疫情文学版《1984》
It was a bright cold day in March, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his mask in an effort to escape the vile covid testing, slipped quickly through the steel barricades of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of cotton buds from entering along with him.
His pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals--
ONLY BANDITS WEAR MASKS
ONLY BANDITS WEAR MASKS
ONLY BANDITS WEAR MASKS
ONLY BANDITS WEAR MASKS
ONLY BANDITS WEAR MASKS
over and over again, filling half a page.
He could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was absurd, since the writing of those particular words was not more dangerous than his health code turned yellow or red, but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether.
He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless. Whether he wrote ONLY BANDITS WEAR MASKS, or whether he refrained from covid tests, made no difference. Whether he went on with the quarantine, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Covid Police would get him just the same. He had committed--would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper--the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Uncovid, they called it. Uncovid was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you.
