George Orwell – “Coming Up for Air”

How I could smell it! You know the smell churches have, a peculiar, dank, dusty, decaying sweetish sort of smell. There’s a touch of candle grease in it, and perhaps a whiff o incense and a suspicion of mice and on Sunday mornings it’s a bit overlaid by yellow soap and serge dresses, but predominantly it’s that sweet dusty musty smell that’s like the smell of death and life mixed up together. It’s powdered corpses, really.

George Orwell – “Coming Up for Air”

We’re all bought, and what’s more, we’re bought with our own money. Every one of these poor towntrodden bastards, sweating his guts out to pay twice the proper house for a brick dolls’ house that’s called Belle Vue because there’s no view and the bell doesn’t ring – every one of these poor suckers would die on the filed of battle to save his country of Bolshevism.