Then, he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold – and stopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it – and then went on to think again. Thus, even while he trembled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting the iron spikes before him, and wondering how the head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as it was.

Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one oppressive overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet it was ever present to him, but in a vague and general way, and he could not fix his thoughts upon it. It’s also reminiscent, perhaps, of the moment when Fagin, in Oliver Twist, is awaiting the judge’s sentencing which will lead to his hanging: That repeated ‘perhaps’ is reminiscent of someone trying to keep their mind occupied while they wait for the horrible moment to arrive. The superintendent, his head on his chest, was slowly poking the ground with his stick perhaps he was counting the cries, allowing the prisoner a fixed number – fifty, perhaps, or a hundred. The steady, muffled crying from the prisoner went on and on, ‘Ram! Ram! Ram!’ never faltering for an instant.

The hangman climbed down and stood ready, holding the lever.

Essays by george orwell