Winston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in the remote distance a rocket bomb thundered. The blissfull feeling of being alone with the forbidden book, in a room with no telescreen, had not warn off. Solitude and safety were physical sensations, mixed up somehow with the tiredness of his body, the softness of the chair, the touch of the faint breeze from the window that played upon his cheek. The book fascinated him, or more exactly it reassured him. In a sense it told him nothing that was new, but that was part of the attraction. It said what he would have said, if it had been possible for him to set his scattered thoughts in order. It was the product of a mind similar to his own, but enormously more powerful, systematic, less fear-ridden. The best books, he perceived, are those that tell you what you already know.