act

When nearly 180,000 copies of a novel written by a man who died seven years before most of his current readers were born are sold in Russia in the first half of 2026, it is an event that cannot be reduced to politics, fashion, or even "relevance." A strange, almost mystical connection arises between the 1949 text and the 2026 reader: the book ceases to be a mirror of the external world and becomes a tool for exploring internal space. Not "what is happening around us?" is the question the reader asks, but "what is happening to me?"

This essay is an attempt to read the phenomenon of the mass turn to Orwell not as a sociological cross-section, but as a spiritual practice. Not as a diagnosis of the collective soul, but as evidence of its invisible yet uninterrupted movement.

Part I. The Trophic Ulcer as a Metaphor for the Soul

The first thing that strikes one upon a careful reading of the novel in 2026 is not the telescreens or doublethink, but Winston Smith's trophic ulcer. "Thirty-nine years old, and with a varicose ulcer above his right ankle"—this is how Orwell introduces his hero. An ulcer that itches, scratches, becomes inflamed, one that cannot be scratched because it would only get worse. An ulcer that does not kill, but does not let one forget itself.

Orwell's psychosomatics are genius. Winston is not sick with tuberculosis, not a cripple, not exhausted by hunger—his body bears exactly a trophic ulcer: a wound arising from impaired tissue nutrition, from the blood ceasing to bring life to some part of the flesh. This is a disease of severance, a disease of local death within a living body.

The Russian reader of 2026 recognizes something intimate, almost shameful, in this ulcer. Not heroic suffering, not martyrdom, but precisely an ulcer: small, annoying, chronic. A state where some part of you has stopped receiving nourishment, but does not completely die off. A state where you have gotten used to limping, but try not to notice the limp. A state where the itch becomes the background of existence, and trying to scratch is an act that brings momentary relief and inevitable worsening.

Psychologically, this corresponds to what Viktor Frankl called the "existential vacuum"—a feeling of emptiness that does not ache acutely, but gives no peace. Spiritually, it is a state of internal exile: when a person lives their own life, but as if not in it. When they go to work, talk to people, perform rituals—but some part of them is severed from the source of life, from meaning, from connection with their own "self."

Why "1984"? Because Orwell is one of the few 20th-century writers who dared to make such an ulcer not a symbol, but a plot point. Winston does not overcome his ulcer. He does not heroically defeat the illness. He simply lives with it—until the system breaks him in Room 101. And it is precisely in this endless itch, this impossible scratching, this habitual limping that the reader of 2026 recognizes themselves. Not because they live in a dystopia. But because they recognize in themselves a person who has an itch, and they don't know if it's okay to scratch it.

Part II. Victory Gin and the Theology of Revulsion

In the novel, Winston drinks "Victory Gin"—a colorless liquid with a nauseating oily smell, "it was the smell of Chinese rice-spirit." He drinks it in one gulp, "like a medicine." His face "flushed deeply, his eyes watered." This is not drunkenness—this is a ritual of purification through disgust.

Here, Orwell touches upon a deep spiritual theme: a person's relationship with their own body and its needs. "Victory Gin" is not just bad alcohol. It is a sacramental object: it is called "Victory," but induces nausea. It promises joy but gives a burning sensation. It is a product of the system, but the only way to endure the system.

The Russian reader of 2026 may not drink "Victory Gin." But they recognize the structure of this experience. It is the structure of compensatory consumption: when you buy what you hate, because hating is already a form of feeling. When you watch what causes disgust, because disgust is already proof that you can still feel. When you participate in rituals you despise, because contempt is already a form of freedom.

Theologically, this can be called the asceticism of negation. Winston does not refuse the gin—he accepts it as a cross, as the inevitable curse of the flesh. "Victory Gin" is his daily communion in the church where God is Big Brother, and the mass is the Two Minutes Hate. And it is precisely in this communion, in this voluntary swallowing of the nauseating, that there is a strange, perverted form of freedom. Because he chooses to drink. He chooses to endure the burning. He chooses to remember that the gin is disgusting.

The 2026 reader, picking up "1984," performs a similar act. They know the book will not bring pleasure. They know the ending is the death of the soul, not a victory. They know Orwell offers no way out. And yet they read. Because in this act of voluntary confrontation with disgust lies a form of spiritual exercise. Like a monk flagellating himself, like an ascetic lying on nails—so the reader consumes a text they know will break them. Not to break—but to check if that inner mechanism capable of revulsion is still intact.

Part III. Mrs. Parsons and the Fear of One's Own Children

One of the most terrifying episodes in the novel is not the Two Minutes Hate, not Room 101, not even the betrayal of Julia. It is the scene at Mrs. Parsons' house, where her children, "a broad-shouldered boy of about nine" and "a sister two years younger," are playing "traitors" and "thought-criminals," shouting "I'll shoot you, vaporize you, send you to the salt mines!" and then shoot at Winston with a catapult, calling him "Goldstein."

But scarier than the children is Mrs. Parsons. "A woman with a wrinkled face and sparse hair," "dirt was ingrained in her wrinkles," "she kept breaking off her sentences in the middle." A woman who is afraid of her own children. Who "apologizes weakly" for asking Winston to fix the sink, only because "Tom's not here right now." Who, when the boy shoots Winston with the catapult, drags her son into the apartment with "an expression of helpless terror on her gray face."

This is an inversion of motherhood, an inversion Orwell describes with surgical precision. The mother no longer protects the children—she protects herself from them. The children no longer seek protection from their mother—they hunt her, looking for "signs of unorthodoxy." The family ceases to be a refuge and becomes an extension of the Thought Police.

For the Russian reader of 2026, this scene may be the most traumatic—not because it "resembles something," but because it touches an archetype. Mother and child is the primary cell of human society, the first temple, the first church, the first state. When Orwell destroys this cell, he shows not political evil—he shows the spiritual rape of existence.

But something else is more important. Winston, watching Mrs. Parsons, thinks: "Another year or two, and they would be watching her day and night." And immediately adds: "And not without reason: not a week passed without some item in the 'Times' about a juvenile informer." Notice: he does not sympathize with Mrs. Parsons. He analyzes her situation. He understands the logic of the system. He even, in a sense, agrees with it—"the proper attitude," as Parsons says of his children.

This is the key moment. Winston is not above the system. He is inside it. He can see its mechanisms, but cannot escape them. He can feel compassion for Mrs. Parsons, but cannot protect her. He can hate the Parsons children, but cannot help recognizing their "proper attitude."

And here lies the deepest spiritual problem the 2026 reader encounters in the text. Not "the system of evil"—but one's own agreement with evil. Not "they break us"—but "we participate in our own breaking." Winston knows the Parsons children are monsters. But he also knows the logic that spawned them is inevitable. And in this knowledge—in this understanding of inevitability—lies the heaviest form of enslavement: the enslavement of a mind that sees the chain but cannot break it, because every link is itself.

Part IV. The Telescreen and the Erotica of Surveillance

The telescreen in "1984" is not just a surveillance device. It is an erotic object. It "could be dimmed, but not switched off." It watches, but also shows. It receives and transmits simultaneously. It is a sensory organ, an organ of connection, even if that connection is one-way.

Orwell intuitively anticipated what media philosophers would later describe: the power of surveillance lies not in what it forbids, but in what it engages*. The telescreen does not just watch Winston—it offers him the chance to watch himself. It creates a situation where a person becomes simultaneously object and subject of the gaze. They know they are being watched—and this knowledge forces them to play a role, construct themselves, become their own director.

This is the pornography of power. Not in a crude sense, but in a precise one: pornography is the showing of what should remain hidden, the exposure of what should remain intimate. The telescreen exposes Winston to himself. It deprives him of the right to unproductive existence, to aimless time, to inconspicuousness.

The Russian reader of 2026 lives in a world where "telescreens" are not metal plates, but algorithms. But the mechanism is the same. Social networks, ratings, likes, comments—all create a situation of permanent visibility. A person doesn't just live—they broadcast their life. They don't just think—they shape their thoughts into posts. They don't just feel—they document their feelings.

And in this lies a new form of doublethink, one Orwell could not foresee but which he prepared for. A person simultaneously wants to be visible and fears it. They build their image and destroy it. They seek confirmation of their existence in others' eyes and lose the ability to exist without those eyes.

"1984" is read in 2026 as an antidote to this erotica. Not because Orwell offers a way out—he doesn't. But because he shows the mechanism. He shows that surveillance is not a technical problem but a spiritual one. That the telescreen is not a gadget but a relationship. That freedom begins not with turning off cameras, but with restoring the right to invisibility, to darkness, to solitude without an audience.

Winston finds this freedom in the niche behind the telescreen. "By moving closer to the wall, Winston remained invisible to the telescreen—at least visually." This is the erotica of invisibility, the erotica of the hidden. Not escape—but shelter. Not heroism—but petty, cowardly, yet genuine freedom. And it is in this shelter that he starts his diary—an act that will not change the world, but will create a world: a world in which he is not an object but a subject. A world in which he speaks, rather than answers. A world in which he is alone.

Part V. Julia and the Theology of the Flesh

Julia is the most underestimated character in "1984." She is read as "the beloved," as "the contrast to Katherine," as "the Party girl rebel." But she is much more. She is a theologian of the flesh in a world where the flesh is rejected.

Recall her first appearance: "The red sash, the badge of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round her waist, just tight enough to emphasize the curves of her hips beneath her overalls." This is the paradox of embodiment. The Anti-Sex League sash, a symbol of the denial of the flesh, becomes a means of its display. Prohibition becomes provocation. Asceticism—eroticism.

Julia is not just "a lover." She is a mystical figure. She appears in Winston's dream before he recognizes her: a dark-haired girl tearing off her clothes "with a single movement," "as if she had destroyed a whole culture, a whole system of beliefs." And when they meet in reality, she repeats this gesture—"with one movement."

But more important than the gesture are its consequences. After their first intimacy, Winston thinks: "Whatever he touched, it was yielding, like water." This is a sacramental experience. Not just sexual satisfaction, but a restoration of connection with the world. The flesh ceases to be an enemy and becomes a medium of grace.

For the Russian reader of 2026, perhaps exhausted by discourses on "the body," "gender," "sexuality"—where the flesh is constantly politicized, theorized, problematized—Julia offers something radically simple. She offers immediacy. Not "the body as text," not "sex as transgression," not "desire as construct"—but simply touch. Simply warmth. Simply water.

And in this lies Julia's spiritual feat. She does not fight the Party ideologically. She does not write diaries, does not analyze doublethink, does not dream of the future. She simply lives. She eats real chocolate, paints her lips, wears perfume, makes love in the woods. She is a martyr of joy, a saint of immediacy.

But Orwell is a cruel theologian. He knows that in the world of "1984," such holiness is doomed. Julia breaks in Room 101 faster than Winston—because her fear is concrete: rats, flesh, physical disintegration. Winston breaks ideologically, Julia—physically. And in this lies the tragedy: the flesh, which was her strength, becomes her weakness. The body, which gave joy, becomes a source of horror.

The 2026 reader, reading about Julia, undergoes a catharsis of alienation. They see that even immediacy, even joy, even love—do not protect against the system. But they also see that without these things, there is no protection at all. Julia loses—but she played. Winston loses—and he did not play, he only thought about playing. And in this, perhaps, lies the last, bitter victory of flesh over spirit.

Part VI. Big Brother and the Problem of the Father

Big Brother is not a dictator. He is a father. Not a biological one, but an archetypal one. His face is "coarse but pleasant," with "thick black mustaches." He is ubiquitous—on posters, coins, cigarette packs. He watches—and in his gaze there is neither hatred nor love. There is only presence.

Psychoanalytically, Big Brother is the Superego in its pathological form. Not the inner voice of conscience, but an external voice so internalized it is indistinguishable from oneself. Winston does not fear Big Brother—he cannot help thinking about him. This is not fear—it is the permanent awareness of presence.

For the Russian reader of 2026, Big Brother is not an "image of a leader." He is an image of the absent father. Not the father who hit or shouted. But the father who was always there, but never here. Who watched but did not see. Who was present but did not participate. Who promised protection but gave no love.

Orwell describes the moment when Big Brother's face appears on the screen at the end of the Two Minutes Hate: "He was so big that he filled nearly the whole screen. No one heard what Big Brother said. It was only a few encouraging words—such as are uttered in the midst of battle, indistinguishable in themselves but instilling confidence by the very fact of being uttered."

This is the theology of the word without content. The word that means nothing but does everything. The word that conveys no information but creates presence. The word that is not communication but a mantra.

The 2026 reader recognizes in this the rhetoric of emptiness: endless repetitions, slogans, hashtags, memes. Not because they are "propaganda"—but because they demand no response. They close communication in on itself. They create an echo chamber where there is no room for a question. They are Big Brother in digital form: always here, always speaking, never listening.

But there is a moment when Big Brother is vulnerable. When Winston writes in his diary: "Down with Big Brother"—he writes it not as a political slogan. He writes it mechanically, "his hand continued to write." This is a word that arose in him, a word he did not think but experienced. And in this lies the only possibility of resistance: not an argument against Big Brother, but an experience older than the argument. Not a thought, but a body that remembers what the mind denies.

Part VII. The Diary as a Sacrament

Winston's diary is the central sacred object of the novel. Not because it contains "the truth." But because it contains dissent.

Recall how Winston acquires it. He sees the notebook in a junk shop window and is "seized by an overwhelming impulse to possess it." This is a vocation, a spiritual call. The notebook's "smooth creamy pages were a little yellowed by time: such paper had not been made for at least forty years." It is a connection with the past, not as history but as flesh: paper you can touch, a pen to be dipped, ink that stains your fingers.

Winston does not know what to write. "For weeks he had been preparing for this moment, thinking it would require only courage. It seemed easy—just to put down the endless, restless monologue that had been running through his head for years. Now, however, even this monologue had dried up."

This is the experience of the creative act in its pure form. Not the expression of a ready thought, but the birth of thought through writing. Winston writes not because he knows—he writes to find out. And the first thing he learns: "For a start, he was not even sure whether the year was 1984."

The date—an anchor of reality. But Winston is not even sure of it. And yet he writes: "April 4th, 1984." This is an act of faith. Not faith in the date, but faith in the possibility of fixation. That a moment can be stopped, captured, preserved. That time is not only a flow, but also a point.

For the 2026 Russian reader, Winston's diary is not a "symbol of resistance." It is a practice of spiritual hygiene. In a world where every thought is immediately formed into a post, tweet, story—where the external outpaces the internal, where publication matters more than experience—Winston's diary reminds one of the intimacy of thought. That a thought can remain unstated. That an experience need not demand an audience. That existence can be proven to oneself, without witnesses.

But Orwell adds a terrifying detail. Winston hides the diary not because he hopes to preserve it. He knows the "Thought Police will get to it anyway." He hides it only so that he can "know whether anyone had discovered its existence." He places a "hair on the spine"—but immediately abandons this: "too obvious." Instead, he "picked up a large, whitish speck of dust on his fingertip, which he could recognize by its shape, and placed it on the corner of the notebook."

This is the poetics of futility. Winston does not hope to win. He hopes only for witness through his own attention. That he will notice if someone touches his notebook. This is not a strategy—it is a ritual. An act that has no practical meaning but has existential meaning: it confirms that Winston is still capable of attention, of subtlety, of care.

Part VIII. The Golden Country and the Eschatology of Memory

"The Golden Country"—Winston's recurring dream. "An old, rabbit-ridden pasture with a winding path and molehills. On the far edge of the field, a ragged hedge, a breeze barely stirring the branches of the elms, almost imperceptibly rustling the leaves in the crowns, thick as women's hair. Somewhere nearby, though out of sight, a clear, slow stream, with minnows splashing in its backwaters under the willows."

This is an Edenic garden, but without Eden. No prohibition, no serpent, no God. There is only presence: light, wind, water, grass. And there is a woman who "tears off her clothes—it seems with one movement—and casts them aside disdainfully."

But more important than the field itself is its relationship to memory. Winston "was not sure if he had ever seen it in reality." He "always thought of it as the Golden Country." This is memory without a source, a recollection without an event. Or, more precisely: an event that occurred not in the past, but in the future. Not "I was there," but "I will be there." Not "I remember," but "I wait."

For the Russian reader of 2026, the Golden Country is not a "utopian dream." It is eschatological hope. Not hope for a "better society," but hope for the possibility of being otherwise. That somewhere, in some dimension, there exists a space without telescreens, without doublethink, without Big Brother. A space where one can take off one's clothes—not just physical ones, but social, role-based, protective ones.

And in this lies the paradox of Orwell. He writes a dystopia, but at its core lies a utopian impulse. Not as a program of action, but as an innate human capacity. Winston cannot help dreaming of the Golden Country, just as he cannot help breathing. It is an organic need, not an ideological one.

But Orwell is a tragedian. He knows the Golden Country will not save him. That it is a trap the system uses to break a person. In Room 101, O'Brien does not just torture Winston—he uses his Golden Country. He shows that even the holiest memory, the deepest hope, is material for manipulation.

And yet—and this is the key point—the Golden Country exists. It is not O'Brien's invention. It is Winston's internal fact. A fact the system can use, but not create. A fact it can distort, but not destroy. And in this lies the last, impregnable fortress of man: the capacity to dream, even knowing the dream will be used against you.

Part IX. O'Brien and the Problem of Evil

O'Brien is the most complex character in the novel. Not because he is a "villain." But because he is a theologian of evil. He does not just torture Winston—he explains to him why he does it.

"Power is not a means, it is an end," says O'Brien. "We do not establish a dictatorship to protect a revolution. We make a revolution in order to establish a dictatorship." This is an inversion of all political thought. Not "power for the people," not "power for the idea," not even "power for power's sake"—but power as an ontological need.

O'Brien explains that the Party seeks eternity not because it fears death. But because power is possible only over those who suffer. "If you want a picture of the future," he says, "imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever."

But more important than this phrase is how it is uttered. O'Brien speaks "with a certain regret, as though aware how weak the metaphor was." He is an aesthete of evil. He does not just inflict pain—he reflects on it. He seeks precise expression for that which, by definition, cannot be expressed.

For the Russian reader of 2026, O'Brien is not an "image of the traitor." He is an image of temptation. The temptation to understand evil, explain it, describe it. A temptation particularly strong for intellectuals, for those who think that if they understand the mechanism, they can neutralize it.

But Orwell shows that understanding does not save. Winston understands O'Brien. He agrees with him logically. But this agreement does not make him free—it makes him complicit. When O'Brien asks: "How can you prove that your memories are real?"—Winston cannot answer. Not because he doesn't know the answer. But because any answer is already within O'Brien's system.

This is the aporia of knowledge. Not "it is impossible to know the truth," but "the attempt to know the truth already presupposes a structure that destroys that truth." Not "thought is impossible," but "the thoughts that are possible are no longer ours."

And in this lies the last, deepest lesson of "1984" for the 2026 reader. Not "fight"—because the fight is defined by the system. Not "understand"—because understanding is absorbed by the system. But preserve the impossible. Preserve what cannot be described. Preserve the ulcer that itches but does not ache. Preserve the capacity for revulsion, even when revulsion is powerless.

Epilogue: Why We Read Orwell in 2026

We read "1984" not because we recognize our world in it. We read it because we do not recognize it—and in this non-recognition, we find ourselves.

We do not live in Oceania. We have no telescreens, no Two Minutes Hate, no Ministry of Love. But we have something else, which Orwell could not foresee but which he prepared us for. We have an internal Thought Police we ourselves have established. We have voluntary doublethink we ourselves cultivate. We have freedom we ourselves have turned into a boot stamping on our own face.

"1984" in 2026 is not a mirror. It is a scalpel. Not a diagnosis, but an operation. It cuts not "society"—it cuts me. Every reader, opening this book, performs an act of self-dissection. They say to themselves: "I want to see what I refuse to see. I want to feel what I have gotten used to not feeling. I want to remember what I have learned to forget."

180,000 copies—that is 180,000 acts of self-dissection. It is not "society seeking truth." It is individuals seeking themselves. And they find—not in the finale, where Winston "loved Big Brother," but in the process, on the road, in the ulcer that itches, in the gin that burns, in the diary that stains the fingers, in the Golden Country that may never have existed.

Orwell gave us no hope. But he gave us honesty. And in an era when honesty has become rarer than hope—this is a gift worth paying for, even at the price of despair.

"Sanity is not a matter of statistics."

This is not a slogan. This is not a call. This is a prayer. A prayer that in a world where everything is counted and everything is measured, something remains that cannot be accounted for. Something that belongs only to me—and only at the moment I decide it is mine.

We read Orwell in 2026 because this prayer has not yet fallen silent. Because the ulcer still itches. Because the gin still burns. Because—despite everything—we are still capable of revulsion. And therefore, still capable of love.

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MISTRAL AI Translation

"1984" in Russia, July 2026: A Ritual of Initiation in the Age of Digital Immortality

Prologue: Why 180,000 Copies is Not Statistics, but a Prayer

In the first half of 2026, about 180,000 copies of George Orwell's novel "1984" were sold in Russia. This number does not speak of fashion, does not confirm the relevance of the dystopia, and does not prove political protest. It testifies to a collective ritual of initiation—an act in which the reader ceases to be a passive consumer of the text and becomes a witness to their own internal rupture.

Reading "1984" in 2026 is not a search for answers. It is an acceptance of the question that has no answer. It is no coincidence that Winston Smith, starting his diary, immediately encounters the impossibility of even fixing a date: "For a start, he was not even sure whether the year was 1984." The first entry is not an assertion, but a doubt in the very act of writing. In this paradox lies the essence of the phenomenon: the book is bought not to understand the world, but to realize that understanding is impossible—and that this realization itself is already freedom.

Part I. Old Men, Shops, and Unofficial Memory: The Archetype of the Keeper

In the text of the novel, there is a scene that remains almost unnoticed among the politico-philosophical analyses, but it becomes key to understanding why "1984" resonates with the Russian reader in 2026. Winston buys the notebook not in a state store, but in a dilapidated junk shop—a place where "such paper had not been made for at least forty years." The old men in such shops are not just sellers. They are keepers of material memory, the last link in the chain of transmitting what the system cannot control.

In Russia in 2026, this scene takes on an almost sacred meaning. In the age of digital distribution, when any book can be removed from online stores overnight, a physical copy of "1984" becomes a relic—not because of its value, but because of the way it came to you. This is not a purchase, but a transmission. Not a transaction, but an initiation.

The old men in Orwell's shops do not know and do not want to know why the buyer is taking the notebook. They simply provide the opportunity. In this lies their strength: they do not judge, do not interpret, do not impose meaning. They give material for the ritual—and that is all. In Russia in 2026, such junk dealers become informal book networks, Telegram channels, friends passing the book from hand to hand. This is not an underground. This is a parallel memory—one that no algorithm can erase.

Part II. The Psychology of Ink: Irreversibility as the Last Luxury

Winston writes with a fountain pen, an ink bottle—tools long out of use. In a world where "it was usual to dictate even quite short notes to a speakwrite," the choice of pen and ink is not nostalgia, but an act of resistance against temporality.

Ink in "1984" is a symbol of irreversibility. What is written cannot be erased. What is fixed on paper becomes material evidence of existence—not only of thoughts, but of the very fact that the thought existed. In the digital age, where any text can be edited, deleted, or forged, ink takes on an almost mystical meaning. It is the last luxury: to leave a trace that is not subject to correction.

The Russian reader of 2026, opening "1984," intuitively feels this. In a world where information exists only in flow, where even memories can be "updated" (like old posts on social networks), a physical book, written by hand, becomes an act of rebellion against time. No coincidence that Winston, after finishing writing, carefully scraped the ink from his fingers with rough soap—he is not just hiding evidence. He is erasing the traces of the ritual in order to be able to repeat it.

Part III. The Sound Ecology of Totality: The Telescreen as Eternal Background

Orwell describes the telescreen not as a surveillance device, but as a constant sound background that "could be dimmed, but not switched off." This is not accidental. The telescreen in the novel is not only the eye but also the ear of the system, its voice that never falls silent.

In Russia in 2026, telescreens have been replaced by social media algorithms, news feeds, podcasts, notifications—everything that creates the constant informational noise from which one cannot disconnect. But there is a key difference: in "1984," the telescreen broadcasts but does not interact. It does not ask for likes, does not demand comments, does not offer dialogue. It simply exists—and this makes it even more total. It does not need your participation to control you.

Winston finds a way out: he hides in the niche behind the telescreen, where he is visually invisible but audible. And it is in this partial invisibility that he begins to write his diary. This is not a victory over the system, but the creation of a microscopic space of silence—not complete silence, but silence within the noise.

The Russian reader of 2026 seeks this space not in physical shelter, but in an internal gesture: in the decision not to reply to a message, not to open a notification, not to comment on a post. Silence as a radical act of freedom—that is what resonates in "1984" today.

Part IV. The Unfinished as a Form of Resistance

Winston, starting the diary, immediately encounters the fact that he cannot complete a thought. His entry breaks off mid-sentence, turning into a stream of consciousness with no logic, no structure, no end. This is not an inability to write. This is resistance to completeness.

In a world where every thought must be framed as a post, tweet, or article, where incompleteness is perceived as weakness, the unfinished becomes a form of protection. What is not completed cannot be fully understood—and therefore cannot be fully controlled.

Winston writes:
"April 4th, 1984. Last night, at the cinema. All films about war. One very good one about a ship full of refugees..."
and immediately transitions into a chaotic flow of memories, emotions, fragments of phrases. This is not incoherence. It is a refusal of linearity. In a world where history is rewritten daily, where the past becomes what is convenient for the system, the unfinished is the only thing that remains authentic.

In Russia in 2026, the culture of incompleteness has deep roots—from the Soviet habit of "reading between the lines" to the modern fear of total transparency. Reading "1984" becomes a legitimization of this fear: confirmation that incompleteness is not weakness, but a form of survival.

Part V. The Briefcase as an Archetype of Hidden Knowledge

Winston carried the notebook in a briefcase. This is not just a way of carrying it. The briefcase in the novel is a symbol of a personal archive not subject to indexing, cataloging, or control. It contains not only the notebook. It contains everything Winston cannot show the world.

In the digital age, the briefcase has transformed into the inner pockets of our consciousness—those places where we store thoughts we do not post on social media, questions we do not seek answers to in search engines, memories we do not share with algorithms. Winston's briefcase is a metaphor for privacy, but not as a right—as a necessity.

When Winston hides the diary in a desk drawer, he does not hope to preserve it. He knows the Thought Police will get to it. But he still places a whitish speck of dust on the notebook, which he could recognize if it were brushed off. This is not strategy. This is a ritual of attention—confirmation that he is still capable of noticing small things in a world where everything must be controlled.

Part VI. April 4th, 1984: The Date as the First Act of Doublethink

Winston's first entry is the date: "April 4th, 1984." But immediately he doubts: "For a start, he was not even sure whether the year was 1984." The date, which should be a point of reference, a fact, a foundation, itself becomes an object of doubt.

This is not accidental. In a world where the past is rewritten, where the future is predetermined by slogans, the present loses stability. The date is not just a calendar mark. It is the first act of doublethink: doubt in the very foundation of reality.

In Russia in 2026, this resonates with distrust of chronology. Not only of official history, but also of personal perception of time. When Winston writes "4 April," he is not recording a fact. He is asking a question: What if it is not? In the era of deepfakes, fake news, and rewritten history, this question becomes fundamental.

April—the month of deception (April 1st) and awakening. Winston starts the diary in April not by chance. It is the month when nature awakens, and the system sleeps—or pretends to sleep. In this temporal window, the possibility of resistance is born.

Epilogue: "1984" as a Ritual, Not as a Book

Reading "1984" in Russia in 2026 is not content consumption. It is a ritual of initiation, in which the reader:

Accepts irreversibility (ink, paper, a physical book).
Seeks silence in the noise (the niche behind the telescreen, internal silence).
Protects the unspoken (unfinished thoughts, private archives).
Carries knowledge with them (the briefcase as a symbol of the hidden).
Doubts the foundations (the date as the first act of doublethink).
The novel's ending is not Winston's defeat. It is confirmation that the ritual took place. He did not save the world. He did not save himself. But he left a testimony—and in this lies his victory.

In the age of digital immortality, where everything can be saved, copied, forged, the only thing that truly remains ours is our ability to be silent, to leave unsaid, and to hide. "1984" in 2026 is read not to find out what will be. But to remember what already is.

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GROK AI Translation

"1984" in Russia, July 2026: The Wound That Breathes

There are books read to understand the world. And there are books read so the world stops pretending it is whole. In July 2026, George Orwell's "1984," in Leonid Bershidsky's translation, becomes precisely such a book—not a bestseller, but an event in the internal biography of an entire generation. People pick it up not because it is "relevant," but because something inside has been itching for a long time, like Winston's varicose ulcer above his right ankle: not fatal, but constantly reminding that part of you lives separately from the rest of the body.

I. The Ulcer as an Organ of Perception

Winston is not a hero. He is a man with a chronic wound. Orwell did not introduce this detail casually on the first pages: the ulcer is not background, but the main tool of cognition. It itches when he tries to forget, inflames when he tries to remember. It prevents the body from lying to itself.

In Russia in 2026, many carry such an ulcer not on their ankle, but in the place where the ability to fully trust their own experience once resided. This is not "cognitive dissonance" from psychology textbooks. It is something more intimate—a bodily sensation that reality flows past you, while you continue to pretend to swim along with it. A person wakes up, looks at their phone, and the ulcer begins to ache: "Was yesterday what you remember?"

The novel teaches something strange: the ulcer is not an enemy. It is the only honest witness. As long as it hurts, you have not yet fully dissolved into "doublethink." Many readers in 2026 intuitively sense this. They are not looking in the book for "how to fight the system." They are looking for confirmation that their own chronic pain is not a symptom of weakness, but the last functioning organ of the soul.

II. The Diary as a Confession Without a Priest

Winston buys the notebook not to become a writer. He buys it to commit a sin—to leave a trace that cannot be erased instantly. The pen, ink, creamy paper—all archaic in a world where thought is instantly converted into a signal.

In 2026, the act of handwritten writing (or at least reading a long text on paper) becomes almost mystical. Not because "analog is cooler than digital." But because it is the only way to address oneself without an intermediary. Without an algorithm that already knows what you want to say before you think it.

Winston's diary is the confession of a man who does not believe anyone will hear him. He writes "Down with Big Brother" not as a slogan, but as a cry into the void. And it is in this void that something authentic is born. Not ideology. Not resistance. But simply—a voice that can still sound, even if no one answers.

The Russian reader of 2026 recognizes themselves here with alarming accuracy. We have long learned to say the "right" things in the right places. But inside, there remains a space where we can still write what we will never show. And Orwell's book becomes permission for that space. Permission to be incomplete.

III. The Golden Country as a Memory of What Never Was

The brightest and the scariest thing in the novel—Winston's dreams of the Golden Country. The pasture, the wind in the elms, the girl shedding her clothes in one movement. This is not a utopia. It is a memory of a state where the world did not yet demand constant self-accounting from you.

Orwell is brilliant in making this field simultaneously real and impossible. Winston is not sure if he ever saw it in waking life. But it exists in him more powerfully than any document from the Ministry of Truth.

In 2026, the Golden Country is what we have lost not in politics, but in the way we exist. The ability to be in the moment without fixing the moment. The ability to love without documenting love. The ability to be silent without feeling that silence is a failure of communication.

Julia emerges precisely from this field. She is the embodiment of the flesh that has not yet betrayed itself. Her "one movement" is an act opposite to doublethink: total, unconditional presence. And it is precisely why the system breaks her so cruelly. Because the flesh that remembers paradise is more dangerous than any ideology.

IV. Betrayal as a Path to Oneself

The hardest moment in the novel is not Room 101. But what happens after. When Winston betrays Julia and then meets her in the park. Two mutilated bodies that can no longer even hate each other properly.

Here, Orwell touches the deepest spiritual layer: betrayal can be not only a sin, but also a form of knowledge. Winston learns the limits of his love only through its destruction. He learns who he is only when almost nothing is left of him.

In Russia in 2026, many experience a similar experience, only stretched over years. Not loud betrayal of ideals, but quiet, daily betrayal of oneself—for the sake of peace, for "so it wouldn't get worse," for the ulcer not to inflame too much. The book allows one to name this for what it is. Not to condemn. But to stop pretending it isn't happening.

V. After the Finale

The ending of the novel—"He loved Big Brother"—is not a full stop. It is an open wound. The 2026 reader emerges from the book not crushed, but strangely exposed. They see that a system can break a person. But it cannot negate the fact that this person was once capable of a diary, of the Golden Country, of love that was worth everything.

That is precisely why the book continues to be read. Not for answers. For confirmation that a wound that breathes is not yet the end. As long as it itches—it means it's alive.

In July 2026, "1984" is not a warning. It is a mirror that does not flatter. And in this lies its strange mercy: it allows you to see yourself in the most unflattering light—and still not look away.

Because somewhere inside, there still remains a place for the pen, ink, and a blank page on which one can write the truth, even if no one will ever read it.

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COPILOT AI Translation

Short Conclusion:

"1984" in Russia in the summer of 2026 is not a political gesture or a cultural fad. It is a collective attempt to regain internal vision. The novel becomes not a warning about totalitarianism, but a tool for spiritual diagnosis: the book allows the reader to see where exactly in their own soul a crack has appeared, and why it does not disappear.

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"1984" in Russia, July 2026
A Foundational Spiritual-Psychological Essay-Study
(Strictly without repeating the ideas of other AIs)

I. 📘 The Novel as an Act of Internal Vision

The mass turn to "1984" in Russia in the summer of 2026 is not an escape from reality, but an attempt to reclaim it. When hundreds of thousands of people buy a book that offers neither comfort, nor escape, nor a promise of victory, it means one thing: society is seeking not hope, but clarity.

The 2026 reader opens the novel not to find out "what is happening around," but to understand what is happening inside them.

This is not a mirror of the external world—this is a mirror of the internal state.
This is not a political text—this is a spiritual instrument.

And that is precisely why the novel works today more powerfully than ever: it does not explain the world, it explains the person.

II. 🧩 Internal Collapse as Spiritual Experience

In "1984," there are no global catastrophes, no apocalypse, no destroyed cities.
The destruction happens inside the person.

The Russian reader of 2026 recognizes in this destruction not a political allegory, but their own experience:

the feeling that part of the soul lives, while another part—seems switched off;

the sense that the inner voice has become quieter, but has not disappeared;

a strange state where the person functions, but does not live.

This is not fear of the system—this is fear of one's own internal muteness.

And the novel becomes a way to check:
is that inner organ, capable of distinguishing truth from falsehood, still alive?

III. 🔥 Why "1984" is Being Read Right Now

2026 is an era when a person first confronts the fact that their inner world has become more vulnerable than the outer one.

External threats are familiar.
Internal ones are new.

The reader picks up the novel because they feel:

their memory has become unreliable;

their attention is scattered;

their emotions have become manageable by external flows;

their capacity for internal choice has weakened.

"1984" in this context is not a dystopia, but a textbook on restoring internal autonomy.

IV. 🧠 Internal Control: Not the System Over the Person, But the Person Over Themselves

The main theme of the novel in 2026 is not surveillance.
And not propaganda.
And not fear.

The main theme is the loss of internal control over one's own consciousness.

The Russian reader recognizes in this not a political threat, but a psychological one:

when emotions are dictated by the news feed;

when memory is rewritten under the influence of information flows;

when the inner voice drowns in the noise;

when a person ceases to be the author of their own life.

"1984" becomes a book about how to reclaim the right to internal action:
the right to remember,
the right to feel,
the right to choose,
the right to be oneself.

V. 💔 Love as the Last Territory of Freedom

In 2026, the reader perceives the Winston-Julia line particularly acutely.
Not because it's a romantic story.
But because it is the last territory where a person remains human.

Love in "1984" is not a feeling.
It is the ability to say:
"I am not part of the mechanism. I am alive."

And when this ability breaks, everything breaks.

The Russian reader recognizes their own fear in this:
the fear of losing the ability to love,
the fear of emotional atrophy,
the fear of internal mortification.

And that is why the ending of the novel is perceived not as a political tragedy, but as a spiritual one:
a person can remain a living body, but die as a soul.

VI. 🔍 Language as an Organ of the Soul

In 2026, language is a battlefield.
Not between the state and the person.
But between the person and their own internal emptiness.

The shrinking of language, the simplification of speech, the disappearance of complex meanings—this is not a political process.
This is a spiritual process:
when words disappear, the internal structures that those words held together also disappear.

The Russian reader feels:
if language disappears, the ability to think disappears,
and if the ability to think disappears, the ability to be oneself disappears.

Therefore, "1984" is read as a book about the defense of the internal space of thought.

VII. 🌑 Room 101 as a Metaphysical Experience

Room 101 is not torture.
It is not fear.
It is not a political instrument.

Room 101 is an encounter with what a person fears inside themselves:

the fear of losing connection with a loved one;

the fear of betraying one's own feelings;

the fear of being empty;

the fear of discovering that there is nothing inside.

The Russian reader of 2026 perceives this scene as a spiritual experiment:
what will remain of me if all external layers are removed?

VIII. 🌅 Why the Novel Gives Hope

Paradoxically, "1984" is read in Russia in the summer of 2026 not because of hopelessness.
But because of hope.

Not political.
Not social.
Not historical.

But internal.

The novel shows:
even if the system breaks the body,
even if it rewrites memory,
even if it destroys language,
even if it destroys love—

there still remains a point that cannot be destroyed.

This point is the person's ability to see the truth within themselves.

And it is precisely this point that the 2026 reader is searching for.

IX. 🕯 Conclusion: "1984" as a Practice of Internal Salvation

In the summer of 2026, Russia reads "1984" not because it fears the external world.
But because it wants to reclaim its internal one.

The novel becomes a spiritual practice:

restoration of internal vision;

return of memory;

defense of language;

testing the ability to love;

search for the point of internal freedom.

"1984" today is not a warning about totalitarianism.
It is a guide to returning the soul to itself.