The teenage optimism of those of my generation was tempered by an angst engendered by the names of four dead men. The prophesies of Nostradamus and St Malachi would have the world in chaos before we had time to taste even the most innocent of its cornucopia of pleasures.
Malachi, as I recall, had guaranteed its end in 1960, and with the other guy it could happen any moment, since his forecasts carried hedging to extremes; at best, Armageddon was but a Pope or two away.
Huxley, on the other hand, had us all automatons in Brave New World, and Orwell's recipe for Nineteen Eighty-Four made us wonder if survival until then was worth the effort.
Orwell's totalitarian nightmare of the future was published 50 years ago today, on June 8th, 1949.
The novel had an extraordinary impact, and many of its images and metaphors, including even its title, became the icons of a generation.
Even as adults, none of us, I think, felt entirely at our ease as 1984 approached, and even after it had passed, we feared that Orwell might just have been a little early.
The bleak, debilitating atmosphere so skillfully conveyed in Nineteen Eighty-Four is conjured up not least by meteorology.
Indeed the opening passage is a case in point: "It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him."
Later, on an equally miserable day, we find: "There were puddles of filthy water here and there among the cobbles. In and out of the dark doorways, and down narrow alleyways that branched off on either side, people swarmed in astonishing numbers."
And even when the weather is relatively pleasant, far from being enjoyed for its own sake it merely serves to highlight for the protagonists the dismal nature of the rest of their surroundings: "The sweetness of the air and the greenness of the leaves daunted him. Already on the way from the station, the May sunshine had made him feel dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors with the sooty dust of London in the pores of his skin."