>>> In place of anything like a novel proper, we get a would-be bildungsroman breaking through to the surface in disparate fragments. These scraps are Winston’s yearnings, memories, sensual instincts, which have, as yet, somehow gone unmurdered by the regime. The entire state-sponsored enterprise of Pavlovian sadism in Oceania is devoted to snuffing out this remnant interiority.

The details of Orwell's life were interesting, but the above-quoted paragraph lands as highbrow prose that doesn't say much. I had to look up bildungsroman "A novel whose principal subject is the moral, psychological, and intellectual development of a usually youthful main character". Oh my. It was/is a proper novel. I disagree that it should be characterized as bildungsroman, with all the caveats and flourishes. In fact, it's more about the protagonist's discovery of the truly moral depravity of the culture he lives in. The creative element of the ugliness of the culture is made even more compelling for me by the fact that the storyline avoids the conventional "Shape of Stories" patterns described by Kurt Vonnegut. It ends with the protagonist having all creative life and individuality crushed out of him. Not an easy end to encompass. No happy ending here.