diff --git a/apps/index.html b/apps/index.html index 687e5f5..2680530 100644 --- a/apps/index.html +++ b/apps/index.html @@ -3,68 +3,8 @@ MilkNet | Apps - - - - + + @@ -74,6 +14,11 @@

Apps | More soon...

Proxy • Chat (Matrix hosted by whatware.net) • Chat (IRC hosted by telepath.im) • Gamja (Alt client for IRC) • Calculator • Library (WIP) • Music player (Webamp) + + diff --git a/assets/games/motox3m/4/index.html b/assets/games/motox3m/4/index.html index bf78f0d..db97902 100644 --- a/assets/games/motox3m/4/index.html +++ b/assets/games/motox3m/4/index.html @@ -1,56 +1,16 @@ -￰Moto X3M Winter - - - - - + + + + ￰Moto X3M Winter + + + + + + + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/assets/games/motox3m/5/index.html b/assets/games/motox3m/5/index.html index 95f03e3..3579524 100644 --- a/assets/games/motox3m/5/index.html +++ b/assets/games/motox3m/5/index.html @@ -1,56 +1,16 @@ -￰Moto X3M Winter - - - - - \ No newline at end of file + + + + ￰Moto X3M Pool Party + + + + + + + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/assets/games/ovo/index.html b/assets/games/ovo/index.html index 9192a72..8c014bb 100644 --- a/assets/games/ovo/index.html +++ b/assets/games/ovo/index.html @@ -1,56 +1,16 @@ -￰OvO - - - - - + + + + ￰Moto X3M Pool Party + + + + + + + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/assets/games/papas/burgeria/index.html b/assets/games/papas/burgeria/index.html index 4fccbfa..e04ed2e 100644 --- a/assets/games/papas/burgeria/index.html +++ b/assets/games/papas/burgeria/index.html @@ -5,6 +5,7 @@ crossorigin="anonymous"> Papa's Burgeria + @@ -15,57 +16,6 @@ gtag('config', 'G-M9KJ1XPKLF'); - - - - - + + @@ -73,6 +13,12 @@

Games (press , to escape)

Smash Karts • Stickman Hook • Slope • Slope 2 • A Dance of Fire and Ice • Retro Bowl • Tomb of the Mask • World's Hardest Game • World's Hardest Game 2 • OvO • 2048 • Tunnel Rush • Basket Random • Cluster Rush • BitLife • Cookie Clicker • Death Run 3D • Flappy Bird • Eaglercraft 1.5.2 • Eaglercraft 1.5.2 (Resent) • Eaglercraft 1.5.2 (Precision) • Eaglercraft 1.8 • Eaglercraft 1.12 • Fruit Ninja • Drive Mad • Jetpack Joyride • Tetris • Subway Surfers • Henry Stickmin: Escaping the Prison • Henry Stickmin: Breaking the Bank • Henry Stickmin: Infiltrating the Airship • Henry Stickmin: Fleeing the Complex • Henry Stickmin: Stealing the Diamond • Paper.io 2 • Friday Night Funkin • Baldi's Basics • Monkey Mart • FNAF • FNAF2 • FNAF3 • FNAF4 • Moto X3M • Moto X3M 2 • Moto X3M Pool Party • Moto X3M Winter • Moto X3M Spooky Land • Papa's Pizzeria • Papa's Burgeria • Papa's Pancakeria • Papa's Sushiria • Papa's Freezeria • Papa's Pastaria • BFDIA 5b +
+ + - + \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/index.html b/index.html index f7188ec..34b33b4 100644 --- a/index.html +++ b/index.html @@ -3,58 +3,8 @@ MilkNet - - - + + @@ -66,7 +16,7 @@ Apps • Links • Contact • - Retro Games • + GBA Games • Settings & tools diff --git a/library/1984.txt b/library/1984.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..883f076 --- /dev/null +++ b/library/1984.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10273 @@ +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. + +The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a +coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. +It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a +man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome +features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even +at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric +current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive +in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, +who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went +slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the +lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was +one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about +when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran. + +Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had +something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an +oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface +of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank +somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument +(the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of +shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail +figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls +which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face +naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor +blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended. + +Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in +the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into +spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there +seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered +everywhere. The black-moustachio'd face gazed down from every commanding +corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER +IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into +Winston's own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, +flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the +single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between +the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again +with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people's +windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police +mattered. + +Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away +about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The +telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston +made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, +moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal +plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course +no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How +often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual +wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all +the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted +to. You had to live--did live, from habit that became instinct--in the +assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in +darkness, every movement scrutinized. + +Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer; though, as he +well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of +Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. +This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste--this was London, chief +city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of +Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him +whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these +vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with +baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs +with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? +And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the +willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the +bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies +of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not +remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit +tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible. + +The Ministry of Truth--Minitrue, in Newspeak [Newspeak was the official +language of Oceania. For an account of its structure and etymology see +Appendix.]--was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It +was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring +up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston +stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in +elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party: + + + WAR IS PEACE + FREEDOM IS SLAVERY + IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH + + +The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above +ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London +there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So +completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof +of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They +were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus +of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself +with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of +Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which +maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible +for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, +and Miniplenty. + +The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows +in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor +within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except +on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of +barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even +the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced +guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons. + +Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the +expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing +the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving +the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the +canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except +a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow's +breakfast. He took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid +with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily +smell, as of Chinese rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, +nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine. + +Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The +stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the +sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The +next moment, however, the burning in his belly died down and the world +began to look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled packet +marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously held it upright, whereupon the +tobacco fell out on to the floor. With the next he was more successful. +He went back to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood +to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took out a +penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized blank book with a +red back and a marbled cover. + +For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual +position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where +it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the +window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston +was now sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably been +intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well +back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so +far as sight went. He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed +in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual +geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now +about to do. + +But it had also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out of +the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper, +a little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for +at least forty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was much +older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little +junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town (just what quarter he did not +now remember) and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire +to possess it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops +('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the rule was not +strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and +razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. He +had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside +and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious +of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home +in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising +possession. + +The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal +(nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected +it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least +by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into +the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic +instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one, +furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the +beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead +of being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to writing +by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything +into the speak-write which was of course impossible for his present +purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a +second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the +decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote: + + + April 4th, 1984. + + +He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To +begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It +must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was +thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but +it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two. + +For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? +For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the +doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the +Newspeak word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of what he had +undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It +was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, +in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, +and his predicament would be meaningless. + +For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had +changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed +not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have +forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks +past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed +his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing +would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable +restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for +years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. Moreover +his varicose ulcer had begun itching unbearably. He dared not scratch it, +because if he did so it always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking +by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front +of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, +and a slight booziness caused by the gin. + +Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what +he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and +down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its +full stops: + + + April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very good +one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. +Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away +with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the +water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters gunsights, +then he was full of holes and the sea round him turned pink and he sank as +suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with +laughter when he sank. then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a +helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman might have been +a jewess sitting up in the bow with a little boy about three years old in +her arms. little boy screaming with fright and hiding his head between her +breasts as if he was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting +her arms round him and comforting him although she was blue with fright +herself, all the time covering him up as much as possible as if she thought +her arms could keep the bullets off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 +kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood. +then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up +into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it +up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in +the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting +they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint +right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her +out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles +say typical prole reaction they never---- + + +Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp. He did +not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish. But the curious +thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had +clarified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt equal to +writing it down. It was, he now realized, because of this other incident +that he had suddenly decided to come home and begin the diary today. + +It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous could +be said to happen. + +It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston +worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them +in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for +the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place in one of the +middle rows when two people whom he knew by sight, but had never spoken +to, came unexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he often +passed in the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that she +worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably--since he had sometimes seen +her with oily hands and carrying a spanner--she had some mechanical job +on one of the novel-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of +about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic +movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was +wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to +bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the +very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the +atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general +clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked +nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always +the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted +adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and +nosers-out of unorthodoxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression +of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor +she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into +him and for a moment had filled him with black terror. The idea had even +crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, +it was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a peculiar +uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever +she was anywhere near him. + +The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party and +holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim +idea of its nature. A momentary hush passed over the group of people +round the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member +approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, +humorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a +certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on +his nose which was curiously disarming--in some indefinable way, curiously +civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such +terms, might have recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his +snuffbox. Winston had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many +years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued +by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane manner and his prize-fighter's +physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief--or perhaps +not even a belief, merely a hope--that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was +not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly. And again, +perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was written in his face, but +simply intelligence. But at any rate he had the appearance of being a +person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and +get him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this +guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At this moment O'Brien glanced +at his wrist-watch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently +decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was +over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple of places away. +A small, sandy-haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was +between them. The girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind. + +The next moment a hideous, grinding screech, as of some monstrous machine +running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. +It was a noise that set one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the +back of one's neck. The Hate had started. + +As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had +flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the +audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and +disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago +(how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading +figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and +then had engaged in counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned +to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes +of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in +which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He was the primal traitor, +the earliest defiler of the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against +the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, +sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still +alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, +under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even--so it was +occasionally rumoured--in some hiding-place in Oceania itself. + +Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never see the face of +Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, +with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard--a +clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile +silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles +was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a +sheep-like quality. Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack +upon the doctrines of the Party--an attack so exaggerated and perverse that +a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible +enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less +level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big +Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding +the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom +of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, +he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed--and all +this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the +habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak +words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally +use in real life. And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to +the reality which Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on +the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army--row +after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam +up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others +exactly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots formed the +background to Goldstein's bleating voice. + +Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable +exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room. +The self-satisfied sheep-like face on the screen, and the terrifying power +of the Eurasian army behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, +the sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger +automatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia +or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was +generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although +Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a +thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, +in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the +general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were--in spite of all this, +his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes +waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and saboteurs +acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police. +He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of +conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its +name was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a terrible +book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author +and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a +title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as THE BOOK. But one knew +of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood nor +THE BOOK was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if +there was a way of avoiding it. + +In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up and +down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort +to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The little +sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and +shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O'Brien's heavy face was flushed. +He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and +quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a wave. The +dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out 'Swine! Swine! Swine!' +and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the +screen. It struck Goldstein's nose and bounced off; the voice continued +inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he was shouting with the +others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair. The +horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to +act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining +in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous +ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash +faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of +people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into +a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an +abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to +another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston's hatred +was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against +Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his +heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian +of truth and sanity in a world of lies. And yet the very next instant he +was at one with the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein +seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing of Big +Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an +invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes +of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and +the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister +enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure +of civilization. + +It was even possible, at moments, to switch one's hatred this way or that +by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one +wrenches one's head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded +in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired +girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. +He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked +to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would +ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, +moreover, he realized WHY it was that he hated her. He hated her because +she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with +her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which +seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious +scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity. + +The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had become an actual +sheep's bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep. +Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed +to be advancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and +seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the +people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats. But +in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the +hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, +black-moustachio'd, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that +it almost filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying. +It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are +uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but +restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken. Then the face of Big +Brother faded away again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood +out in bold capitals: + + + WAR IS PEACE + FREEDOM IS SLAVERY + IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH + + +But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for several seconds on the +screen, as though the impact that it had made on everyone's eyeballs was +too vivid to wear off immediately. The little sandy-haired woman had flung +herself forward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a +tremulous murmur that sounded like 'My Saviour!' she extended her arms +towards the screen. Then she buried her face in her hands. It was apparent +that she was uttering a prayer. + +At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, +rhythmical chant of 'B-B!...B-B!'--over and over again, very slowly, with a +long pause between the first 'B' and the second--a heavy, murmurous sound, +somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the +stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms. For perhaps as much as +thirty seconds they kept it up. It was a refrain that was often heard in +moments of overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom +and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, +a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. +Winston's entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could +not help sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chanting of +'B-B!...B-B!' always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with the +rest: it was impossible to do otherwise. To dissemble your feelings, to +control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive +reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the +expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him. And it was +exactly at this moment that the significant thing happened--if, indeed, +it did happen. + +Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye. O'Brien had stood up. He had taken +off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose with +his characteristic gesture. But there was a fraction of a second when +their eyes met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew--yes, he +KNEW!--that O'Brien was thinking the same thing as himself. An unmistakable +message had passed. It was as though their two minds had opened and the +thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their eyes. 'I am +with you,' O'Brien seemed to be saying to him. 'I know precisely what you +are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. +But don't worry, I am on your side!' And then the flash of intelligence +was gone, and O'Brien's face was as inscrutable as everybody else's. + +That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened. Such +incidents never had any sequel. All that they did was to keep alive in him +the belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of the +Party. Perhaps the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true after +all--perhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was impossible, in spite +of the endless arrests and confessions and executions, to be sure that the +Brotherhood was not simply a myth. Some days he believed in it, some days +not. There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything +or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory +walls--once, even, when two strangers met, a small movement of the hand +which had looked as though it might be a signal of recognition. It was all +guesswork: very likely he had imagined everything. He had gone back to his +cubicle without looking at O'Brien again. The idea of following up their +momentary contact hardly crossed his mind. It would have been inconceivably +dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it. For a second, two +seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of +the story. But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in +which one had to live. + +Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a belch. The gin +was rising from his stomach. + +His eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that while he sat helplessly +musing he had also been writing, as though by automatic action. And it was +no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid +voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals-- + + + DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER + DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER + DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER + DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER + DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER + + +over and over again, filling half a page. + +He could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was absurd, since the +writing of those particular words was not more dangerous than the initial +act of opening the diary, but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the +spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether. + +He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless. Whether he +wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made +no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did not go +on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the +same. He had committed--would still have committed, even if he had never +set pen to paper--the essential crime that contained all others in itself. +Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be +concealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for +years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you. + +It was always at night--the arrests invariably happened at night. The +sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shaking your shoulder, the lights +glaring in your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed. In the vast +majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest. People +simply disappeared, always during the night. Your name was removed from the +registers, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your +one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished, +annihilated: VAPORIZED was the usual word. + +For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He began writing in a +hurried untidy scrawl: + + + theyll shoot me i don't care theyll shoot me in the back of the neck i +dont care down with big brother they always shoot you in the back of the +neck i dont care down with big brother---- + + +He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down +the pen. The next moment he started violently. There was a knocking at +the door. + +Already! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that whoever it was +might go away after a single attempt. But no, the knocking was repeated. +The worst thing of all would be to delay. His heart was thumping like a +drum, but his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless. He got +up and moved heavily towards the door. + + + + +Chapter 2 + + + +As he put his hand to the door-knob Winston saw that he had left the +diary open on the table. DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was written all over it, +in letters almost big enough to be legible across the room. It was an +inconceivably stupid thing to have done. But, he realized, even in his +panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by shutting the book +while the ink was wet. + +He drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly a warm wave of relief +flowed through him. A colourless, crushed-looking woman, with wispy hair +and a lined face, was standing outside. + +'Oh, comrade,' she began in a dreary, whining sort of voice, 'I thought I +heard you come in. Do you think you could come across and have a look at +our kitchen sink? It's got blocked up and----' + +It was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same floor. ('Mrs' was +a word somewhat discountenanced by the Party--you were supposed to call +everyone 'comrade'--but with some women one used it instinctively.) She was +a woman of about thirty, but looking much older. One had the impression +that there was dust in the creases of her face. Winston followed her down +the passage. These amateur repair jobs were an almost daily irritation. +Victory Mansions were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were +falling to pieces. The plaster flaked constantly from ceilings and walls, +the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked whenever there was +snow, the heating system was usually running at half steam when it was not +closed down altogether from motives of economy. Repairs, except what you +could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by remote committees which +were liable to hold up even the mending of a window-pane for two years. + +'Of course it's only because Tom isn't home,' said Mrs Parsons vaguely. + +The Parsons' flat was bigger than Winston's, and dingy in a different +way. Everything had a battered, trampled-on look, as though the +place had just been visited by some large violent animal. Games +impedimenta--hockey-sticks, boxing-gloves, a burst football, a pair of +sweaty shorts turned inside out--lay all over the floor, and on the +table there was a litter of dirty dishes and dog-eared exercise-books. +On the walls were scarlet banners of the Youth League and the Spies, and +a full-sized poster of Big Brother. There was the usual boiled-cabbage +smell, common to the whole building, but it was shot through by a sharper +reek of sweat, which--one knew this at the first sniff, though it was +hard to say how--was the sweat of some person not present at the moment. +In another room someone with a comb and a piece of toilet paper was +trying to keep tune with the military music which was still issuing +from the telescreen. + +'It's the children,' said Mrs Parsons, casting a half-apprehensive glance +at the door. 'They haven't been out today. And of course----' + +She had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the middle. The kitchen +sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy greenish water which smelt +worse than ever of cabbage. Winston knelt down and examined the angle-joint +of the pipe. He hated using his hands, and he hated bending down, which was +always liable to start him coughing. Mrs Parsons looked on helplessly. + +'Of course if Tom was home he'd put it right in a moment,' she said. +'He loves anything like that. He's ever so good with his hands, Tom is.' + +Parsons was Winston's fellow-employee at the Ministry of Truth. He was +a fattish but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile +enthusiasms--one of those completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on +whom, more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party +depended. At thirty-five he had just been unwillingly evicted from the +Youth League, and before graduating into the Youth League he had managed to +stay on in the Spies for a year beyond the statutory age. At the Ministry +he was employed in some subordinate post for which intelligence was not +required, but on the other hand he was a leading figure on the Sports +Committee and all the other committees engaged in organizing community +hikes, spontaneous demonstrations, savings campaigns, and voluntary +activities generally. He would inform you with quiet pride, between whiffs +of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance at the Community Centre every +evening for the past four years. An overpowering smell of sweat, a sort of +unconscious testimony to the strenuousness of his life, followed him about +wherever he went, and even remained behind him after he had gone. + +'Have you got a spanner?' said Winston, fiddling with the nut on the +angle-joint. + +'A spanner,' said Mrs Parsons, immediately becoming invertebrate. 'I don't +know, I'm sure. Perhaps the children----' + +There was a trampling of boots and another blast on the comb as the +children charged into the living-room. Mrs Parsons brought the spanner. +Winston let out the water and disgustedly removed the clot of human hair +that had blocked up the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could in +the cold water from the tap and went back into the other room. + +'Up with your hands!' yelled a savage voice. + +A handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the table +and was menacing him with a toy automatic pistol, while his small sister, +about two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood. +Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirts, and red +neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies. Winston raised his hands +above his head, but with an uneasy feeling, so vicious was the boy's +demeanour, that it was not altogether a game. + +'You're a traitor!' yelled the boy. 'You're a thought-criminal! You're a +Eurasian spy! I'll shoot you, I'll vaporize you, I'll send you to the salt +mines!' + +Suddenly they were both leaping round him, shouting 'Traitor!' and +'Thought-criminal!' the little girl imitating her brother in every +movement. It was somehow slightly frightening, like the gambolling of +tiger cubs which will soon grow up into man-eaters. There was a sort of +calculating ferocity in the boy's eye, a quite evident desire to hit or +kick Winston and a consciousness of being very nearly big enough to do so. +It was a good job it was not a real pistol he was holding, Winston thought. + +Mrs Parsons' eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the children, and back +again. In the better light of the living-room he noticed with interest +that there actually was dust in the creases of her face. + +'They do get so noisy,' she said. 'They're disappointed because they +couldn't go to see the hanging, that's what it is. I'm too busy to take +them. and Tom won't be back from work in time.' + +'Why can't we go and see the hanging?' roared the boy in his huge voice. + +'Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!' chanted the little +girl, still capering round. + +Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to be hanged in the +Park that evening, Winston remembered. This happened about once a month, +and was a popular spectacle. Children always clamoured to be taken to see +it. He took his leave of Mrs Parsons and made for the door. But he had not +gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his neck an +agonizingly painful blow. It was as though a red-hot wire had been jabbed +into him. He spun round just in time to see Mrs Parsons dragging her son +back into the doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult. + +'Goldstein!' bellowed the boy as the door closed on him. But what most +struck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the woman's greyish face. + +Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen and sat down at the +table again, still rubbing his neck. The music from the telescreen had +stopped. Instead, a clipped military voice was reading out, with a sort of +brutal relish, a description of the armaments of the new Floating Fortress +which had just been anchored between Iceland and the Faroe Islands. + +With those children, he thought, that wretched woman must lead a life of +terror. Another year, two years, and they would be watching her night +and day for symptoms of unorthodoxy. Nearly all children nowadays were +horrible. What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as +the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages, +and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the +discipline of the Party. On the contrary, they adored the Party and +everything connected with it. The songs, the processions, the banners, the +hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship +of Big Brother--it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their +ferocity was turned outwards, against the enemies of the State, against +foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought-criminals. It was almost normal +for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children. And with +good reason, for hardly a week passed in which 'The Times' did not carry +a paragraph describing how some eavesdropping little sneak--'child hero' +was the phrase generally used--had overheard some compromising remark +and denounced its parents to the Thought Police. + +The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked up his pen +half-heartedly, wondering whether he could find something more to write +in the diary. Suddenly he began thinking of O'Brien again. + +Years ago--how long was it? Seven years it must be--he had dreamed that he +was walking through a pitch-dark room. And someone sitting to one side of +him had said as he passed: 'We shall meet in the place where there is no +darkness.' It was said very quietly, almost casually--a statement, not a +command. He had walked on without pausing. What was curious was that at the +time, in the dream, the words had not made much impression on him. It was +only later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on significance. He +could not now remember whether it was before or after having the dream that +he had seen O'Brien for the first time, nor could he remember when he had +first identified the voice as O'Brien's. But at any rate the identification +existed. It was O'Brien who had spoken to him out of the dark. + +Winston had never been able to feel sure--even after this morning's flash +of the eyes it was still impossible to be sure whether O'Brien was a friend +or an enemy. Nor did it even seem to matter greatly. There was a link of +understanding between them, more important than affection or partisanship. +'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' he had said. +Winston did not know what it meant, only that in some way or another it +would come true. + +The voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call, clear and beautiful, +floated into the stagnant air. The voice continued raspingly: + +'Attention! Your attention, please! A newsflash has this moment arrived +from the Malabar front. Our forces in South India have won a glorious +victory. I am authorized to say that the action we are now reporting may +well bring the war within measurable distance of its end. Here is the +newsflash----' + +Bad news coming, thought Winston. And sure enough, following on a gory +description of the annihilation of a Eurasian army, with stupendous figures +of killed and prisoners, came the announcement that, as from next week, +the chocolate ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty. + +Winston belched again. The gin was wearing off, leaving a deflated feeling. +The telescreen--perhaps to celebrate the victory, perhaps to drown the +memory of the lost chocolate--crashed into 'Oceania, 'tis for thee'. You +were supposed to stand to attention. However, in his present position he +was invisible. + +'Oceania, 'tis for thee' gave way to lighter music. Winston walked over to +the window, keeping his back to the telescreen. The day was still cold and +clear. Somewhere far away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull, reverberating +roar. About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London at +present. + +Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and fro, and the +word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished. Ingsoc. The sacred principles +of Ingsoc. Newspeak, doublethink, the mutability of the past. He felt as +though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a +monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past +was dead, the future was unimaginable. What certainty had he that a single +human creature now living was on his side? And what way of knowing that the +dominion of the Party would not endure FOR EVER? Like an answer, the three +slogans on the white face of the Ministry of Truth came back to him: + + + WAR IS PEACE + FREEDOM IS SLAVERY + IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH + + +He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There, too, in tiny +clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other face of +the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes pursued you. +On coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and on +the wrappings of a cigarette packet--everywhere. Always the eyes watching +you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake, working or eating, +indoors or out of doors, in the bath or in bed--no escape. Nothing was your +own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull. + +The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of the Ministry of Truth, +with the light no longer shining on them, looked grim as the loopholes of a +fortress. His heart quailed before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too +strong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs would not batter +it down. He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary. For the +future, for the past--for an age that might be imaginary. And in front of +him there lay not death but annihilation. The diary would be reduced to +ashes and himself to vapour. Only the Thought Police would read what he had +written, before they wiped it out of existence and out of memory. How could +you make appeal to the future when not a trace of you, not even an +anonymous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically survive? + +The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten minutes. He had to be +back at work by fourteen-thirty. + +Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into him. +He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear. But so +long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken. +It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on +the human heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote: + + + To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men +are different from one another and do not live alone--to a time when truth +exists and what is done cannot be undone: + From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of +Big Brother, from the age of doublethink--greetings! + + +He was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that it was only now, +when he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had taken +the decisive step. The consequences of every act are included in the act +itself. He wrote: + + + Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death. + + +Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay +alive as long as possible. Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained. +It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you. Some nosing zealot +in the Ministry (a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired +woman or the dark-haired girl from the Fiction Department) might start +wondering why he had been writing during the lunch interval, why he had +used an old-fashioned pen, WHAT he had been writing--and then drop a hint +in the appropriate quarter. He went to the bathroom and carefully scrubbed +the ink away with the gritty dark-brown soap which rasped your skin like +sandpaper and was therefore well adapted for this purpose. + +He put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless to think of +hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had +been discovered. A hair laid across the page-ends was too obvious. With the +tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and +deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken +off if the book was moved. + + + + +Chapter 3 + + + +Winston was dreaming of his mother. + +He must, he thought, have been ten or eleven years old when his mother had +disappeared. She was a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow +movements and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered more vaguely +as dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark clothes (Winston remembered +especially the very thin soles of his father's shoes) and wearing +spectacles. The two of them must evidently have been swallowed up in one +of the first great purges of the fifties. + +At this moment his mother was sitting in some place deep down beneath him, +with his young sister in her arms. He did not remember his sister at all, +except as a tiny, feeble baby, always silent, with large, watchful eyes. +Both of them were looking up at him. They were down in some subterranean +place--the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very deep grave--but it +was a place which, already far below him, was itself moving downwards. +They were in the saloon of a sinking ship, looking up at him through the +darkening water. There was still air in the saloon, they could still see +him and he them, but all the while they were sinking down, down into the +green waters which in another moment must hide them from sight for ever. +He was out in the light and air while they were being sucked down to death, +and they were down there because he was up here. He knew it and they knew +it, and he could see the knowledge in their faces. There was no reproach +either in their faces or in their hearts, only the knowledge that they +must die in order that he might remain alive, and that this was part of +the unavoidable order of things. + +He could not remember what had happened, but he knew in his dream that in +some way the lives of his mother and his sister had been sacrificed to his +own. It was one of those dreams which, while retaining the characteristic +dream scenery, are a continuation of one's intellectual life, and in which +one becomes aware of facts and ideas which still seem new and valuable +after one is awake. The thing that now suddenly struck Winston was that his +mother's death, nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in +a way that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he perceived, belonged to the +ancient time, to a time when there was still privacy, love, and friendship, +and when the members of a family stood by one another without needing to +know the reason. His mother's memory tore at his heart because she had died +loving him, when he was too young and selfish to love her in return, and +because somehow, he did not remember how, she had sacrificed herself to a +conception of loyalty that was private and unalterable. Such things, he +saw, could not happen today. Today there were fear, hatred, and pain, but +no dignity of emotion, no deep or complex sorrows. All this he seemed to +see in the large eyes of his mother and his sister, looking up at him +through the green water, hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking. + +Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a summer evening when +the slanting rays of the sun gilded the ground. The landscape that he was +looking at recurred so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain +whether or not he had seen it in the real world. In his waking thoughts he +called it the Golden Country. It was an old, rabbit-bitten pasture, with a +foot-track wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged +hedge on the opposite side of the field the boughs of the elm trees were +swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring in dense +masses like women's hair. Somewhere near at hand, though out of sight, +there was a clear, slow-moving stream where dace were swimming in the +pools under the willow trees. + +The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across the field. With +what seemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them +disdainfully aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire +in him, indeed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant +was admiration for the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside. +With its grace and carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, +a whole system of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the +Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a single splendid +movement of the arm. That too was a gesture belonging to the ancient time. +Winston woke up with the word 'Shakespeare' on his lips. + +The telescreen was giving forth an ear-splitting whistle which continued on +the same note for thirty seconds. It was nought seven fifteen, getting-up +time for office workers. Winston wrenched his body out of bed--naked, for +a member of the Outer Party received only 3,000 clothing coupons annually, +and a suit of pyjamas was 600--and seized a dingy singlet and a pair of +shorts that were lying across a chair. The Physical Jerks would begin in +three minutes. The next moment he was doubled up by a violent coughing fit +which nearly always attacked him soon after waking up. It emptied his lungs +so completely that he could only begin breathing again by lying on his back +and taking a series of deep gasps. His veins had swelled with the effort of +the cough, and the varicose ulcer had started itching. + +'Thirty to forty group!' yapped a piercing female voice. 'Thirty to forty +group! Take your places, please. Thirties to forties!' + +Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the +image of a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and +gym-shoes, had already appeared. + +'Arms bending and stretching!' she rapped out. 'Take your time by me. ONE, +two, three, four! ONE, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of +life into it! ONE, two, three four! ONE two, three, four!...' + +The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of Winston's mind the +impression made by his dream, and the rhythmic movements of the exercise +restored it somewhat. As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, +wearing on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered proper +during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling to think his way backward into +the dim period of his early childhood. It was extraordinarily difficult. +Beyond the late fifties everything faded. When there were no external +records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life lost +its sharpness. You remembered huge events which had quite probably not +happened, you remembered the detail of incidents without being able to +recapture their atmosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you +could assign nothing. Everything had been different then. Even the names of +countries, and their shapes on the map, had been different. Airstrip One, +for instance, had not been so called in those days: it had been called +England or Britain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had always been +called London. + +Winston could not definitely remember a time when his country had not been +at war, but it was evident that there had been a fairly long interval of +peace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an air +raid which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was the time +when the atomic bomb had fallen on Colchester. He did not remember the raid +itself, but he did remember his father's hand clutching his own as they +hurried down, down, down into some place deep in the earth, round and round +a spiral staircase which rang under his feet and which finally so wearied +his legs that he began whimpering and they had to stop and rest. His +mother, in her slow, dreamy way, was following a long way behind them. She +was carrying his baby sister--or perhaps it was only a bundle of blankets +that she was carrying: he was not certain whether his sister had been born +then. Finally they had emerged into a noisy, crowded place which he had +realized to be a Tube station. + +There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, and other +people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above +the other. Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on +the floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by +side on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap +pushed back from very white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were +blue and full of tears. He reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his +skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling +from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also +suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish +way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond +forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed +to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old man loved--a little +granddaughter, perhaps--had been killed. Every few minutes the old man kept +repeating: + +'We didn't ought to 'ave trusted 'em. I said so, Ma, didn't I? That's what +comes of trusting 'em. I said so all along. We didn't ought to 'ave trusted +the buggers.' + +But which buggers they didn't ought to have trusted Winston could not now +remember. + +Since about that time, war had been literally continuous, though strictly +speaking it had not always been the same war. For several months during his +childhood there had been confused street fighting in London itself, some +of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history of the whole +period, to say who was fighting whom at any given moment, would have been +utterly impossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made +mention of any other alignment than the existing one. At this moment, for +example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at war with Eurasia and +in alliance with Eastasia. In no public or private utterance was it ever +admitted that the three powers had at any time been grouped along different +lines. Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since Oceania +had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with Eurasia. But that was +merely a piece of furtive knowledge which he happened to possess because +his memory was not satisfactorily under control. Officially the change of +partners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia: therefore +Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The enemy of the moment always +represented absolute evil, and it followed that any past or future +agreement with him was impossible. + +The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he +forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were +gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be +good for the back muscles)--the frightening thing was that it might all be +true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and say of this or +that event, IT NEVER HAPPENED--that, surely, was more terrifying than mere +torture and death? + +The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia. He, +Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as short +a time as four years ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his +own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all +others accepted the lie which the Party imposed--if all records told the +same tale--then the lie passed into history and became truth. 'Who controls +the past,' ran the Party slogan, 'controls the future: who controls the +present controls the past.' And yet the past, though of its nature +alterable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was true from +everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed was +an unending series of victories over your own memory. 'Reality control', +they called it: in Newspeak, 'doublethink'. + +'Stand easy!' barked the instructress, a little more genially. + +Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled his lungs with air. +His mind slid away into the labyrinthine world of doublethink. To know +and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling +carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which +cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of +them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim +to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the +guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary to forget, then +to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and +then promptly to forget it again: and above all, to apply the same process +to the process itself. That was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to +induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of +the act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to understand the word +'doublethink' involved the use of doublethink. + +The instructress had called them to attention again. 'And now let's see +which of us can touch our toes!' she said enthusiastically. 'Right over +from the hips, please, comrades. ONE-two! ONE-two!...' + +Winston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains all the way from +his heels to his buttocks and often ended by bringing on another coughing +fit. The half-pleasant quality went out of his meditations. The past, he +reflected, had not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For +how could you establish even the most obvious fact when there existed no +record outside your own memory? He tried to remember in what year he had +first heard mention of Big Brother. He thought it must have been at some +time in the sixties, but it was impossible to be certain. In the Party +histories, of course, Big Brother figured as the leader and guardian of the +Revolution since its very earliest days. His exploits had been gradually +pushed backwards in time until already they extended into the fabulous +world of the forties and the thirties, when the capitalists in their +strange cylindrical hats still rode through the streets of London in great +gleaming motor-cars or horse carriages with glass sides. There was no +knowing how much of this legend was true and how much invented. Winston +could not even remember at what date the Party itself had come into +existence. He did not believe he had ever heard the word Ingsoc before +1960, but it was possible that in its Oldspeak form--'English Socialism', +that is to say--it had been current earlier. Everything melted into mist. +Sometimes, indeed, you could put your finger on a definite lie. It was not +true, for example, as was claimed in the Party history books, that the +Party had invented aeroplanes. He remembered aeroplanes since his earliest +childhood. But you could prove nothing. There was never any evidence. Just +once in his whole life he had held in his hands unmistakable documentary +proof of the falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion---- + +'Smith!' screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W.! +Yes, YOU! Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. You're not +trying. Lower, please! THAT'S better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the +whole squad, and watch me.' + +A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston's body. His face +remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment! +A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while +the instructress raised her arms above her head and--one could not say +gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency--bent over and +tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes. + +'THERE, comrades! THAT'S how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again. +I'm thirty-nine and I've had four children. Now look.' She bent over again. +'You see MY knees aren't bent. You can all do it if you want to,' she added +as she straightened herself up. 'Anyone under forty-five is perfectly +capable of touching his toes. We don't all have the privilege of fighting +in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit. Remember our boys on +the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think +what THEY have to put up with. Now try again. That's better, comrade, +that's MUCH better,' she added encouragingly as Winston, with a violent +lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with knees unbent, for the first +time in several years. + + + + +Chapter 4 + + + +With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the +telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day's work started, +Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its +mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped +together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of +the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk. + +In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the +speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a +larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of +Winston's arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last +was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or +tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at +short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed +memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or +even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic +action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, +whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous +furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building. + +Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each +contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated +jargon--not actually Newspeak, but consisting +largely of Newspeak words--which was used in the Ministry for internal +purposes. They ran: + + +times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify + +times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify current issue + +times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify + +times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite +fullwise upsub antefiling + + +With a faint feeling of satisfaction Winston laid the fourth message aside. +It was an intricate and responsible job and had better be dealt with last. +The other three were routine matters, though the second one would probably +mean some tedious wading through lists of figures. + +Winston dialled 'back numbers' on the telescreen and called for the +appropriate issues of 'The Times', which slid out of the pneumatic tube +after only a few minutes' delay. The messages he had received referred to +articles or news items which for one reason or another it was thought +necessary to alter, or, as the official phrase had it, to rectify. For +example, it appeared from 'The Times' of the seventeenth of March that Big +Brother, in his speech of the previous day, had predicted that the South +Indian front would remain quiet but that a Eurasian offensive would shortly +be launched in North Africa. As it happened, the Eurasian Higher Command +had launched its offensive in South India and left North Africa alone. It +was therefore necessary to rewrite a paragraph of Big Brother's speech, in +such a way as to make him predict the thing that had actually happened. Or +again, 'The Times' of the nineteenth of December had published the official +forecasts of the output of various classes of consumption goods in the +fourth quarter of 1983, which was also the sixth quarter of the Ninth +Three-Year Plan. Today's issue contained a statement of the actual output, +from which it appeared that the forecasts were in every instance grossly +wrong. Winston's job was to rectify the original figures by making them +agree with the later ones. As for the third message, it referred to a very +simple error which could be set right in a couple of minutes. As short +a time ago as February, the Ministry of Plenty had issued a promise +(a 'categorical pledge' were the official words) that there would be +no reduction of the chocolate ration during 1984. Actually, as Winston +was aware, the chocolate ration was to be reduced from thirty grammes +to twenty at the end of the present week. All that was needed was to +substitute for the original promise a warning that it would probably be +necessary to reduce the ration at some time in April. + +As soon as Winston had dealt with each of the messages, he clipped his +speakwritten corrections to the appropriate copy of 'The Times' and pushed +them into the pneumatic tube. Then, with a movement which was as nearly as +possible unconscious, he crumpled up the original message and any notes +that he himself had made, and dropped them into the memory hole to be +devoured by the flames. + +What happened in the unseen labyrinth to which the pneumatic tubes led, he +did not know in detail, but he did know in general terms. As soon as all +the corrections which happened to be necessary in any particular number +of 'The Times' had been assembled and collated, that number would be +reprinted, the original copy destroyed, and the corrected copy placed on +the files in its stead. This process of continuous alteration was applied +not only to newspapers, but to books, periodicals, pamphlets, posters, +leaflets, films, sound-tracks, cartoons, photographs--to every kind of +literature or documentation which might conceivably hold any political or +ideological significance. Day by day and almost minute by minute the past +was brought up to date. In this way every prediction made by the Party +could be shown by documentary evidence to have been correct, nor was any +item of news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted with the +needs of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record. All history was +a palimpsest, scraped clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was +necessary. In no case would it have been possible, once the deed was done, +to prove that any falsification had taken place. The largest section of +the Records Department, far larger than the one on which Winston worked, +consisted simply of persons whose duty it was to track down and collect all +copies of books, newspapers, and other documents which had been superseded +and were due for destruction. A number of 'The Times' which might, because +of changes in political alignment, or mistaken prophecies uttered by Big +Brother, have been rewritten a dozen times still stood on the files bearing +its original date, and no other copy existed to contradict it. Books, also, +were recalled and rewritten again and again, and were invariably reissued +without any admission that any alteration had been made. Even the written +instructions which Winston received, and which he invariably got rid of +as soon as he had dealt with them, never stated or implied that an act of +forgery was to be committed: always the reference was to slips, errors, +misprints, or misquotations which it was necessary to put right in the +interests of accuracy. + +But actually, he thought as he re-adjusted the Ministry of Plenty's +figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the substitution of one +piece of nonsense for another. Most of the material that you were dealing +with had no connexion with anything in the real world, not even the kind of +connexion that is contained in a direct lie. Statistics were just as much +a fantasy in their original version as in their rectified version. A great +deal of the time you were expected to make them up out of your head. For +example, the Ministry of Plenty's forecast had estimated the output of +boots for the quarter at 145 million pairs. The actual output was given as +sixty-two millions. Winston, however, in rewriting the forecast, marked +the figure down to fifty-seven millions, so as to allow for the usual claim +that the quota had been overfulfilled. In any case, sixty-two millions was +no nearer the truth than fifty-seven millions, or than 145 millions. Very +likely no boots had been produced at all. Likelier still, nobody knew +how many had been produced, much less cared. All one knew was that every +quarter astronomical numbers of boots were produced on paper, while perhaps +half the population of Oceania went barefoot. And so it was with every +class of recorded fact, great or small. Everything faded away into a +shadow-world in which, finally, even the date of the year had become +uncertain. + +Winston glanced across the hall. In the corresponding cubicle on the other +side a small, precise-looking, dark-chinned man named Tillotson was working +steadily away, with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth very close +to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite. He had the air of trying to keep what +he was saying a secret between himself and the telescreen. He looked up, +and his spectacles darted a hostile flash in Winston's direction. + +Winston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what work he was employed +on. People in the Records Department did not readily talk about their jobs. +In the long, windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles and its +endless rustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into speakwrites, +there were quite a dozen people whom Winston did not even know by name, +though he daily saw them hurrying to and fro in the corridors or +gesticulating in the Two Minutes Hate. He knew that in the cubicle next +to him the little woman with sandy hair toiled day in day out, simply at +tracking down and deleting from the Press the names of people who had been +vaporized and were therefore considered never to have existed. There was a +certain fitness in this, since her own husband had been vaporized a couple +of years earlier. And a few cubicles away a mild, ineffectual, dreamy +creature named Ampleforth, with very hairy ears and a surprising talent +for juggling with rhymes and metres, was engaged in producing garbled +versions--definitive texts, they were called--of poems which had become +ideologically offensive, but which for one reason or another were to be +retained in the anthologies. And this hall, with its fifty workers or +thereabouts, was only one sub-section, a single cell, as it were, in the +huge complexity of the Records Department. Beyond, above, below, were other +swarms of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude of jobs. There were +the huge printing-shops with their sub-editors, their typography experts, +and their elaborately equipped studios for the faking of photographs. There +was the tele-programmes section with its engineers, its producers, and its +teams of actors specially chosen for their skill in imitating voices. There +were the armies of reference clerks whose job was simply to draw up lists +of books and periodicals which were due for recall. There were the vast +repositories where the corrected documents were stored, and the hidden +furnaces where the original copies were destroyed. And somewhere or other, +quite anonymous, there were the directing brains who co-ordinated the whole +effort and laid down the lines of policy which made it necessary that this +fragment of the past should be preserved, that one falsified, and the other +rubbed out of existence. + +And the Records Department, after all, was itself only a single branch of +the Ministry of Truth, whose primary job was not to reconstruct the past +but to supply the citizens of Oceania with newspapers, films, textbooks, +telescreen programmes, plays, novels--with every conceivable kind of +information, instruction, or entertainment, from a statue to a slogan, +from a lyric poem to a biological treatise, and from a child's +spelling-book to a Newspeak dictionary. And the Ministry had not only to +supply the multifarious needs of the party, but also to repeat the whole +operation at a lower level for the benefit of the proletariat. There +was a whole chain of separate departments dealing with proletarian +literature, music, drama, and entertainment generally. Here were produced +rubbishy newspapers containing almost nothing except sport, crime and +astrology, sensational five-cent novelettes, films oozing with sex, and +sentimental songs which were composed entirely by mechanical means on a +special kind of kaleidoscope known as a versificator. There was even +a whole sub-section--Pornosec, it was called in Newspeak--engaged in +producing the lowest kind of pornography, which was sent out in sealed +packets and which no Party member, other than those who worked on it, +was permitted to look at. + +Three messages had slid out of the pneumatic tube while Winston was +working, but they were simple matters, and he had disposed of them before +the Two Minutes Hate interrupted him. When the Hate was over he returned +to his cubicle, took the Newspeak dictionary from the shelf, pushed the +speakwrite to one side, cleaned his spectacles, and settled down to his +main job of the morning. + +Winston's greatest pleasure in life was in his work. Most of it was a +tedious routine, but included in it there were also jobs so difficult and +intricate that you could lose yourself in them as in the depths of a +mathematical problem--delicate pieces of forgery in which you had nothing +to guide you except your knowledge of the principles of Ingsoc and your +estimate of what the Party wanted you to say. Winston was good at this kind +of thing. On occasion he had even been entrusted with the rectification of +'The Times' leading articles, which were written entirely in Newspeak. +He unrolled the message that he had set aside earlier. It ran: + + + times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons +rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling + + +In Oldspeak (or standard English) this might be rendered: + + +The reporting of Big Brother's Order for the Day in 'The Times' of December +3rd 1983 is extremely unsatisfactory and makes references to non-existent +persons. Rewrite it in full and submit your draft to higher authority +before filing. + + +Winston read through the offending article. Big Brother's Order for the +Day, it seemed, had been chiefly devoted to praising the work of an +organization known as FFCC, which supplied cigarettes and other comforts +to the sailors in the Floating Fortresses. A certain Comrade Withers, a +prominent member of the Inner Party, had been singled out for special +mention and awarded a decoration, the Order of Conspicuous Merit, Second +Class. + +Three months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved with no reasons given. +One could assume that Withers and his associates were now in disgrace, but +there had been no report of the matter in the Press or on the telescreen. +That was to be expected, since it was unusual for political offenders to +be put on trial or even publicly denounced. The great purges involving +thousands of people, with public trials of traitors and thought-criminals +who made abject confession of their crimes and were afterwards executed, +were special show-pieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of +years. More commonly, people who had incurred the displeasure of the +Party simply disappeared and were never heard of again. One never had the +smallest clue as to what had happened to them. In some cases they might +not even be dead. Perhaps thirty people personally known to Winston, not +counting his parents, had disappeared at one time or another. + +Winston stroked his nose gently with a paper-clip. In the cubicle +across the way Comrade Tillotson was still crouching secretively over +his speakwrite. He raised his head for a moment: again the hostile +spectacle-flash. Winston wondered whether Comrade Tillotson was engaged +on the same job as himself. It was perfectly possible. So tricky a piece +of work would never be entrusted to a single person: on the other hand, +to turn it over to a committee would be to admit openly that an act of +fabrication was taking place. Very likely as many as a dozen people were +now working away on rival versions of what Big Brother had actually said. +And presently some master brain in the Inner Party would select this +version or that, would re-edit it and set in motion the complex processes +of cross-referencing that would be required, and then the chosen lie +would pass into the permanent records and become truth. + +Winston did not know why Withers had been disgraced. Perhaps it was for +corruption or incompetence. Perhaps Big Brother was merely getting rid of +a too-popular subordinate. Perhaps Withers or someone close to him had +been suspected of heretical tendencies. Or perhaps--what was likeliest of +all--the thing had simply happened because purges and vaporizations were a +necessary part of the mechanics of government. The only real clue lay in +the words 'refs unpersons', which indicated that Withers was already dead. +You could not invariably assume this to be the case when people were +arrested. Sometimes they were released and allowed to remain at liberty +for as much as a year or two years before being executed. Very occasionally +some person whom you had believed dead long since would make a ghostly +reappearance at some public trial where he would implicate hundreds of +others by his testimony before vanishing, this time for ever. Withers, +however, was already an UNPERSON. He did not exist: he had never existed. +Winston decided that it would not be enough simply to reverse the tendency +of Big Brother's speech. It was better to make it deal with something +totally unconnected with its original subject. + +He might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of traitors and +thought-criminals, but that was a little too obvious, while to invent a +victory at the front, or some triumph of over-production in the Ninth +Three-Year Plan, might complicate the records too much. What was needed +was a piece of pure fantasy. Suddenly there sprang into his mind, ready +made as it were, the image of a certain Comrade Ogilvy, who had recently +died in battle, in heroic circumstances. There were occasions when Big +Brother devoted his Order for the Day to commemorating some humble, +rank-and-file Party member whose life and death he held up as an example +worthy to be followed. Today he should commemorate Comrade Ogilvy. It was +true that there was no such person as Comrade Ogilvy, but a few lines of +print and a couple of faked photographs would soon bring him into +existence. + +Winston thought for a moment, then pulled the speakwrite towards him and +began dictating in Big Brother's familiar style: a style at once military +and pedantic, and, because of a trick of asking questions and then +promptly answering them ('What lessons do we learn from this fact, +comrades? The lesson--which is also one of the fundamental principles +of Ingsoc--that,' etc., etc.), easy to imitate. + +At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys except a drum, a +sub-machine gun, and a model helicopter. At six--a year early, by a special +relaxation of the rules--he had joined the Spies, at nine he had been a +troop leader. At eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought Police +after overhearing a conversation which appeared to him to have criminal +tendencies. At seventeen he had been a district organizer of the Junior +Anti-Sex League. At nineteen he had designed a hand-grenade which had +been adopted by the Ministry of Peace and which, at its first trial, had +killed thirty-one Eurasian prisoners in one burst. At twenty-three he had +perished in action. Pursued by enemy jet planes while flying over the +Indian Ocean with important despatches, he had weighted his body with his +machine gun and leapt out of the helicopter into deep water, despatches +and all--an end, said Big Brother, which it was impossible to contemplate +without feelings of envy. Big Brother added a few remarks on the purity +and single-mindedness of Comrade Ogilvy's life. He was a total abstainer +and a nonsmoker, had no recreations except a daily hour in the gymnasium, +and had taken a vow of celibacy, believing marriage and the care of a +family to be incompatible with a twenty-four-hour-a-day devotion to duty. +He had no subjects of conversation except the principles of Ingsoc, and +no aim in life except the defeat of the Eurasian enemy and the hunting-down +of spies, saboteurs, thought-criminals, and traitors generally. + +Winston debated with himself whether to award Comrade Ogilvy the Order of +Conspicuous Merit: in the end he decided against it because of the +unnecessary cross-referencing that it would entail. + +Once again he glanced at his rival in the opposite cubicle. Something +seemed to tell him with certainty that Tillotson was busy on the same job +as himself. There was no way of knowing whose job would finally be adopted, +but he felt a profound conviction that it would be his own. Comrade Ogilvy, +unimagined an hour ago, was now a fact. It struck him as curious that you +could create dead men but not living ones. Comrade Ogilvy, who had never +existed in the present, now existed in the past, and when once the act of +forgery was forgotten, he would exist just as authentically, and upon the +same evidence, as Charlemagne or Julius Caesar. + + + + +Chapter 5 + + + +In the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch queue jerked +slowly forward. The room was already very full and deafeningly noisy. From +the grille at the counter the steam of stew came pouring forth, with a sour +metallic smell which did not quite overcome the fumes of Victory Gin. On +the far side of the room there was a small bar, a mere hole in the wall, +where gin could be bought at ten cents the large nip. + +'Just the man I was looking for,' said a voice at Winston's back. + +He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research +Department. Perhaps 'friend' was not exactly the right word. You did not +have friends nowadays, you had comrades: but there were some comrades whose +society was pleasanter than that of others. Syme was a philologist, a +specialist in Newspeak. Indeed, he was one of the enormous team of experts +now engaged in compiling the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. +He was a tiny creature, smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large, +protuberant eyes, at once mournful and derisive, which seemed to search +your face closely while he was speaking to you. + +'I wanted to ask you whether you'd got any razor blades,' he said. + +'Not one!' said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. 'I've tried all over +the place. They don't exist any longer.' + +Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he had two unused ones +which he was hoarding up. There had been a famine of them for months past. +At any given moment there was some necessary article which the Party shops +were unable to supply. Sometimes it was buttons, sometimes it was darning +wool, sometimes it was shoelaces; at present it was razor blades. You could +only get hold of them, if at all, by scrounging more or less furtively on +the 'free' market. + +'I've been using the same blade for six weeks,' he added untruthfully. + +The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he turned and faced +Syme again. Each of them took a greasy metal tray from a pile at the end +of the counter. + +'Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday?' said Syme. + +'I was working,' said Winston indifferently. 'I shall see it on the +flicks, I suppose.' + +'A very inadequate substitute,' said Syme. + +His mocking eyes roved over Winston's face. 'I know you,' the eyes seemed +to say, 'I see through you. I know very well why you didn't go to see +those prisoners hanged.' In an intellectual way, Syme was venomously +orthodox. He would talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of +helicopter raids on enemy villages, and trials and confessions of +thought-criminals, the executions in the cellars of the Ministry of Love. +Talking to him was largely a matter of getting him away from such subjects +and entangling him, if possible, in the technicalities of Newspeak, on +which he was authoritative and interesting. Winston turned his head a +little aside to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark eyes. + +'It was a good hanging,' said Syme reminiscently. 'I think it spoils it +when they tie their feet together. I like to see them kicking. And above +all, at the end, the tongue sticking right out, and blue--a quite bright +blue. That's the detail that appeals to me.' + +'Nex', please!' yelled the white-aproned prole with the ladle. + +Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille. On to each was +dumped swiftly the regulation lunch--a metal pannikin of pinkish-grey stew, +a hunk of bread, a cube of cheese, a mug of milkless Victory Coffee, and +one saccharine tablet. + +'There's a table over there, under that telescreen,' said Syme. 'Let's pick +up a gin on the way.' + +The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. They threaded +their way across the crowded room and unpacked their trays on to the +metal-topped table, on one corner of which someone had left a pool of stew, +a filthy liquid mess that had the appearance of vomit. Winston took up his +mug of gin, paused for an instant to collect his nerve, and gulped the +oily-tasting stuff down. When he had winked the tears out of his eyes he +suddenly discovered that he was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of +the stew, which, in among its general sloppiness, had cubes of spongy +pinkish stuff which was probably a preparation of meat. Neither of them +spoke again till they had emptied their pannikins. From the table at +Winston's left, a little behind his back, someone was talking rapidly and +continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck, which +pierced the general uproar of the room. + +'How is the Dictionary getting on?' said Winston, raising his voice to +overcome the noise. + +'Slowly,' said Syme. 'I'm on the adjectives. It's fascinating.' + +He had brightened up immediately at the mention of Newspeak. He pushed his +pannikin aside, took up his hunk of bread in one delicate hand and his +cheese in the other, and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak +without shouting. + +'The Eleventh Edition is the definitive edition,' he said. 'We're getting +the language into its final shape--the shape it's going to have when nobody +speaks anything else. When we've finished with it, people like you will +have to learn it all over again. You think, I dare say, that our chief job +is inventing new words. But not a bit of it! We're destroying words--scores +of them, hundreds of them, every day. We're cutting the language down to +the bone. The Eleventh Edition won't contain a single word that will become +obsolete before the year 2050.' + +He bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, then +continued speaking, with a sort of pedant's passion. His thin dark face +had become animated, his eyes had lost their mocking expression and grown +almost dreamy. + +'It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course the great +wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns +that can be got rid of as well. It isn't only the synonyms; there are also +the antonyms. After all, what justification is there for a word which is +simply the opposite of some other word? A word contains its opposite in +itself. Take "good", for instance. If you have a word like "good", what +need is there for a word like "bad"? "Ungood" will do just as well--better, +because it's an exact opposite, which the other is not. Or again, if you +want a stronger version of "good", what sense is there in having a whole +string of vague useless words like "excellent" and "splendid" and all the +rest of them? "Plusgood" covers the meaning, or "doubleplusgood" if you +want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms already. but +in the final version of Newspeak there'll be nothing else. In the end the +whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words--in +reality, only one word. Don't you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was +B.B.'s idea originally, of course,' he added as an afterthought. + +A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston's face at the mention of +Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of +enthusiasm. + +'You haven't a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,' he said almost +sadly. 'Even when you write it you're still thinking in Oldspeak. I've read +some of those pieces that you write in "The Times" occasionally. They're +good enough, but they're translations. In your heart you'd prefer to stick +to Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. +You don't grasp the beauty of the destruction of words. Do you know that +Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller +every year?' + +Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, not +trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the +dark-coloured bread, chewed it briefly, and went on: + +'Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of +thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, +because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that +can ever be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning +rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. +Already, in the Eleventh Edition, we're not far from that point. But the +process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year +fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little +smaller. Even now, of course, there's no reason or excuse for committing +thoughtcrime. It's merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control. +But in the end there won't be any need even for that. The Revolution will +be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc +is Newspeak,' he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. 'Has it ever +occurred to you, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, not a +single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation +as we are having now?' + +'Except----' began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped. + +It had been on the tip of his tongue to say 'Except the proles,' but he +checked himself, not feeling fully certain that this remark was not in +some way unorthodox. Syme, however, had divined what he was about to say. + +'The proles are not human beings,' he said carelessly. 'By 2050--earlier, +probably--all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. The whole +literature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, +Milton, Byron--they'll exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely changed +into something different, but actually changed into something contradictory +of what they used to be. Even the literature of the Party will change. +Even the slogans will change. How could you have a slogan like "freedom is +slavery" when the concept of freedom has been abolished? The whole climate +of thought will be different. In fact there will be no thought, as we +understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking--not needing to think. +Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.' + +One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep conviction, Syme will +be vaporized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly and speaks too +plainly. The Party does not like such people. One day he will disappear. +It is written in his face. + +Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned a little sideways +in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table on his left the man +with the strident voice was still talking remorselessly away. A young +woman who was perhaps his secretary, and who was sitting with her back +to Winston, was listening to him and seemed to be eagerly agreeing with +everything that he said. From time to time Winston caught some such remark +as 'I think you're so right, I do so agree with you', uttered in a youthful +and rather silly feminine voice. But the other voice never stopped for an +instant, even when the girl was speaking. Winston knew the man by sight, +though he knew no more about him than that he held some important post +in the Fiction Department. He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular +throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and +because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles caught the +light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of eyes. What was +slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured out of +his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just +once Winston caught a phrase--'complete and final elimination of +Goldsteinism'--jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, +like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a +quack-quack-quacking. And yet, though you could not actually hear what the +man was saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. +He might be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against +thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against the +atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big Brother or the +heroes on the Malabar front--it made no difference. Whatever it was, you +could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. +As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and down, +Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but +some kind of dummy. It was not the man's brain that was speaking, it was +his larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but +it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in +unconsciousness, like the quacking of a duck. + +Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of his spoon was +tracing patterns in the puddle of stew. The voice from the other table +quacked rapidly on, easily audible in spite of the surrounding din. + +'There is a word in Newspeak,' said Syme, 'I don't know whether you know +it: DUCKSPEAK, to quack like a duck. It is one of those interesting words +that have two contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, +applied to someone you agree with, it is praise.' + +Unquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston thought again. He thought +it with a kind of sadness, although well knowing that Syme despised him +and slightly disliked him, and was fully capable of denouncing him as a +thought-criminal if he saw any reason for doing so. There was something +subtly wrong with Syme. There was something that he lacked: discretion, +aloofness, a sort of saving stupidity. You could not say that he was +unorthodox. He believed in the principles of Ingsoc, he venerated Big +Brother, he rejoiced over victories, he hated heretics, not merely with +sincerity but with a sort of restless zeal, an up-to-dateness of +information, which the ordinary Party member did not approach. Yet a faint +air of disreputability always clung to him. He said things that would have +been better unsaid, he had read too many books, he frequented the Chestnut +Tree Cafe, haunt of painters and musicians. There was no law, not even an +unwritten law, against frequenting the Chestnut Tree Cafe, yet the place +was somehow ill-omened. The old, discredited leaders of the Party had been +used to gather there before they were finally purged. Goldstein himself, +it was said, had sometimes been seen there, years and decades ago. Syme's +fate was not difficult to foresee. And yet it was a fact that if Syme +grasped, even for three seconds, the nature of his, Winston's, secret +opinions, he would betray him instantly to the Thought Police. So would +anybody else, for that matter: but Syme more than most. Zeal was not +enough. Orthodoxy was unconsciousness. + +Syme looked up. 'Here comes Parsons,' he said. + +Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add, 'that bloody fool'. +Parsons, Winston's fellow-tenant at Victory Mansions, was in fact threading +his way across the room--a tubby, middle-sized man with fair hair and a +froglike face. At thirty-five he was already putting on rolls of fat at +neck and waistline, but his movements were brisk and boyish. His whole +appearance was that of a little boy grown large, so much so that although +he was wearing the regulation overalls, it was almost impossible not to +think of him as being dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirt, and red +neckerchief of the Spies. In visualizing him one saw always a picture of +dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy forearms. Parsons did, +indeed, invariably revert to shorts when a community hike or any other +physical activity gave him an excuse for doing so. He greeted them both +with a cheery 'Hullo, hullo!' and sat down at the table, giving off an +intense smell of sweat. Beads of moisture stood out all over his pink face. +His powers of sweating were extraordinary. At the Community Centre you +could always tell when he had been playing table-tennis by the dampness of +the bat handle. Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there was a +long column of words, and was studying it with an ink-pencil between his +fingers. + +'Look at him working away in the lunch hour,' said Parsons, nudging +Winston. 'Keenness, eh? What's that you've got there, old boy? Something +a bit too brainy for me, I expect. Smith, old boy, I'll tell you why I'm +chasing you. It's that sub you forgot to give me.' + +'Which sub is that?' said Winston, automatically feeling for money. About +a quarter of one's salary had to be earmarked for voluntary subscriptions, +which were so numerous that it was difficult to keep track of them. + +'For Hate Week. You know--the house-by-house fund. I'm treasurer for our +block. We're making an all-out effort--going to put on a tremendous show. +I tell you, it won't be my fault if old Victory Mansions doesn't have the +biggest outfit of flags in the whole street. Two dollars you promised me.' + +Winston found and handed over two creased and filthy notes, which Parsons +entered in a small notebook, in the neat handwriting of the illiterate. + +'By the way, old boy,' he said. 'I hear that little beggar of mine let fly +at you with his catapult yesterday. I gave him a good dressing-down for it. +In fact I told him I'd take the catapult away if he does it again.' + +'I think he was a little upset at not going to the execution,' said +Winston. + +'Ah, well--what I mean to say, shows the right spirit, doesn't it? +Mischievous little beggars they are, both of them, but talk about keenness! +All they think about is the Spies, and the war, of course. D'you know what +that little girl of mine did last Saturday, when her troop was on a hike +out Berkhamsted way? She got two other girls to go with her, slipped off +from the hike, and spent the whole afternoon following a strange man. They +kept on his tail for two hours, right through the woods, and then, when +they got into Amersham, handed him over to the patrols.' + +'What did they do that for?' said Winston, somewhat taken aback. Parsons +went on triumphantly: + +'My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent--might have been dropped +by parachute, for instance. But here's the point, old boy. What do you +think put her on to him in the first place? She spotted he was wearing a +funny kind of shoes--said she'd never seen anyone wearing shoes like that +before. So the chances were he was a foreigner. Pretty smart for a nipper +of seven, eh?' + +'What happened to the man?' said Winston. + +'Ah, that I couldn't say, of course. But I wouldn't be altogether surprised +if----' Parsons made the motion of aiming a rifle, and clicked his tongue +for the explosion. + +'Good,' said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from his strip of paper. + +'Of course we can't afford to take chances,' agreed Winston dutifully. + +'What I mean to say, there is a war on,' said Parsons. + +As though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call floated from the +telescreen just above their heads. However, it was not the proclamation of +a military victory this time, but merely an announcement from the Ministry +of Plenty. + +'Comrades!' cried an eager youthful voice. 'Attention, comrades! We have +glorious news for you. We have won the battle for production! Returns now +completed of the output of all classes of consumption goods show that the +standard of living has risen by no less than 20 per cent over the past +year. All over Oceania this morning there were irrepressible spontaneous +demonstrations when workers marched out of factories and offices and +paraded through the streets with banners voicing their gratitude to Big +Brother for the new, happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed +upon us. Here are some of the completed figures. Foodstuffs----' + +The phrase 'our new, happy life' recurred several times. It had been a +favourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Parsons, his attention +caught by the trumpet call, sat listening with a sort of gaping solemnity, +a sort of edified boredom. He could not follow the figures, but he was +aware that they were in some way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged +out a huge and filthy pipe which was already half full of charred tobacco. +With the tobacco ration at 100 grammes a week it was seldom possible to +fill a pipe to the top. Winston was smoking a Victory Cigarette which he +held carefully horizontal. The new ration did not start till tomorrow and +he had only four cigarettes left. For the moment he had shut his ears to +the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that streamed out of the +telescreen. It appeared that there had even been demonstrations to thank +Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty grammes a week. And +only yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the ration was +to be REDUCED to twenty grammes a week. Was it possible that they could +swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons +swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature +at the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a furious +desire to track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone who should suggest that +last week the ration had been thirty grammes. Syme, too--in some more +complex way, involving doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, ALONE +in the possession of a memory? + +The fabulous statistics continued to pour out of the telescreen. As +compared with last year there was more food, more clothes, more houses, +more furniture, more cooking-pots, more fuel, more ships, more helicopters, +more books, more babies--more of everything except disease, crime, and +insanity. Year by year and minute by minute, everybody and everything was +whizzing rapidly upwards. As Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up +his spoon and was dabbling in the pale-coloured gravy that dribbled across +the table, drawing a long streak of it out into a pattern. He meditated +resentfully on the physical texture of life. Had it always been like +this? Had food always tasted like this? He looked round the canteen. +A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of +innumerable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed so close +together that you sat with elbows touching; bent spoons, dented trays, +coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a +sourish, composite smell of bad gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and +dirty clothes. Always in your stomach and in your skin there was a sort +of protest, a feeling that you had been cheated of something that you had +a right to. It was true that he had no memories of anything greatly +different. In any time that he could accurately remember, there had never +been quite enough to eat, one had never had socks or underclothes that +were not full of holes, furniture had always been battered and rickety, +rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to pieces, +bread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tasting, cigarettes +insufficient--nothing cheap and plentiful except synthetic gin. And though, +of course, it grew worse as one's body aged, was it not a sign that this +was NOT the natural order of things, if one's heart sickened at the +discomfort and dirt and scarcity, the interminable winters, the stickiness +of one's socks, the lifts that never worked, the cold water, the gritty +soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the food with its strange evil +tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one had some kind +of ancestral memory that things had once been different? + +He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was ugly, and would +still have been ugly even if dressed otherwise than in the uniform blue +overalls. On the far side of the room, sitting at a table alone, a small, +curiously beetle-like man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes +darting suspicious glances from side to side. How easy it was, thought +Winston, if you did not look about you, to believe that the physical type +set up by the Party as an ideal--tall muscular youths and deep-bosomed +maidens, blond-haired, vital, sunburnt, carefree--existed and even +predominated. Actually, so far as he could judge, the majority of people +in Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curious how that +beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries: little dumpy men, growing +stout very early in life, with short legs, swift scuttling movements, and +fat inscrutable faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to +flourish best under the dominion of the Party. + +The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended on another trumpet call +and gave way to tinny music. Parsons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by the +bombardment of figures, took his pipe out of his mouth. + +'The Ministry of Plenty's certainly done a good job this year,' he said +with a knowing shake of his head. 'By the way, Smith old boy, I suppose +you haven't got any razor blades you can let me have?' + +'Not one,' said Winston. 'I've been using the same blade for six weeks +myself.' + +'Ah, well--just thought I'd ask you, old boy.' + +'Sorry,' said Winston. + +The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily silenced during the +Ministry's announcement, had started up again, as loud as ever. For some +reason Winston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs Parsons, with her +wispy hair and the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years those +children would be denouncing her to the Thought Police. Mrs Parsons would +be vaporized. Syme would be vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O'Brien +would be vaporized. Parsons, on the other hand, would never be vaporized. +The eyeless creature with the quacking voice would never be vaporized. +The little beetle-like men who scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine +corridors of Ministries they, too, would never be vaporized. And the girl +with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction Department--she would never be +vaporized either. It seemed to him that he knew instinctively who would +survive and who would perish: though just what it was that made for +survival, it was not easy to say. + +At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk. The +girl at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him. It +was the girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way, but +with curious intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away +again. + +The sweat started out on Winston's backbone. A horrible pang of terror +went through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left a sort of nagging +uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him? Why did she keep following him +about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been at +the table when he arrived, or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at +any rate, during the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him +when there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had +been to listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough. + +His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually a member +of the Thought Police, but then it was precisely the amateur spy who was +the greatest danger of all. He did not know how long she had been looking +at him, but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was possible +that his features had not been perfectly under control. It was terribly +dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public place +or within range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you away. +A nervous tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering to +yourself--anything that carried with it the suggestion of abnormality, of +having something to hide. In any case, to wear an improper expression on +your face (to look incredulous when a victory was announced, for example) +was itself a punishable offence. There was even a word for it in Newspeak: +FACECRIME, it was called. + +The girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after all she was not +really following him about, perhaps it was coincidence that she had sat so +close to him two days running. His cigarette had gone out, and he laid it +carefully on the edge of the table. He would finish smoking it after work, +if he could keep the tobacco in it. Quite likely the person at the next +table was a spy of the Thought Police, and quite likely he would be in the +cellars of the Ministry of Love within three days, but a cigarette end +must not be wasted. Syme had folded up his strip of paper and stowed it +away in his pocket. Parsons had begun talking again. + +'Did I ever tell you, old boy,' he said, chuckling round the stem of his +pipe, 'about the time when those two nippers of mine set fire to the old +market-woman's skirt because they saw her wrapping up sausages in a poster +of B.B.? Sneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of matches. +Burned her quite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But keen as mustard! +That's a first-rate training they give them in the Spies nowadays--better +than in my day, even. What d'you think's the latest thing they've served +them out with? Ear trumpets for listening through keyholes! My little +girl brought one home the other night--tried it out on our sitting-room +door, and reckoned she could hear twice as much as with her ear to the +hole. Of course it's only a toy, mind you. Still, gives 'em the right +idea, eh?' + +At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. It was the +signal to return to work. All three men sprang to their feet to join in +the struggle round the lifts, and the remaining tobacco fell out of +Winston's cigarette. + + + + +Chapter 6 + + + +Winston was writing in his diary: + + + It was three years ago. It was on a dark evening, in a narrow +side-street near one of the big railway stations. She was standing near a +doorway in the wall, under a street lamp that hardly gave any light. She +had a young face, painted very thick. It was really the paint that appealed +to me, the whiteness of it, like a mask, and the bright red lips. Party +women never paint their faces. There was nobody else in the street, and no +telescreens. She said two dollars. I---- + + +For the moment it was too difficult to go on. He shut his eyes and pressed +his fingers against them, trying to squeeze out the vision that kept +recurring. He had an almost overwhelming temptation to shout a string of +filthy words at the top of his voice. Or to bang his head against the wall, +to kick over the table, and hurl the inkpot through the window--to do any +violent or noisy or painful thing that might black out the memory that was +tormenting him. + +Your worst enemy, he reflected, was your own nervous system. At any moment +the tension inside you was liable to translate itself into some visible +symptom. He thought of a man whom he had passed in the street a few weeks +back; a quite ordinary-looking man, a Party member, aged thirty-five to +forty, tallish and thin, carrying a brief-case. They were a few metres +apart when the left side of the man's face was suddenly contorted by a sort +of spasm. It happened again just as they were passing one another: it was +only a twitch, a quiver, rapid as the clicking of a camera shutter, but +obviously habitual. He remembered thinking at the time: That poor devil is +done for. And what was frightening was that the action was quite possibly +unconscious. The most deadly danger of all was talking in your sleep. There +was no way of guarding against that, so far as he could see. + +He drew his breath and went on writing: + + + I went with her through the doorway and across a backyard into a +basement kitchen. There was a bed against the wall, and a lamp on the +table, turned down very low. She---- + + +His teeth were set on edge. He would have liked to spit. Simultaneously +with the woman in the basement kitchen he thought of Katharine, his wife. +Winston was married--had been married, at any rate: probably he still was +married, so far as he knew his wife was not dead. He seemed to breathe +again the warm stuffy odour of the basement kitchen, an odour compounded +of bugs and dirty clothes and villainous cheap scent, but nevertheless +alluring, because no woman of the Party ever used scent, or could be +imagined as doing so. Only the proles used scent. In his mind the smell +of it was inextricably mixed up with fornication. + +When he had gone with that woman it had been his first lapse in two years +or thereabouts. Consorting with prostitutes was forbidden, of course, but +it was one of those rules that you could occasionally nerve yourself to +break. It was dangerous, but it was not a life-and-death matter. To be +caught with a prostitute might mean five years in a forced-labour camp: +not more, if you had committed no other offence. And it was easy enough, +provided that you could avoid being caught in the act. The poorer quarters +swarmed with women who were ready to sell themselves. Some could even be +purchased for a bottle of gin, which the proles were not supposed to drink. +Tacitly the Party was even inclined to encourage prostitution, as an outlet +for instincts which could not be altogether suppressed. Mere debauchery +did not matter very much, so long as it was furtive and joyless and only +involved the women of a submerged and despised class. The unforgivable +crime was promiscuity between Party members. But--though this was one +of the crimes that the accused in the great purges invariably confessed +to--it was difficult to imagine any such thing actually happening. + +The aim of the Party was not merely to prevent men and women from forming +loyalties which it might not be able to control. Its real, undeclared +purpose was to remove all pleasure from the sexual act. Not love so much +as eroticism was the enemy, inside marriage as well as outside it. All +marriages between Party members had to be approved by a committee +appointed for the purpose, and--though the principle was never clearly +stated--permission was always refused if the couple concerned gave +the impression of being physically attracted to one another. The only +recognized purpose of marriage was to beget children for the service of +the Party. Sexual intercourse was to be looked on as a slightly disgusting +minor operation, like having an enema. This again was never put into plain +words, but in an indirect way it was rubbed into every Party member from +childhood onwards. There were even organizations such as the Junior +Anti-Sex League, which advocated complete celibacy for both sexes. All +children were to be begotten by artificial insemination (ARTSEM, it was +called in Newspeak) and brought up in public institutions. This, Winston +was aware, was not meant altogether seriously, but somehow it fitted in +with the general ideology of the Party. The Party was trying to kill the +sex instinct, or, if it could not be killed, then to distort it and dirty +it. He did not know why this was so, but it seemed natural that it should +be so. And as far as the women were concerned, the Party's efforts were +largely successful. + +He thought again of Katharine. It must be nine, ten--nearly eleven years +since they had parted. It was curious how seldom he thought of her. For +days at a time he was capable of forgetting that he had ever been married. +They had only been together for about fifteen months. The Party did not +permit divorce, but it rather encouraged separation in cases where there +were no children. + +Katharine was a tall, fair-haired girl, very straight, with splendid +movements. She had a bold, aquiline face, a face that one might have called +noble until one discovered that there was as nearly as possible nothing +behind it. Very early in her married life he had decided--though perhaps +it was only that he knew her more intimately than he knew most people--that +she had without exception the most stupid, vulgar, empty mind that he had +ever encountered. She had not a thought in her head that was not a slogan, +and there was no imbecility, absolutely none that she was not capable of +swallowing if the Party handed it out to her. 'The human sound-track' he +nicknamed her in his own mind. Yet he could have endured living with her +if it had not been for just one thing--sex. + +As soon as he touched her she seemed to wince and stiffen. To embrace her +was like embracing a jointed wooden image. And what was strange was that +even when she was clasping him against her he had the feeling that she +was simultaneously pushing him away with all her strength. The rigidity +of her muscles managed to convey that impression. She would lie there +with shut eyes, neither resisting nor co-operating but SUBMITTING. It was +extraordinarily embarrassing, and, after a while, horrible. But even then +he could have borne living with her if it had been agreed that they should +remain celibate. But curiously enough it was Katharine who refused this. +They must, she said, produce a child if they could. So the performance +continued to happen, once a week quite regularly, whenever it was not +impossible. She even used to remind him of it in the morning, as something +which had to be done that evening and which must not be forgotten. She had +two names for it. One was 'making a baby', and the other was 'our duty to +the Party' (yes, she had actually used that phrase). Quite soon he grew to +have a feeling of positive dread when the appointed day came round. But +luckily no child appeared, and in the end she agreed to give up trying, +and soon afterwards they parted. + +Winston sighed inaudibly. He picked up his pen again and +wrote: + + + She threw herself down on the bed, and at once, without any kind of +preliminary in the most coarse, horrible way you can imagine, pulled up +her skirt. I---- + + +He saw himself standing there in the dim lamplight, with the smell of bugs +and cheap scent in his nostrils, and in his heart a feeling of defeat and +resentment which even at that moment was mixed up with the thought of +Katharine's white body, frozen for ever by the hypnotic power of the Party. +Why did it always have to be like this? Why could he not have a woman of +his own instead of these filthy scuffles at intervals of years? But a real +love affair was an almost unthinkable event. The women of the Party were +all alike. Chastity was as deep ingrained in them as Party loyalty. By +careful early conditioning, by games and cold water, by the rubbish that +was dinned into them at school and in the Spies and the Youth League, by +lectures, parades, songs, slogans, and martial music, the natural feeling +had been driven out of them. His reason told him that there must be +exceptions, but his heart did not believe it. They were all impregnable, +as the Party intended that they should be. And what he wanted, more even +than to be loved, was to break down that wall of virtue, even if it were +only once in his whole life. The sexual act, successfully performed, was +rebellion. Desire was thoughtcrime. Even to have awakened Katharine, if he +could have achieved it, would have been like a seduction, although she was +his wife. + +But the rest of the story had got to be written down. He wrote: + + + I turned up the lamp. When I saw her in the light---- + + +After the darkness the feeble light of the paraffin lamp had seemed very +bright. For the first time he could see the woman properly. He had taken a +step towards her and then halted, full of lust and terror. He was painfully +conscious of the risk he had taken in coming here. It was perfectly +possible that the patrols would catch him on the way out: for that matter +they might be waiting outside the door at this moment. If he went away +without even doing what he had come here to do----! + +It had got to be written down, it had got to be confessed. What he had +suddenly seen in the lamplight was that the woman was OLD. The paint was +plastered so thick on her face that it looked as though it might crack +like a cardboard mask. There were streaks of white in her hair; but the +truly dreadful detail was that her mouth had fallen a little open, +revealing nothing except a cavernous blackness. She had no teeth at all. + +He wrote hurriedly, in scrabbling handwriting: + + + When I saw her in the light she was quite an old woman, fifty years old +at least. But I went ahead and did it just the same. + + +He pressed his fingers against his eyelids again. He had written it down +at last, but it made no difference. The therapy had not worked. The urge +to shout filthy words at the top of his voice was as strong as ever. + + + + +Chapter 7 + + + +'If there is hope,' wrote Winston, 'it lies in the proles.' + +If there was hope, it MUST lie in the proles, because only there in those +swarming disregarded masses, 85 per cent of the population of Oceania, +could the force to destroy the Party ever be generated. The Party could +not be overthrown from within. Its enemies, if it had any enemies, had +no way of coming together or even of identifying one another. Even if +the legendary Brotherhood existed, as just possibly it might, it was +inconceivable that its members could ever assemble in larger numbers than +twos and threes. Rebellion meant a look in the eyes, an inflexion of the +voice, at the most, an occasional whispered word. But the proles, if only +they could somehow become conscious of their own strength. would have no +need to conspire. They needed only to rise up and shake themselves like +a horse shaking off flies. If they chose they could blow the Party to +pieces tomorrow morning. Surely sooner or later it must occur to them to +do it? And yet----! + +He remembered how once he had been walking down a crowded street when a +tremendous shout of hundreds of voices women's voices--had burst from a +side-street a little way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger +and despair, a deep, loud 'Oh-o-o-o-oh!' that went humming on like the +reverberation of a bell. His heart had leapt. It's started! he had thought. +A riot! The proles are breaking loose at last! When he had reached the spot +it was to see a mob of two or three hundred women crowding round the stalls +of a street market, with faces as tragic as though they had been the doomed +passengers on a sinking ship. But at this moment the general despair broke +down into a multitude of individual quarrels. It appeared that one of the +stalls had been selling tin saucepans. They were wretched, flimsy things, +but cooking-pots of any kind were always difficult to get. Now the supply +had unexpectedly given out. The successful women, bumped and jostled by +the rest, were trying to make off with their saucepans while dozens of +others clamoured round the stall, accusing the stall-keeper of favouritism +and of having more saucepans somewhere in reserve. There was a fresh +outburst of yells. Two bloated women, one of them with her hair coming +down, had got hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear it out of +one another's hands. For a moment they were both tugging, and then the +handle came off. Winston watched them disgustedly. And yet, just for a +moment, what almost frightening power had sounded in that cry from only +a few hundred throats! Why was it that they could never shout like that +about anything that mattered? + +He wrote: + + + Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they +have rebelled they cannot become conscious. + + +That, he reflected, might almost have been a transcription from one of the +Party textbooks. The Party claimed, of course, to have liberated the proles +from bondage. Before the Revolution they had been hideously oppressed by +the capitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had been forced +to work in the coal mines (women still did work in the coal mines, as a +matter of fact), children had been sold into the factories at the age +of six. But simultaneously, true to the Principles of doublethink, the +Party taught that the proles were natural inferiors who must be kept in +subjection, like animals, by the application of a few simple rules. In +reality very little was known about the proles. It was not necessary to +know much. So long as they continued to work and breed, their other +activities were without importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned +loose upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of life +that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral pattern. They were +born, they grew up in the gutters, they went to work at twelve, they passed +through a brief blossoming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married +at twenty, they were middle-aged at thirty, they died, for the most part, +at sixty. Heavy physical work, the care of home and children, petty +quarrels with neighbours, films, football, beer, and above all, gambling, +filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not +difficult. A few agents of the Thought Police moved always among them, +spreading false rumours and marking down and eliminating the few +individuals who were judged capable of becoming dangerous; but no attempt +was made to indoctrinate them with the ideology of the Party. It was not +desirable that the proles should have strong political feelings. All that +was required of them was a primitive patriotism which could be appealed to +whenever it was necessary to make them accept longer working-hours or +shorter rations. And even when they became discontented, as they sometimes +did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without general ideas, +they could only focus it on petty specific grievances. The larger evils +invariably escaped their notice. The great majority of proles did not even +have telescreens in their homes. Even the civil police interfered with them +very little. There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a whole +world-within-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes, drug-peddlers, and +racketeers of every description; but since it all happened among the proles +themselves, it was of no importance. In all questions of morals they were +allowed to follow their ancestral code. The sexual puritanism of the +Party was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity went unpunished, divorce +was permitted. For that matter, even religious worship would have been +permitted if the proles had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. +They were beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: 'Proles and +animals are free.' + +Winston reached down and cautiously scratched his varicose ulcer. It +had begun itching again. The thing you invariably came back to was the +impossibility of knowing what life before the Revolution had really been +like. He took out of the drawer a copy of a children's history textbook +which he had borrowed from Mrs Parsons, and began copying a passage into +the diary: + + + In the old days (it ran), before the glorious Revolution, London was +not the beautiful city that we know today. It was a dark, dirty, miserable +place where hardly anybody had enough to eat and where hundreds and +thousands of poor people had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to +sleep under. Children no older than you had to work twelve hours a day for +cruel masters who flogged them with whips if they worked too slowly and +fed them on nothing but stale breadcrusts and water. But in among all +this terrible poverty there were just a few great big beautiful houses +that were lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to look +after them. These rich men were called capitalists. They were fat, ugly +men with wicked faces, like the one in the picture on the opposite page. +You can see that he is dressed in a long black coat which was called a +frock coat, and a queer, shiny hat shaped like a stovepipe, which was +called a top hat. This was the uniform of the capitalists, and no one else +was allowed to wear it. The capitalists owned everything in the world, and +everyone else was their slave. They owned all the land, all the houses, +all the factories, and all the money. If anyone disobeyed them they could +throw them into prison, or they could take his job away and starve him to +death. When any ordinary person spoke to a capitalist he had to cringe and +bow to him, and take off his cap and address him as 'Sir'. The chief of +all the capitalists was called the King, and---- + + +But he knew the rest of the catalogue. There would be mention of the +bishops in their lawn sleeves, the judges in their ermine robes, the +pillory, the stocks, the treadmill, the cat-o'-nine tails, the Lord Mayor's +Banquet, and the practice of kissing the Pope's toe. There was also +something called the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, which would probably not be +mentioned in a textbook for children. It was the law by which every +capitalist had the right to sleep with any woman working in one of his +factories. + +How could you tell how much of it was lies? It MIGHT be true that the +average human being was better off now than he had been before the +Revolution. The only evidence to the contrary was the mute protest in your +own bones, the instinctive feeling that the conditions you lived in were +intolerable and that at some other time they must have been different. It +struck him that the truly characteristic thing about modern life was not +its cruelty and insecurity, but simply its bareness, its dinginess, its +listlessness. Life, if you looked about you, bore no resemblance not only +to the lies that streamed out of the telescreens, but even to the ideals +that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it, even for a Party +member, were neutral and non-political, a matter of slogging through dreary +jobs, fighting for a place on the Tube, darning a worn-out sock, cadging +a saccharine tablet, saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the +Party was something huge, terrible, and glittering--a world of steel +and concrete, of monstrous machines and terrifying weapons--a nation of +warriors and fanatics, marching forward in perfect unity, all thinking the +same thoughts and shouting the same slogans, perpetually working, fighting, +triumphing, persecuting--three hundred million people all with the same +face. The reality was decaying, dingy cities where underfed people shuffled +to and fro in leaky shoes, in patched-up nineteenth-century houses that +smelt always of cabbage and bad lavatories. He seemed to see a vision of +London, vast and ruinous, city of a million dustbins, and mixed up with it +was a picture of Mrs Parsons, a woman with lined face and wispy hair, +fiddling helplessly with a blocked waste-pipe. + +He reached down and scratched his ankle again. Day and night the +telescreens bruised your ears with statistics proving that people today +had more food, more clothes, better houses, better recreations--that they +lived longer, worked shorter hours, were bigger, healthier, stronger, +happier, more intelligent, better educated, than the people of fifty years +ago. Not a word of it could ever be proved or disproved. The Party claimed, +for example, that today 40 per cent of adult proles were literate: before +the Revolution, it was said, the number had only been 15 per cent. The +Party claimed that the infant mortality rate was now only 160 per +thousand, whereas before the Revolution it had been 300--and so it went +on. It was like a single equation with two unknowns. It might very well be +that literally every word in the history books, even the things that one +accepted without question, was pure fantasy. For all he knew there might +never have been any such law as the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, or any such creature +as a capitalist, or any such garment as a top hat. + +Everything faded into mist. The past was erased, the erasure was forgotten, +the lie became truth. Just once in his life he had possessed--AFTER the +event: that was what counted--concrete, unmistakable evidence of an act of +falsification. He had held it between his fingers for as long as thirty +seconds. In 1973, it must have been--at any rate, it was at about the time +when he and Katharine had parted. But the really relevant date was seven +or eight years earlier. + +The story really began in the middle sixties, the period of the great +purges in which the original leaders of the Revolution were wiped out +once and for all. By 1970 none of them was left, except Big Brother +himself. All the rest had by that time been exposed as traitors and +counter-revolutionaries. Goldstein had fled and was hiding no one knew +where, and of the others, a few had simply disappeared, while the majority +had been executed after spectacular public trials at which they made +confession of their crimes. Among the last survivors were three men named +Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. It must have been in 1965 that these three +had been arrested. As often happened, they had vanished for a year or more, +so that one did not know whether they were alive or dead, and then had +suddenly been brought forth to incriminate themselves in the usual way. +They had confessed to intelligence with the enemy (at that date, too, the +enemy was Eurasia), embezzlement of public funds, the murder of various +trusted Party members, intrigues against the leadership of Big Brother +which had started long before the Revolution happened, and acts of sabotage +causing the death of hundreds of thousands of people. After confessing to +these things they had been pardoned, reinstated in the Party, and given +posts which were in fact sinecures but which sounded important. All three +had written long, abject articles in 'The Times', analysing the reasons +for their defection and promising to make amends. + +Some time after their release Winston had actually seen all three of them +in the Chestnut Tree Cafe. He remembered the sort of terrified fascination +with which he had watched them out of the corner of his eye. They were men +far older than himself, relics of the ancient world, almost the last great +figures left over from the heroic days of the Party. The glamour of the +underground struggle and the civil war still faintly clung to them. He had +the feeling, though already at that time facts and dates were growing +blurry, that he had known their names years earlier than he had known that +of Big Brother. But also they were outlaws, enemies, untouchables, doomed +with absolute certainty to extinction within a year or two. No one who had +once fallen into the hands of the Thought Police ever escaped in the end. +They were corpses waiting to be sent back to the grave. + +There was no one at any of the tables nearest to them. It was not wise +even to be seen in the neighbourhood of such people. They were sitting +in silence before glasses of the gin flavoured with cloves which was the +speciality of the cafe. Of the three, it was Rutherford whose appearance +had most impressed Winston. Rutherford had once been a famous caricaturist, +whose brutal cartoons had helped to inflame popular opinion before and +during the Revolution. Even now, at long intervals, his cartoons were +appearing in The Times. They were simply an imitation of his earlier +manner, and curiously lifeless and unconvincing. Always they were a +rehashing of the ancient themes--slum tenements, starving children, street +battles, capitalists in top hats--even on the barricades the capitalists +still seemed to cling to their top hats an endless, hopeless effort to +get back into the past. He was a monstrous man, with a mane of greasy +grey hair, his face pouched and seamed, with thick negroid lips. At one +time he must have been immensely strong; now his great body was sagging, +sloping, bulging, falling away in every direction. He seemed to be breaking +up before one's eyes, like a mountain crumbling. + +It was the lonely hour of fifteen. Winston could not now remember how he +had come to be in the cafe at such a time. The place was almost empty. A +tinny music was trickling from the telescreens. The three men sat in their +corner almost motionless, never speaking. Uncommanded, the waiter brought +fresh glasses of gin. There was a chessboard on the table beside them, with +the pieces set out but no game started. And then, for perhaps half a minute +in all, something happened to the telescreens. The tune that they were +playing changed, and the tone of the music changed too. There came into +it--but it was something hard to describe. It was a peculiar, cracked, +braying, jeering note: in his mind Winston called it a yellow note. And +then a voice from the telescreen was singing: + + + Under the spreading chestnut tree + I sold you and you sold me: + There lie they, and here lie we + Under the spreading chestnut tree. + + +The three men never stirred. But when Winston glanced again at Rutherford's +ruinous face, he saw that his eyes were full of tears. And for the first +time he noticed, with a kind of inward shudder, and yet not knowing +AT WHAT he shuddered, that both Aaronson and Rutherford had broken noses. + +A little later all three were re-arrested. It appeared that they had +engaged in fresh conspiracies from the very moment of their release. At +their second trial they confessed to all their old crimes over again, with +a whole string of new ones. They were executed, and their fate was recorded +in the Party histories, a warning to posterity. About five years after +this, in 1973, Winston was unrolling a wad of documents which had just +flopped out of the pneumatic tube on to his desk when he came on a fragment +of paper which had evidently been slipped in among the others and then +forgotten. The instant he had flattened it out he saw its significance. +It was a half-page torn out of 'The Times' of about ten years earlier--the +top half of the page, so that it included the date--and it contained a +photograph of the delegates at some Party function in New York. Prominent +in the middle of the group were Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. There was +no mistaking them, in any case their names were in the caption at the +bottom. + +The point was that at both trials all three men had confessed that on that +date they had been on Eurasian soil. They had flown from a secret airfield +in Canada to a rendezvous somewhere in Siberia, and had conferred with +members of the Eurasian General Staff, to whom they had betrayed important +military secrets. The date had stuck in Winston's memory because it chanced +to be midsummer day; but the whole story must be on record in countless +other places as well. There was only one possible conclusion: the +confessions were lies. + +Of course, this was not in itself a discovery. Even at that time Winston +had not imagined that the people who were wiped out in the purges had +actually committed the crimes that they were accused of. But this was +concrete evidence; it was a fragment of the abolished past, like a fossil +bone which turns up in the wrong stratum and destroys a geological theory. +It was enough to blow the Party to atoms, if in some way it could have +been published to the world and its significance made known. + +He had gone straight on working. As soon as he saw what the photograph +was, and what it meant, he had covered it up with another sheet of paper. +Luckily, when he unrolled it, it had been upside-down from the point of +view of the telescreen. + +He took his scribbling pad on his knee and pushed back his chair so as +to get as far away from the telescreen as possible. To keep your face +expressionless was not difficult, and even your breathing could be +controlled, with an effort: but you could not control the beating of your +heart, and the telescreen was quite delicate enough to pick it up. He let +what he judged to be ten minutes go by, tormented all the while by the +fear that some accident--a sudden draught blowing across his desk, for +instance--would betray him. Then, without uncovering it again, he dropped +the photograph into the memory hole, along with some other waste papers. +Within another minute, perhaps, it would have crumbled into ashes. + +That was ten--eleven years ago. Today, probably, he would have kept that +photograph. It was curious that the fact of having held it in his fingers +seemed to him to make a difference even now, when the photograph itself, +as well as the event it recorded, was only memory. Was the Party's hold +upon the past less strong, he wondered, because a piece of evidence which +existed no longer HAD ONCE existed? + +But today, supposing that it could be somehow resurrected from its ashes, +the photograph might not even be evidence. Already, at the time when he +made his discovery, Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia, and it must +have been to the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men had betrayed +their country. Since then there had been other changes--two, three, +he could not remember how many. Very likely the confessions had been +rewritten and rewritten until the original facts and dates no longer +had the smallest significance. The past not only changed, but changed +continuously. What most afflicted him with the sense of nightmare was that +he had never clearly understood why the huge imposture was undertaken. +The immediate advantages of falsifying the past were obvious, but the +ultimate motive was mysterious. He took up his pen again and wrote: + + + I understand HOW: I do not understand WHY. + + +He wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself was +a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one. At one time it +had been a sign of madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; +today, to believe that the past is unalterable. He might be ALONE in +holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the thought of being +a lunatic did not greatly trouble him: the horror was that he might also +be wrong. + +He picked up the children's history book and looked at the portrait of +Big Brother which formed its frontispiece. The hypnotic eyes gazed into +his own. It was as though some huge force were pressing down upon +you--something that penetrated inside your skull, battering against your +brain, frightening you out of your beliefs, persuading you, almost, to +deny the evidence of your senses. In the end the Party would announce that +two and two made five, and you would have to believe it. It was inevitable +that they should make that claim sooner or later: the logic of their +position demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the very +existence of external reality, was tacitly denied by their philosophy. The +heresy of heresies was common sense. And what was terrifying was not that +they would kill you for thinking otherwise, but that they might be right. +For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the +force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past +and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is +controllable what then? + +But no! His courage seemed suddenly to stiffen of its own accord. The face +of O'Brien, not called up by any obvious association, had floated into his +mind. He knew, with more certainty than before, that O'Brien was on his +side. He was writing the diary for O'Brien--TO O'Brien: it was like an +interminable letter which no one would ever read, but which was addressed +to a particular person and took its colour from that fact. + +The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was +their final, most essential command. His heart sank as he thought of +the enormous power arrayed against him, the ease with which any Party +intellectual would overthrow him in debate, the subtle arguments which he +would not be able to understand, much less answer. And yet he was in the +right! They were wrong and he was right. The obvious, the silly, and the +true had got to be defended. Truisms are true, hold on to that! The solid +world exists, its laws do not change. Stones are hard, water is wet, +objects unsupported fall towards the earth's centre. With the feeling that +he was speaking to O'Brien, and also that he was setting forth an important +axiom, he wrote: + + + Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that is +granted, all else follows. + + + + +Chapter 8 + + + +From somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of roasting +coffee--real coffee, not Victory Coffee--came floating out into the street. +Winston paused involuntarily. For perhaps two seconds he was back in the +half-forgotten world of his childhood. Then a door banged, seeming to cut +off the smell as abruptly as though it had been a sound. + +He had walked several kilometres over pavements, and his varicose ulcer +was throbbing. This was the second time in three weeks that he had missed +an evening at the Community Centre: a rash act, since you could be certain +that the number of your attendances at the Centre was carefully checked. +In principle a Party member had no spare time, and was never alone except +in bed. It was assumed that when he was not working, eating, or sleeping +he would be taking part in some kind of communal recreation: to do anything +that suggested a taste for solitude, even to go for a walk by yourself, +was always slightly dangerous. There was a word for it in Newspeak: +OWNLIFE, it was called, meaning individualism and eccentricity. But this +evening as he came out of the Ministry the balminess of the April air had +tempted him. The sky was a warmer blue than he had seen it that year, and +suddenly the long, noisy evening at the Centre, the boring, exhausting +games, the lectures, the creaking camaraderie oiled by gin, had seemed +intolerable. On impulse he had turned away from the bus-stop and wandered +off into the labyrinth of London, first south, then east, then north again, +losing himself among unknown streets and hardly bothering in which +direction he was going. + +'If there is hope,' he had written in the diary, 'it lies in the proles.' +The words kept coming back to him, statement of a mystical truth and a +palpable absurdity. He was somewhere in the vague, brown-coloured slums +to the north and east of what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He was +walking up a cobbled street of little two-storey houses with battered +doorways which gave straight on the pavement and which were somehow +curiously suggestive of ratholes. There were puddles of filthy water here +and there among the cobbles. In and out of the dark doorways, and down +narrow alley-ways that branched off on either side, people swarmed in +astonishing numbers--girls in full bloom, with crudely lipsticked mouths, +and youths who chased the girls, and swollen waddling women who showed you +what the girls would be like in ten years' time, and old bent creatures +shuffling along on splayed feet, and ragged barefooted children who played +in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells from their mothers. +Perhaps a quarter of the windows in the street were broken and boarded up. +Most of the people paid no attention to Winston; a few eyed him with a +sort of guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red forearms +folded across their aprons were talking outside a doorway. Winston caught +scraps of conversation as he approached. + +'"Yes," I says to 'er, "that's all very well," I says. "But if you'd of +been in my place you'd of done the same as what I done. It's easy to +criticize," I says, "but you ain't got the same problems as what I got."' + +'Ah,' said the other, 'that's jest it. That's jest where it is.' + +The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women studied him in hostile +silence as he went past. But it was not hostility, exactly; merely a kind +of wariness, a momentary stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar +animal. The blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in a +street like this. Indeed, it was unwise to be seen in such places, unless +you had definite business there. The patrols might stop you if you happened +to run into them. 'May I see your papers, comrade? What are you doing here? +What time did you leave work? Is this your usual way home?'--and so on and +so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking home by an unusual +route: but it was enough to draw attention to you if the Thought Police +heard about it. + +Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There were yells of warning +from all sides. People were shooting into the doorways like rabbits. A +young woman leapt out of a doorway a little ahead of Winston, grabbed up a +tiny child playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it, and leapt back +again, all in one movement. At the same instant a man in a concertina-like +black suit, who had emerged from a side alley, ran towards Winston, +pointing excitedly to the sky. + +'Steamer!' he yelled. 'Look out, guv'nor! Bang over'ead! Lay down quick!' + +'Steamer' was a nickname which, for some reason, the proles applied to +rocket bombs. Winston promptly flung himself on his face. The proles were +nearly always right when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed +to possess some kind of instinct which told them several seconds in advance +when a rocket was coming, although the rockets supposedly travelled faster +than sound. Winston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar +that seemed to make the pavement heave; a shower of light objects pattered +on to his back. When he stood up he found that he was covered with +fragments of glass from the nearest window. + +He walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of houses 200 metres up the +street. A black plume of smoke hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of +plaster dust in which a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There +was a little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him, and in +the middle of it he could see a bright red streak. When he got up to it he +saw that it was a human hand severed at the wrist. Apart from the bloody +stump, the hand was so completely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast. + +He kicked the thing into the gutter, and then, to avoid the crowd, turned +down a side-street to the right. Within three or four minutes he was out +of the area which the bomb had affected, and the sordid swarming life of +the streets was going on as though nothing had happened. It was nearly +twenty hours, and the drinking-shops which the proles frequented ('pubs', +they called them) were choked with customers. From their grimy swing doors, +endlessly opening and shutting, there came forth a smell of urine, sawdust, +and sour beer. In an angle formed by a projecting house-front three men +were standing very close together, the middle one of them holding a +folded-up newspaper which the other two were studying over his shoulder. +Even before he was near enough to make out the expression on their faces, +Winston could see absorption in every line of their bodies. It was +obviously some serious piece of news that they were reading. He was a few +paces away from them when suddenly the group broke up and two of the men +were in violent altercation. For a moment they seemed almost on the point +of blows. + +'Can't you bleeding well listen to what I say? I tell you no number ending +in seven ain't won for over fourteen months!' + +'Yes, it 'as, then!' + +'No, it 'as not! Back 'ome I got the 'ole lot of 'em for over two years +wrote down on a piece of paper. I takes 'em down reg'lar as the clock. An' +I tell you, no number ending in seven----' + +'Yes, a seven 'AS won! I could pretty near tell you the bleeding number. +Four oh seven, it ended in. It were in February--second week in February.' + +'February your grandmother! I got it all down in black and white. An' I +tell you, no number----' + +'Oh, pack it in!' said the third man. + +They were talking about the Lottery. Winston looked back when he had gone +thirty metres. They were still arguing, with vivid, passionate faces. +The Lottery, with its weekly pay-out of enormous prizes, was the one public +event to which the proles paid serious attention. It was probable that +there were some millions of proles for whom the Lottery was the principal +if not the only reason for remaining alive. It was their delight, their +folly, their anodyne, their intellectual stimulant. Where the Lottery was +concerned, even people who could barely read and write seemed capable of +intricate calculations and staggering feats of memory. There was a whole +tribe of men who made a living simply by selling systems, forecasts, and +lucky amulets. Winston had nothing to do with the running of the Lottery, +which was managed by the Ministry of Plenty, but he was aware (indeed +everyone in the party was aware) that the prizes were largely imaginary. +Only small sums were actually paid out, the winners of the big prizes being +non-existent persons. In the absence of any real intercommunication between +one part of Oceania and another, this was not difficult to arrange. + +But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling on to that. +When you put it in words it sounded reasonable: it was when you looked at +the human beings passing you on the pavement that it became an act of +faith. The street into which he had turned ran downhill. He had a feeling +that he had been in this neighbourhood before, and that there was a main +thoroughfare not far away. From somewhere ahead there came a din of +shouting voices. The street took a sharp turn and then ended in a flight +of steps which led down into a sunken alley where a few stall-keepers +were selling tired-looking vegetables. At this moment Winston remembered +where he was. The alley led out into the main street, and down the next +turning, not five minutes away, was the junk-shop where he had bought the +blank book which was now his diary. And in a small stationer's shop not +far away he had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink. + +He paused for a moment at the top of the steps. On the opposite side of +the alley there was a dingy little pub whose windows appeared to be frosted +over but in reality were merely coated with dust. A very old man, bent but +active, with white moustaches that bristled forward like those of a prawn, +pushed open the swing door and went in. As Winston stood watching, it +occurred to him that the old man, who must be eighty at the least, had +already been middle-aged when the Revolution happened. He and a few others +like him were the last links that now existed with the vanished world of +capitalism. In the Party itself there were not many people left whose ideas +had been formed before the Revolution. The older generation had mostly +been wiped out in the great purges of the fifties and sixties, and the few +who survived had long ago been terrified into complete intellectual +surrender. If there was any one still alive who could give you a truthful +account of conditions in the early part of the century, it could only be a +prole. Suddenly the passage from the history book that he had copied into +his diary came back into Winston's mind, and a lunatic impulse took hold +of him. He would go into the pub, he would scrape acquaintance with that +old man and question him. He would say to him: 'Tell me about your life +when you were a boy. What was it like in those days? Were things better +than they are now, or were they worse?' + +Hurriedly, lest he should have time to become frightened, he descended the +steps and crossed the narrow street. It was madness of course. As usual, +there was no definite rule against talking to proles and frequenting their +pubs, but it was far too unusual an action to pass unnoticed. If the +patrols appeared he might plead an attack of faintness, but it was not +likely that they would believe him. He pushed open the door, and a hideous +cheesy smell of sour beer hit him in the face. As he entered the din of +voices dropped to about half its volume. Behind his back he could feel +everyone eyeing his blue overalls. A game of darts which was going on at +the other end of the room interrupted itself for perhaps as much as thirty +seconds. The old man whom he had followed was standing at the bar, having +some kind of altercation with the barman, a large, stout, hook-nosed young +man with enormous forearms. A knot of others, standing round with glasses +in their hands, were watching the scene. + +'I arst you civil enough, didn't I?' said the old man, straightening his +shoulders pugnaciously. 'You telling me you ain't got a pint mug in the +'ole bleeding boozer?' + +'And what in hell's name IS a pint?' said the barman, leaning forward with +the tips of his fingers on the counter. + +''Ark at 'im! Calls 'isself a barman and don't know what a pint is! Why, +a pint's the 'alf of a quart, and there's four quarts to the gallon. +'Ave to teach you the A, B, C next.' + +'Never heard of 'em,' said the barman shortly. 'Litre and half +litre--that's all we serve. There's the glasses on the shelf in front +of you.' + +'I likes a pint,' persisted the old man. 'You could 'a drawed me off a pint +easy enough. We didn't 'ave these bleeding litres when I was a young man.' + +'When you were a young man we were all living in the treetops,' said the +barman, with a glance at the other customers. + +There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused by Winston's entry +seemed to disappear. The old man's white-stubbled face had flushed pink. He +turned away, muttering to himself, and bumped into Winston. Winston caught +him gently by the arm. + +'May I offer you a drink?' he said. + +'You're a gent,' said the other, straightening his shoulders again. He +appeared not to have noticed Winston's blue overalls. 'Pint!' he added +aggressively to the barman. 'Pint of wallop.' + +The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer into thick glasses +which he had rinsed in a bucket under the counter. Beer was the only drink +you could get in prole pubs. The proles were supposed not to drink gin, +though in practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The game of +darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar had begun +talking about lottery tickets. Winston's presence was forgotten for a +moment. There was a deal table under the window where he and the old man +could talk without fear of being overheard. It was horribly dangerous, but +at any rate there was no telescreen in the room, a point he had made sure +of as soon as he came in. + +''E could 'a drawed me off a pint,' grumbled the old man as he settled down +behind a glass. 'A 'alf litre ain't enough. It don't satisfy. And a 'ole +litre's too much. It starts my bladder running. Let alone the price.' + +'You must have seen great changes since you were a young man,' said +Winston tentatively. + +The old man's pale blue eyes moved from the darts board to the bar, and +from the bar to the door of the Gents, as though it were in the bar-room +that he expected the changes to have occurred. + +'The beer was better,' he said finally. 'And cheaper! When I was a young +man, mild beer--wallop we used to call it--was fourpence a pint. That was +before the war, of course.' + +'Which war was that?' said Winston. + +'It's all wars,' said the old man vaguely. He took up his glass, and his +shoulders straightened again. ''Ere's wishing you the very best of 'ealth!' + +In his lean throat the sharp-pointed Adam's apple made a surprisingly rapid +up-and-down movement, and the beer vanished. Winston went to the bar and +came back with two more half-litres. The old man appeared to have forgotten +his prejudice against drinking a full litre. + +'You are very much older than I am,' said Winston. 'You must have been a +grown man before I was born. You can remember what it was like in the old +days, before the Revolution. People of my age don't really know anything +about those times. We can only read about them in books, and what it says +in the books may not be true. I should like your opinion on that. The +history books say that life before the Revolution was completely different +from what it is now. There was the most terrible oppression, injustice, +poverty worse than anything we can imagine. Here in London, the great mass +of the people never had enough to eat from birth to death. Half of them +hadn't even boots on their feet. They worked twelve hours a day, they left +school at nine, they slept ten in a room. And at the same time there were +a very few people, only a few thousands--the capitalists, they were +called--who were rich and powerful. They owned everything that there was +to own. They lived in great gorgeous houses with thirty servants, they +rode about in motor-cars and four-horse carriages, they drank champagne, +they wore top hats----' + +The old man brightened suddenly. + +'Top 'ats!' he said. 'Funny you should mention 'em. The same thing come +into my 'ead only yesterday, I dono why. I was jest thinking, I ain't seen +a top 'at in years. Gorn right out, they 'ave. The last time I wore one +was at my sister-in-law's funeral. And that was--well, I couldn't give you +the date, but it must'a been fifty years ago. Of course it was only 'ired +for the occasion, you understand.' + +'It isn't very important about the top hats,' said Winston patiently. +'The point is, these capitalists--they and a few lawyers and priests and +so forth who lived on them--were the lords of the earth. Everything existed +for their benefit. You--the ordinary people, the workers--were their +slaves. They could do what they liked with you. They could ship you off to +Canada like cattle. They could sleep with your daughters if they chose. +They could order you to be flogged with something called a cat-o'-nine +tails. You had to take your cap off when you passed them. Every capitalist +went about with a gang of lackeys who----' + +The old man brightened again. + +'Lackeys!' he said. 'Now there's a word I ain't 'eard since ever so long. +Lackeys! That reg'lar takes me back, that does. I recollect--oh, donkey's +years ago--I used to sometimes go to 'Yde Park of a Sunday afternoon to +'ear the blokes making speeches. Salvation Army, Roman Catholics, Jews, +Indians--all sorts there was. And there was one bloke--well, I couldn't +give you 'is name, but a real powerful speaker 'e was. 'E didn't 'alf +give it 'em! "Lackeys!" 'e says, "lackeys of the bourgeoisie! Flunkies of +the ruling class!" Parasites--that was another of them. And 'yenas--'e +definitely called 'em 'yenas. Of course 'e was referring to the Labour +Party, you understand.' + +Winston had the feeling that they were talking at cross-purposes. + +'What I really wanted to know was this,' he said. 'Do you feel that you +have more freedom now than you had in those days? Are you treated more +like a human being? In the old days, the rich people, the people at the +top----' + +'The 'Ouse of Lords,' put in the old man reminiscently. + +'The House of Lords, if you like. What I am asking is, were these people +able to treat you as an inferior, simply because they were rich and you +were poor? Is it a fact, for instance, that you had to call them "Sir" and +take off your cap when you passed them?' + +The old man appeared to think deeply. He drank off about a quarter of his +beer before answering. + +'Yes,' he said. 'They liked you to touch your cap to 'em. It showed +respect, like. I didn't agree with it, myself, but I done it often enough. +Had to, as you might say.' + +'And was it usual--I'm only quoting what I've read in history books--was +it usual for these people and their servants to push you off the pavement +into the gutter?' + +'One of 'em pushed me once,' said the old man. 'I recollect it as if it +was yesterday. It was Boat Race night--terribly rowdy they used to get on +Boat Race night--and I bumps into a young bloke on Shaftesbury Avenue. +Quite a gent, 'e was--dress shirt, top 'at, black overcoat. 'E was kind +of zig-zagging across the pavement, and I bumps into 'im accidental-like. +'E says, "Why can't you look where you're going?" 'e says. I say, "Ju think +you've bought the bleeding pavement?" 'E says, "I'll twist your bloody 'ead +off if you get fresh with me." I says, "You're drunk. I'll give you in +charge in 'alf a minute," I says. An' if you'll believe me, 'e puts 'is +'and on my chest and gives me a shove as pretty near sent me under the +wheels of a bus. Well, I was young in them days, and I was going to 'ave +fetched 'im one, only----' + +A sense of helplessness took hold of Winston. The old man's memory was +nothing but a rubbish-heap of details. One could question him all day +without getting any real information. The party histories might still be +true, after a fashion: they might even be completely true. He made a last +attempt. + +'Perhaps I have not made myself clear,' he said. 'What I'm trying to say +is this. You have been alive a very long time; you lived half your life +before the Revolution. In 1925, for instance, you were already grown up. +Would you say from what you can remember, that life in 1925 was better +than it is now, or worse? If you could choose, would you prefer to live +then or now?' + +The old man looked meditatively at the darts board. He finished up his +beer, more slowly than before. When he spoke it was with a tolerant +philosophical air, as though the beer had mellowed him. + +'I know what you expect me to say,' he said. 'You expect me to say as I'd +sooner be young again. Most people'd say they'd sooner be young, if you +arst 'em. You got your 'ealth and strength when you're young. When you +get to my time of life you ain't never well. I suffer something wicked +from my feet, and my bladder's jest terrible. Six and seven times a night +it 'as me out of bed. On the other 'and, there's great advantages in being +a old man. You ain't got the same worries. No truck with women, and that's +a great thing. I ain't 'ad a woman for near on thirty year, if you'd +credit it. Nor wanted to, what's more.' + +Winston sat back against the window-sill. It was no use going on. He was +about to buy some more beer when the old man suddenly got up and shuffled +rapidly into the stinking urinal at the side of the room. The extra +half-litre was already working on him. Winston sat for a minute or two +gazing at his empty glass, and hardly noticed when his feet carried him out +into the street again. Within twenty years at the most, he reflected, the +huge and simple question, 'Was life better before the Revolution than it +is now?' would have ceased once and for all to be answerable. But in effect +it was unanswerable even now, since the few scattered survivors from the +ancient world were incapable of comparing one age with another. They +remembered a million useless things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for +a lost bicycle pump, the expression on a long-dead sister's face, the +swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but all the relevant +facts were outside the range of their vision. They were like the ant, +which can see small objects but not large ones. And when memory failed and +written records were falsified--when that happened, the claim of the Party +to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted, +because there did not exist, and never again could exist, any standard +against which it could be tested. + +At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly. He halted and looked +up. He was in a narrow street, with a few dark little shops, interspersed +among dwelling-houses. Immediately above his head there hung three +discoloured metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded. He +seemed to know the place. Of course! He was standing outside the junk-shop +where he had bought the diary. + +A twinge of fear went through him. It had been a sufficiently rash act to +buy the book in the beginning, and he had sworn never to come near the +place again. And yet the instant that he allowed his thoughts to wander, +his feet had brought him back here of their own accord. It was precisely +against suicidal impulses of this kind that he had hoped to guard himself +by opening the diary. At the same time he noticed that although it was +nearly twenty-one hours the shop was still open. With the feeling that he +would be less conspicuous inside than hanging about on the pavement, he +stepped through the doorway. If questioned, he could plausibly say that +he was trying to buy razor blades. + +The proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp which gave off an +unclean but friendly smell. He was a man of perhaps sixty, frail and +bowed, with a long, benevolent nose, and mild eyes distorted by thick +spectacles. His hair was almost white, but his eyebrows were bushy and +still black. His spectacles, his gentle, fussy movements, and the fact +that he was wearing an aged jacket of black velvet, gave him a vague air +of intellectuality, as though he had been some kind of literary man, or +perhaps a musician. His voice was soft, as though faded, and his accent +less debased than that of the majority of proles. + +'I recognized you on the pavement,' he said immediately. 'You're the +gentleman that bought the young lady's keepsake album. That was a beautiful +bit of paper, that was. Cream-laid, it used to be called. There's been no +paper like that made for--oh, I dare say fifty years.' He peered at Winston +over the top of his spectacles. 'Is there anything special I can do for +you? Or did you just want to look round?' + +'I was passing,' said Winston vaguely. 'I just looked in. I don't want +anything in particular.' + +'It's just as well,' said the other, 'because I don't suppose I could have +satisfied you.' He made an apologetic gesture with his softpalmed hand. +'You see how it is; an empty shop, you might say. Between you and me, the +antique trade's just about finished. No demand any longer, and no stock +either. Furniture, china, glass it's all been broken up by degrees. And +of course the metal stuff's mostly been melted down. I haven't seen a brass +candlestick in years.' + +The tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably full, but there +was almost nothing in it of the slightest value. The floorspace was very +restricted, because all round the walls were stacked innumerable dusty +picture-frames. In the window there were trays of nuts and bolts, worn-out +chisels, penknives with broken blades, tarnished watches that did not even +pretend to be in going order, and other miscellaneous rubbish. Only on a +small table in the corner was there a litter of odds and ends--lacquered +snuffboxes, agate brooches, and the like--which looked as though they might +include something interesting. As Winston wandered towards the table his +eye was caught by a round, smooth thing that gleamed softly in the +lamplight, and he picked it up. + +It was a heavy lump of glass, curved on one side, flat on the other, making +almost a hemisphere. There was a peculiar softness, as of rainwater, in +both the colour and the texture of the glass. At the heart of it, magnified +by the curved surface, there was a strange, pink, convoluted object that +recalled a rose or a sea anemone. + +'What is it?' said Winston, fascinated. + +'That's coral, that is,' said the old man. 'It must have come from the +Indian Ocean. They used to kind of embed it in the glass. That wasn't made +less than a hundred years ago. More, by the look of it.' + +'It's a beautiful thing,' said Winston. + +'It is a beautiful thing,' said the other appreciatively. 'But there's not +many that'd say so nowadays.' He coughed. 'Now, if it so happened that you +wanted to buy it, that'd cost you four dollars. I can remember when a thing +like that would have fetched eight pounds, and eight pounds was--well, I +can't work it out, but it was a lot of money. But who cares about genuine +antiques nowadays--even the few that's left?' + +Winston immediately paid over the four dollars and slid the coveted thing +into his pocket. What appealed to him about it was not so much its beauty +as the air it seemed to possess of belonging to an age quite different +from the present one. The soft, rainwatery glass was not like any glass +that he had ever seen. The thing was doubly attractive because of its +apparent uselessness, though he could guess that it must once have been +intended as a paperweight. It was very heavy in his pocket, but fortunately +it did not make much of a bulge. It was a queer thing, even a compromising +thing, for a Party member to have in his possession. Anything old, and for +that matter anything beautiful, was always vaguely suspect. The old man had +grown noticeably more cheerful after receiving the four dollars. Winston +realized that he would have accepted three or even two. + +'There's another room upstairs that you might care to take a look at,' he +said. 'There's not much in it. Just a few pieces. We'll do with a light if +we're going upstairs.' + +He lit another lamp, and, with bowed back, led the way slowly up the +steep and worn stairs and along a tiny passage, into a room which did +not give on the street but looked out on a cobbled yard and a forest of +chimney-pots. Winston noticed that the furniture was still arranged as +though the room were meant to be lived in. There was a strip of carpet on +the floor, a picture or two on the walls, and a deep, slatternly arm-chair +drawn up to the fireplace. An old-fashioned glass clock with a twelve-hour +face was ticking away on the mantelpiece. Under the window, and occupying +nearly a quarter of the room, was an enormous bed with the mattress still +on it. + +'We lived here till my wife died,' said the old man half apologetically. +'I'm selling the furniture off by little and little. Now that's a beautiful +mahogany bed, or at least it would be if you could get the bugs out of it. +But I dare say you'd find it a little bit cumbersome.' + +He was holding the lamp high up, so as to illuminate the whole room, and +in the warm dim light the place looked curiously inviting. The thought +flitted through Winston's mind that it would probably be quite easy to +rent the room for a few dollars a week, if he dared to take the risk. It +was a wild, impossible notion, to be abandoned as soon as thought of; but +the room had awakened in him a sort of nostalgia, a sort of ancestral +memory. It seemed to him that he knew exactly what it felt like to sit in +a room like this, in an arm-chair beside an open fire with your feet in +the fender and a kettle on the hob; utterly alone, utterly secure, with +nobody watching you, no voice pursuing you, no sound except the singing +of the kettle and the friendly ticking of the clock. + +'There's no telescreen!' he could not help murmuring. + +'Ah,' said the old man, 'I never had one of those things. Too expensive. +And I never seemed to feel the need of it, somehow. Now that's a nice +gateleg table in the corner there. Though of course you'd have to put new +hinges on it if you wanted to use the flaps.' + +There was a small bookcase in the other corner, and Winston had already +gravitated towards it. It contained nothing but rubbish. The hunting-down +and destruction of books had been done with the same thoroughness in the +prole quarters as everywhere else. It was very unlikely that there existed +anywhere in Oceania a copy of a book printed earlier than 1960. The old +man, still carrying the lamp, was standing in front of a picture in a +rosewood frame which hung on the other side of the fireplace, opposite +the bed. + +'Now, if you happen to be interested in old prints at all----' he began +delicately. + +Winston came across to examine the picture. It was a steel engraving of an +oval building with rectangular windows, and a small tower in front. There +was a railing running round the building, and at the rear end there was +what appeared to be a statue. Winston gazed at it for some moments. It +seemed vaguely familiar, though he did not remember the statue. + +'The frame's fixed to the wall,' said the old man, 'but I could unscrew it +for you, I dare say.' + +'I know that building,' said Winston finally. 'It's a ruin now. It's in +the middle of the street outside the Palace of Justice.' + +'That's right. Outside the Law Courts. It was bombed in--oh, many years +ago. It was a church at one time, St Clement Danes, its name was.' He +smiled apologetically, as though conscious of saying something slightly +ridiculous, and added: 'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's!' + +'What's that?' said Winston. + +'Oh--"Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's." That was a rhyme +we had when I was a little boy. How it goes on I don't remember, but I do +know it ended up, "Here comes a candle to light you to bed, Here comes a +chopper to chop off your head." It was a kind of a dance. They held out +their arms for you to pass under, and when they came to "Here comes a +chopper to chop off your head" they brought their arms down and caught you. +It was just names of churches. All the London churches were in it--all the +principal ones, that is.' + +Winston wondered vaguely to what century the church belonged. It was always +difficult to determine the age of a London building. Anything large and +impressive, if it was reasonably new in appearance, was automatically +claimed as having been built since the Revolution, while anything that was +obviously of earlier date was ascribed to some dim period called the Middle +Ages. The centuries of capitalism were held to have produced nothing of any +value. One could not learn history from architecture any more than one +could learn it from books. Statues, inscriptions, memorial stones, the +names of streets--anything that might throw light upon the past had been +systematically altered. + +'I never knew it had been a church,' he said. + +'There's a lot of them left, really,' said the old man, 'though they've +been put to other uses. Now, how did that rhyme go? Ah! I've got it! + + + "Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's, + You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's----" + + +there, now, that's as far as I can get. A farthing, that was a small copper +coin, looked something like a cent.' + +'Where was St Martin's?' said Winston. + +'St Martin's? That's still standing. It's in Victory Square, alongside the +picture gallery. A building with a kind of a triangular porch and pillars +in front, and a big flight of steps.' + +Winston knew the place well. It was a museum used for propaganda displays +of various kinds--scale models of rocket bombs and Floating Fortresses, +waxwork tableaux illustrating enemy atrocities, and the like. + +'St Martin's-in-the-Fields it used to be called,' supplemented the old man, +'though I don't recollect any fields anywhere in those parts.' + +Winston did not buy the picture. It would have been an even more +incongruous possession than the glass paperweight, and impossible to carry +home, unless it were taken out of its frame. But he lingered for some +minutes more, talking to the old man, whose name, he discovered, was not +Weeks--as one might have gathered from the inscription over the +shop-front--but Charrington. Mr Charrington, it seemed, was a widower aged +sixty-three and had inhabited this shop for thirty years. Throughout that +time he had been intending to alter the name over the window, but had never +quite got to the point of doing it. All the while that they were talking +the half-remembered rhyme kept running through Winston's head. Oranges and +lemons say the bells of St Clement's, You owe me three farthings, say +the bells of St Martin's! It was curious, but when you said it to yourself +you had the illusion of actually hearing bells, the bells of a lost London +that still existed somewhere or other, disguised and forgotten. From one +ghostly steeple after another he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so +far as he could remember he had never in real life heard church bells +ringing. + +He got away from Mr Charrington and went down the stairs alone, so as not +to let the old man see him reconnoitring the street before stepping out of +the door. He had already made up his mind that after a suitable +interval--a month, say--he would take the risk of visiting the shop again. +It was perhaps not more dangerous than shirking an evening at the Centre. +The serious piece of folly had been to come back here in the first place, +after buying the diary and without knowing whether the proprietor of the +shop could be trusted. However----! + +Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He would buy further scraps of +beautiful rubbish. He would buy the engraving of St Clement Danes, take +it out of its frame, and carry it home concealed under the jacket of his +overalls. He would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr Charrington's +memory. Even the lunatic project of renting the room upstairs flashed +momentarily through his mind again. For perhaps five seconds exaltation +made him careless, and he stepped out on to the pavement without so much +as a preliminary glance through the window. He had even started humming +to an improvised tune + + + Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's, + You owe me three farthings, say the---- + + +Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bowels to water. A figure +in blue overalls was coming down the pavement, not ten metres away. It was +the girl from the Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The light +was failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She looked +him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as though she had not +seen him. + +For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. Then he turned to the +right and walked heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he was +going in the wrong direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There +was no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She must have +followed him here, because it was not credible that by pure chance she +should have happened to be walking on the same evening up the same obscure +backstreet, kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members lived. +It was too great a coincidence. Whether she was really an agent of the +Thought Police, or simply an amateur spy actuated by officiousness, hardly +mattered. It was enough that she was watching him. Probably she had seen +him go into the pub as well. + +It was an effort to walk. The lump of glass in his pocket banged against +his thigh at each step, and he was half minded to take it out and throw it +away. The worst thing was the pain in his belly. For a couple of minutes +he had the feeling that he would die if he did not reach a lavatory soon. +But there would be no public lavatories in a quarter like this. Then the +spasm passed, leaving a dull ache behind. + +The street was a blind alley. Winston halted, stood for several seconds +wondering vaguely what to do, then turned round and began to retrace his +steps. As he turned it occurred to him that the girl had only passed him +three minutes ago and that by running he could probably catch up with her. +He could keep on her track till they were in some quiet place, and then +smash her skull in with a cobblestone. The piece of glass in his pocket +would be heavy enough for the job. But he abandoned the idea immediately, +because even the thought of making any physical effort was unbearable. He +could not run, he could not strike a blow. Besides, she was young and lusty +and would defend herself. He thought also of hurrying to the Community +Centre and staying there till the place closed, so as to establish a +partial alibi for the evening. But that too was impossible. A deadly +lassitude had taken hold of him. All he wanted was to get home quickly and +then sit down and be quiet. + +It was after twenty-two hours when he got back to the flat. The lights +would be switched off at the main at twenty-three thirty. He went into the +kitchen and swallowed nearly a teacupful of Victory Gin. Then he went to +the table in the alcove, sat down, and took the diary out of the drawer. +But he did not open it at once. From the telescreen a brassy female voice +was squalling a patriotic song. He sat staring at the marbled cover of the +book, trying without success to shut the voice out of his consciousness. + +It was at night that they came for you, always at night. The proper thing +was to kill yourself before they got you. Undoubtedly some people did so. +Many of the disappearances were actually suicides. But it needed desperate +courage to kill yourself in a world where firearms, or any quick and +certain poison, were completely unprocurable. He thought with a kind of +astonishment of the biological uselessness of pain and fear, the treachery +of the human body which always freezes into inertia at exactly the moment +when a special effort is needed. He might have silenced the dark-haired +girl if only he had acted quickly enough: but precisely because of the +extremity of his danger he had lost the power to act. It struck him that +in moments of crisis one is never fighting against an external enemy, but +always against one's own body. Even now, in spite of the gin, the dull +ache in his belly made consecutive thought impossible. And it is the same, +he perceived, in all seemingly heroic or tragic situations. On the +battlefield, in the torture chamber, on a sinking ship, the issues that +you are fighting for are always forgotten, because the body swells up until +it fills the universe, and even when you are not paralysed by fright or +screaming with pain, life is a moment-to-moment struggle against hunger or +cold or sleeplessness, against a sour stomach or an aching tooth. + +He opened the diary. It was important to write something down. The woman +on the telescreen had started a new song. Her voice seemed to stick into +his brain like jagged splinters of glass. He tried to think of O'Brien, +for whom, or to whom, the diary was written, but instead he began thinking +of the things that would happen to him after the Thought Police took him +away. It would not matter if they killed you at once. To be killed was +what you expected. But before death (nobody spoke of such things, yet +everybody knew of them) there was the routine of confession that had to +be gone through: the grovelling on the floor and screaming for mercy, the +crack of broken bones, the smashed teeth and bloody clots of hair. + +Why did you have to endure it, since the end was always the same? Why was +it not possible to cut a few days or weeks out of your life? Nobody ever +escaped detection, and nobody ever failed to confess. When once you had +succumbed to thoughtcrime it was certain that by a given date you would be +dead. Why then did that horror, which altered nothing, have to lie embedded +in future time? + +He tried with a little more success than before to summon up the image of +O'Brien. 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' O'Brien +had said to him. He knew what it meant, or thought he knew. The place where +there is no darkness was the imagined future, which one would never see, +but which, by foreknowledge, one could mystically share in. But with the +voice from the telescreen nagging at his ears he could not follow the train +of thought further. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Half the tobacco +promptly fell out on to his tongue, a bitter dust which was difficult to +spit out again. The face of Big Brother swam into his mind, displacing that +of O'Brien. Just as he had done a few days earlier, he slid a coin out of +his pocket and looked at it. The face gazed up at him, heavy, calm, +protecting: but what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache? +Like a leaden knell the words came back at him: + + + WAR IS PEACE + FREEDOM IS SLAVERY + IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH + + + + + +PART TWO + + + + +Chapter 1 + + + +It was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left the cubicle to go +to the lavatory. + +A solitary figure was coming towards him from the other end of the long, +brightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair. Four days had gone +past since the evening when he had run into her outside the junk-shop. +As she came nearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling, not noticeable +at a distance because it was of the same colour as her overalls. Probably +she had crushed her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes +on which the plots of novels were 'roughed in'. It was a common accident +in the Fiction Department. + +They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and fell almost +flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was wrung out of her. She must have +fallen right on the injured arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen +to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which her +mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his, with an +appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain. + +A curious emotion stirred in Winston's heart. In front of him was an enemy +who was trying to kill him: in front of him, also, was a human creature, +in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had instinctively +started forward to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on +the bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his own body. + +'You're hurt?' he said. + +'It's nothing. My arm. It'll be all right in a second.' + +She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly turned +very pale. + +'You haven't broken anything?' + +'No, I'm all right. It hurt for a moment, that's all.' + +She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had regained +some of her colour, and appeared very much better. + +'It's nothing,' she repeated shortly. 'I only gave my wrist a bit of a +bang. Thanks, comrade!' + +And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going, +as briskly as though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could +not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one's feelings appear +in one's face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, +and in any case they had been standing straight in front of a telescreen +when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to +betray a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he was +helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no +question that she had done it intentionally. It was something small and +flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his +pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper +folded into a square. + +While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little more fingering, to +get it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some kind written on +it. For a moment he was tempted to take it into one of the water-closets +and read it at once. But that would be shocking folly, as he well knew. +There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens +were watched continuously. + +He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper +casually among the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles and +hitched the speakwrite towards him. 'Five minutes,' he told himself, +'five minutes at the very least!' His heart bumped in his breast with +frightening loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on was +mere routine, the rectification of a long list of figures, not needing +close attention. + +Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political +meaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One, much +the more likely, was that the girl was an agent of the Thought Police, +just as he had feared. He did not know why the Thought Police should +choose to deliver their messages in such a fashion, but perhaps they had +their reasons. The thing that was written on the paper might be a threat, a +summons, an order to commit suicide, a trap of some description. But there +was another, wilder possibility that kept raising its head, though he +tried vainly to suppress it. This was, that the message did not come from +the Thought Police at all, but from some kind of underground organization. +Perhaps the Brotherhood existed after all! Perhaps the girl was part of it! +No doubt the idea was absurd, but it had sprung into his mind in the very +instant of feeling the scrap of paper in his hand. It was not till a couple +of minutes later that the other, more probable explanation had occurred to +him. And even now, though his intellect told him that the message probably +meant death--still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable +hope persisted, and his heart banged, and it was with difficulty that he +kept his voice from trembling as he murmured his figures into the +speakwrite. + +He rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it into the pneumatic +tube. Eight minutes had gone by. He re-adjusted his spectacles on his nose, +sighed, and drew the next batch of work towards him, with the scrap of +paper on top of it. He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large +unformed handwriting: + +I LOVE YOU. + +For several seconds he was too stunned even to throw the incriminating +thing into the memory hole. When he did so, although he knew very well the +danger of showing too much interest, he could not resist reading it once +again, just to make sure that the words were really there. + +For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. What was even +worse than having to focus his mind on a series of niggling jobs was the +need to conceal his agitation from the telescreen. He felt as though a +fire were burning in his belly. Lunch in the hot, crowded, noise-filled +canteen was torment. He had hoped to be alone for a little while during +the lunch hour, but as bad luck would have it the imbecile Parsons flopped +down beside him, the tang of his sweat almost defeating the tinny smell of +stew, and kept up a stream of talk about the preparations for Hate Week. +He was particularly enthusiastic about a papier-mache model of Big +Brother's head, two metres wide, which was being made for the occasion by +his daughter's troop of Spies. The irritating thing was that in the racket +of voices Winston could hardly hear what Parsons was saying, and was +constantly having to ask for some fatuous remark to be repeated. Just once +he caught a glimpse of the girl, at a table with two other girls at the +far end of the room. She appeared not to have seen him, and he did not +look in that direction again. + +The afternoon was more bearable. Immediately after lunch there arrived a +delicate, difficult piece of work which would take several hours and +necessitated putting everything else aside. It consisted in falsifying a +series of production reports of two years ago, in such a way as to cast +discredit on a prominent member of the Inner Party, who was now under a +cloud. This was the kind of thing that Winston was good at, and for more +than two hours he succeeded in shutting the girl out of his mind +altogether. Then the memory of her face came back, and with it a raging, +intolerable desire to be alone. Until he could be alone it was impossible +to think this new development out. Tonight was one of his nights at the +Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal in the canteen, hurried +off to the Centre, took part in the solemn foolery of a 'discussion group', +played two games of table tennis, swallowed several glasses of gin, and +sat for half an hour through a lecture entitled 'Ingsoc in relation to +chess'. His soul writhed with boredom, but for once he had had no impulse +to shirk his evening at the Centre. At the sight of the words I LOVE YOU +the desire to stay alive had welled up in him, and the taking of minor +risks suddenly seemed stupid. It was not till twenty-three hours, when he +was home and in bed--in the darkness, where you were safe even from the +telescreen so long as you kept silent--that he was able to think +continuously. + +It was a physical problem that had to be solved: how to get in touch with +the girl and arrange a meeting. He did not consider any longer the +possibility that she might be laying some kind of trap for him. He knew +that it was not so, because of her unmistakable agitation when she handed +him the note. Obviously she had been frightened out of her wits, as well +she might be. Nor did the idea of refusing her advances even cross his +mind. Only five nights ago he had contemplated smashing her skull in with +a cobblestone, but that was of no importance. He thought of her naked, +youthful body, as he had seen it in his dream. He had imagined her a fool +like all the rest of them, her head stuffed with lies and hatred, her +belly full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at the thought that he might +lose her, the white youthful body might slip away from him! What he feared +more than anything else was that she would simply change her mind if he +did not get in touch with her quickly. But the physical difficulty of +meeting was enormous. It was like trying to make a move at chess when you +were already mated. Whichever way you turned, the telescreen faced you. +Actually, all the possible ways of communicating with her had occurred to +him within five minutes of reading the note; but now, with time to think, +he went over them one by one, as though laying out a row of instruments +on a table. + +Obviously the kind of encounter that had happened this morning could not +be repeated. If she had worked in the Records Department it might have +been comparatively simple, but he had only a very dim idea whereabouts in +the building the Fiction Department lay, and he had no pretext for going +there. If he had known where she lived, and at what time she left work, +he could have contrived to meet her somewhere on her way home; but to try +to follow her home was not safe, because it would mean loitering about +outside the Ministry, which was bound to be noticed. As for sending a +letter through the mails, it was out of the question. By a routine that +was not even secret, all letters were opened in transit. Actually, few +people ever wrote letters. For the messages that it was occasionally +necessary to send, there were printed postcards with long lists of phrases, +and you struck out the ones that were inapplicable. In any case he did not +know the girl's name, let alone her address. Finally he decided that the +safest place was the canteen. If he could get her at a table by herself, +somewhere in the middle of the room, not too near the telescreens, and +with a sufficient buzz of conversation all round--if these conditions +endured for, say, thirty seconds, it might be possible to exchange a few +words. + +For a week after this, life was like a restless dream. On the next day she +did not appear in the canteen until he was leaving it, the whistle having +already blown. Presumably she had been changed on to a later shift. They +passed each other without a glance. On the day after that she was in the +canteen at the usual time, but with three other girls and immediately +under a telescreen. Then for three dreadful days she did not appear at +all. His whole mind and body seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable +sensitivity, a sort of transparency, which made every movement, every +sound, every contact, every word that he had to speak or listen to, an +agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from her image. He did +not touch the diary during those days. If there was any relief, it was in +his work, in which he could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at a +stretch. He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her. There +was no enquiry he could make. She might have been vaporized, she might +have committed suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end +of Oceania: worst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her +mind and decided to avoid him. + +The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and she had a +band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief of seeing her was +so great that he could not resist staring directly at her for several +seconds. On the following day he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. +When he came into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the +wall, and was quite alone. It was early, and the place was not very full. +The queue edged forward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was +held up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that he +had not received his tablet of saccharine. But the girl was still alone +when Winston secured his tray and began to make for her table. He walked +casually towards her, his eyes searching for a place at some table beyond +her. She was perhaps three metres away from him. Another two seconds would +do it. Then a voice behind him called, 'Smith!' He pretended not to hear. +'Smith!' repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no use. He turned round. +A blond-headed, silly-faced young man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, +was inviting him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was not +safe to refuse. After having been recognized, he could not go and sit at +a table with an unattended girl. It was too noticeable. He sat down with +a friendly smile. The silly blond face beamed into his. Winston had a +hallucination of himself smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it. +The girl's table filled up a few minutes later. + +But she must have seen him coming towards her, and perhaps she would take +the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early. Surely enough, she was at +a table in about the same place, and again alone. The person immediately +ahead of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like man +with a flat face and tiny, suspicious eyes. As Winston turned away from +the counter with his tray, he saw that the little man was making straight +for the girl's table. His hopes sank again. There was a vacant place at a +table further away, but something in the little man's appearance suggested +that he would be sufficiently attentive to his own comfort to choose the +emptiest table. With ice at his heart Winston followed. It was no use +unless he could get the girl alone. At this moment there was a tremendous +crash. The little man was sprawling on all fours, his tray had gone flying, +two streams of soup and coffee were flowing across the floor. He started +to his feet with a malignant glance at Winston, whom he evidently +suspected of having tripped him up. But it was all right. Five seconds +later, with a thundering heart, Winston was sitting at the girl's table. + +He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began eating. +It was all-important to speak at once, before anyone else came, but now +a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since +she had first approached him. She would have changed her mind, she must +have changed her mind! It was impossible that this affair should end +successfully; such things did not happen in real life. He might have +flinched altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen +Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering limply round the room with +a tray, looking for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth +was attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his table if +he caught sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act. Both +Winston and the girl were eating steadily. The stuff they were eating was +a thin stew, actually a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston +began speaking. Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned the +watery stuff into their mouths, and between spoonfuls exchanged the few +necessary words in low expressionless voices. + +'What time do you leave work?' + +'Eighteen-thirty.' + +'Where can we meet?' + +'Victory Square, near the monument.' + +'It's full of telescreens.' + +'It doesn't matter if there's a crowd.' + +'Any signal?' + +'No. Don't come up to me until you see me among a lot of people. And don't +look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.' + +'What time?' + +'Nineteen hours.' + +'All right.' + +Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table. They did +not speak again, and, so far as it was possible for two people sitting on +opposite sides of the same table, they did not look at one another. The +girl finished her lunch quickly and made off, while Winston stayed to +smoke a cigarette. + +Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed time. He wandered round +the base of the enormous fluted column, at the top of which Big Brother's +statue gazed southward towards the skies where he had vanquished the +Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been, a few years +ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One. In the street in front of it there was +a statue of a man on horseback which was supposed to represent Oliver +Cromwell. At five minutes past the hour the girl had still not appeared. +Again the terrible fear seized upon Winston. She was not coming, she had +changed her mind! He walked slowly up to the north side of the square and +got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure from identifying St Martin's Church, +whose bells, when it had bells, had chimed 'You owe me three farthings.' +Then he saw the girl standing at the base of the monument, reading or +pretending to read a poster which ran spirally up the column. It was not +safe to go near her until some more people had accumulated. There were +telescreens all round the pediment. But at this moment there was a din of +shouting and a zoom of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left. Suddenly +everyone seemed to be running across the square. The girl nipped nimbly +round the lions at the base of the monument and joined in the rush. +Winston followed. As he ran, he gathered from some shouted remarks that +a convoy of Eurasian prisoners was passing. + +Already a dense mass of people was blocking the south side of the square. +Winston, at normal times the kind of person who gravitates to the outer +edge of any kind of scrimmage, shoved, butted, squirmed his way forward +into the heart of the crowd. Soon he was within arm's length of the girl, +but the way was blocked by an enormous prole and an almost equally enormous +woman, presumably his wife, who seemed to form an impenetrable wall of +flesh. Winston wriggled himself sideways, and with a violent lunge managed +to drive his shoulder between them. For a moment it felt as though his +entrails were being ground to pulp between the two muscular hips, then he +had broken through, sweating a little. He was next to the girl. They were +shoulder to shoulder, both staring fixedly in front of them. + +A long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed with sub-machine +guns standing upright in each corner, was passing slowly down the street. +In the trucks little yellow men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting, +jammed close together. Their sad, Mongolian faces gazed out over the sides +of the trucks utterly incurious. Occasionally when a truck jolted there +was a clank-clank of metal: all the prisoners were wearing leg-irons. +Truck-load after truck-load of the sad faces passed. Winston knew they +were there but he saw them only intermittently. The girl's shoulder, and +her arm right down to the elbow, were pressed against his. Her cheek was +almost near enough for him to feel its warmth. She had immediately taken +charge of the situation, just as she had done in the canteen. She began +speaking in the same expressionless voice as before, with lips barely +moving, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and the rumbling +of the trucks. + +'Can you hear me?' + +'Yes.' + +'Can you get Sunday afternoon off?' + +'Yes.' + +'Then listen carefully. You'll have to remember this. Go to Paddington +Station----' + +With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she outlined the +route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway journey; turn left outside +the station; two kilometres along the road; a gate with the top bar +missing; a path across a field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes; +a dead tree with moss on it. It was as though she had a map inside her +head. 'Can you remember all that?' she murmured finally. + +'Yes.' + +'You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate's got no top bar.' + +'Yes. What time?' + +'About fifteen. You may have to wait. I'll get there by another way. Are +you sure you remember everything?' + +'Yes.' + +'Then get away from me as quick as you can.' + +She need not have told him that. But for the moment they could not +extricate themselves from the crowd. The trucks were still filing past, +the people still insatiably gaping. At the start there had been a few boos +and hisses, but it came only from the Party members among the crowd, and +had soon stopped. The prevailing emotion was simply curiosity. Foreigners, +whether from Eurasia or from Eastasia, were a kind of strange animal. One +literally never saw them except in the guise of prisoners, and even as +prisoners one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them. Nor did +one know what became of them, apart from the few who were hanged as +war-criminals: the others simply vanished, presumably into forced-labour +camps. The round Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more European +type, dirty, bearded and exhausted. From over scrubby cheekbones eyes +looked into Winston's, sometimes with strange intensity, and flashed away +again. The convoy was drawing to an end. In the last truck he could see an +aged man, his face a mass of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists +crossed in front of him, as though he were used to having them bound +together. It was almost time for Winston and the girl to part. But at the +last moment, while the crowd still hemmed them in, her hand felt for his +and gave it a fleeting squeeze. + +It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a long time that +their hands were clasped together. He had time to learn every detail +of her hand. He explored the long fingers, the shapely nails, the +work-hardened palm with its row of callouses, the smooth flesh under the +wrist. Merely from feeling it he would have known it by sight. In the +same instant it occurred to him that he did not know what colour the +girl's eyes were. They were probably brown, but people with dark hair +sometimes had blue eyes. To turn his head and look at her would have +been inconceivable folly. With hands locked together, invisible among +the press of bodies, they stared steadily in front of them, and instead +of the eyes of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully +at Winston out of nests of hair. + + + + +Chapter 2 + + + +Winston picked his way up the lane through dappled light and shade, +stepping out into pools of gold wherever the boughs parted. Under the +trees to the left of him the ground was misty with bluebells. The air +seemed to kiss one's skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deeper +in the heart of the wood came the droning of ring-doves. + +He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about the journey, and +the girl was so evidently experienced that he was less frightened than he +would normally have been. Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe +place. In general you could not assume that you were much safer in the +country than in London. There were no telescreens, of course, but there +was always the danger of concealed microphones by which your voice might +be picked up and recognized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey +by yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less than +100 kilometres it was not necessary to get your passport endorsed, but +sometimes there were patrols hanging about the railway stations, who +examined the papers of any Party member they found there and asked awkward +questions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk from the +station he had made sure by cautious backward glances that he was not +being followed. The train was full of proles, in holiday mood because of +the summery weather. The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was +filled to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from a toothless +great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going out to spend an afternoon +with 'in-laws' in the country, and, as they freely explained to Winston, +to get hold of a little black-market butter. + +The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the footpath she had told him +of, a mere cattle-track which plunged between the bushes. He had no watch, +but it could not be fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick underfoot +that it was impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and began +picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from a vague idea that +he would like to have a bunch of flowers to offer to the girl when they +met. He had got together a big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly +scent when a sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle of a +foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best thing to do. +It might be the girl, or he might have been followed after all. To look +round was to show guilt. He picked another and another. A hand fell +lightly on his shoulder. + +He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evidently as a warning +that he must keep silent, then parted the bushes and quickly led the way +along the narrow track into the wood. Obviously she had been that way +before, for she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston followed, +still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling was relief, but as +he watched the strong slender body moving in front of him, with the scarlet +sash that was just tight enough to bring out the curve of her hips, the +sense of his own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it seemed quite +likely that when she turned round and looked at him she would draw back +after all. The sweetness of the air and the greenness of the leaves daunted +him. Already on the walk 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. It occurred to him that till now she had +probably never seen him in broad daylight in the open. They came to the +fallen tree that she had spoken of. The girl hopped over and forced apart +the bushes, in which there did not seem to be an opening. When Winston +followed her, he found that they were in a natural clearing, a tiny grassy +knoll surrounded by tall saplings that shut it in completely. The girl +stopped and turned. + +'Here we are,' she said. + +He was facing her at several paces' distance. As yet he did not dare move +nearer to her. + +'I didn't want to say anything in the lane,' she went on, 'in case there's +a mike hidden there. I don't suppose there is, but there could be. There's +always the chance of one of those swine recognizing your voice. We're all +right here.' + +He still had not the courage to approach her. 'We're all right here?' +he repeated stupidly. + +'Yes. Look at the trees.' They were small ashes, which at some time had +been cut down and had sprouted up again into a forest of poles, none of +them thicker than one's wrist. 'There's nothing big enough to hide a mike +in. Besides, I've been here before.' + +They were only making conversation. He had managed to move closer to her +now. She stood before him very upright, with a smile on her face that +looked faintly ironical, as though she were wondering why he was so slow +to act. The bluebells had cascaded on to the ground. They seemed to have +fallen of their own accord. He took her hand. + +'Would you believe,' he said, 'that till this moment I didn't know what +colour your eyes were?' They were brown, he noted, a rather light shade of +brown, with dark lashes. 'Now that you've seen what I'm really like, +can you still bear to look at me?' + +'Yes, easily.' + +'I'm thirty-nine years old. I've got a wife that I can't get rid of. I've +got varicose veins. I've got five false teeth.' + +'I couldn't care less,' said the girl. + +The next moment, it was hard to say by whose act, she was in his arms. +At the beginning he had no feeling except sheer incredulity. The youthful +body was strained against his own, the mass of dark hair was against his +face, and yes! actually she had turned her face up and he was kissing the +wide red mouth. She had clasped her arms about his neck, she was calling +him darling, precious one, loved one. He had pulled her down on to the +ground, she was utterly unresisting, he could do what he liked with her. +But the truth was that he had no physical sensation, except that of mere +contact. All he felt was incredulity and pride. He was glad that this was +happening, but he had no physical desire. It was too soon, her youth and +prettiness had frightened him, he was too much used to living without +women--he did not know the reason. The girl picked herself up and pulled a +bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him, putting her arm round his +waist. + +'Never mind, dear. There's no hurry. We've got the whole afternoon. Isn't +this a splendid hide-out? I found it when I got lost once on a community +hike. If anyone was coming you could hear them a hundred metres away.' + +'What is your name?' said Winston. + +'Julia. I know yours. It's Winston--Winston Smith.' + +'How did you find that out?' + +'I expect I'm better at finding things out than you are, dear. Tell me, +what did you think of me before that day I gave you the note?' + +He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was even a sort of +love-offering to start off by telling the worst. + +'I hated the sight of you,' he said. 'I wanted to rape you and then murder +you afterwards. Two weeks ago I thought seriously of smashing your head in +with a cobblestone. If you really want to know, I imagined that you had +something to do with the Thought Police.' + +The girl laughed delightedly, evidently taking this as a +tribute to the excellence of her disguise. + +'Not the Thought Police! You didn't honestly think that?' + +'Well, perhaps not exactly that. But from your general appearance--merely +because you're young and fresh and healthy, you understand--I thought that +probably----' + +'You thought I was a good Party member. Pure in word and deed. Banners, +processions, slogans, games, community hikes all that stuff. And you +thought that if I had a quarter of a chance I'd denounce you as a +thought-criminal and get you killed off?' + +'Yes, something of that kind. A great many young girls are like that, +you know.' + +'It's this bloody thing that does it,' she said, ripping off the scarlet +sash of the Junior Anti-Sex League and flinging it on to a bough. Then, +as though touching her waist had reminded her of something, she felt in +the pocket of her overalls and produced a small slab of chocolate. She +broke it in half and gave one of the pieces to Winston. Even before he had +taken it he knew by the smell that it was very unusual chocolate. It was +dark and shiny, and was wrapped in silver paper. Chocolate normally was +dull-brown crumbly stuff that tasted, as nearly as one could describe it, +like the smoke of a rubbish fire. But at some time or another he had tasted +chocolate like the piece she had given him. The first whiff of its scent +had stirred up some memory which he could not pin down, but which was +powerful and troubling. + +'Where did you get this stuff?' he said. + +'Black market,' she said indifferently. 'Actually I am that sort of girl, +to look at. I'm good at games. I was a troop-leader in the Spies. I do +voluntary work three evenings a week for the Junior Anti-Sex League. Hours +and hours I've spent pasting their bloody rot all over London. I always +carry one end of a banner in the processions. I always look cheerful and +I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd, that's what I say. +It's the only way to be safe.' + +The first fragment of chocolate had melted on Winston's tongue. The taste +was delightful. But there was still that memory moving round the edges of +his consciousness, something strongly felt but not reducible to definite +shape, like an object seen out of the corner of one's eye. He pushed it +away from him, aware only that it was the memory of some action which he +would have liked to undo but could not. + +'You are very young,' he said. 'You are ten or fifteen years younger than +I am. What could you see to attract you in a man like me?' + +'It was something in your face. I thought I'd take a chance. I'm good at +spotting people who don't belong. As soon as I saw you I knew you were +against THEM.' + +THEM, it appeared, meant the Party, and above all the Inner Party, about +whom she talked with an open jeering hatred which made Winston feel uneasy, +although he knew that they were safe here if they could be safe anywhere. +A thing that astonished him about her was the coarseness of her language. +Party members were supposed not to swear, and Winston himself very seldom +did swear, aloud, at any rate. Julia, however, seemed unable to mention +the Party, and especially the Inner Party, without using the kind of words +that you saw chalked up in dripping alley-ways. He did not dislike it. It +was merely one symptom of her revolt against the Party and all its ways, +and somehow it seemed natural and healthy, like the sneeze of a horse that +smells bad hay. They had left the clearing and were wandering again +through the chequered shade, with their arms round each other's waists +whenever it was wide enough to walk two abreast. He noticed how much +softer her waist seemed to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not +speak above a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was better to +go quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the little wood. She +stopped him. + +'Don't go out into the open. There might be someone watching. We're all +right if we keep behind the boughs.' + +They were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The sunlight, filtering +through innumerable leaves, was still hot on their faces. Winston looked +out into the field beyond, and underwent a curious, slow shock of +recognition. He knew it by sight. An old, close-bitten pasture, with a +footpath wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged +hedge on the opposite side the boughs of the elm trees swayed just +perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves stirred faintly in dense +masses like women's hair. Surely somewhere nearby, but out of sight, +there must be a stream with green pools where dace were swimming? + +'Isn't there a stream somewhere near here?' he whispered. + +'That's right, there is a stream. It's at the edge of the next field, +actually. There are fish in it, great big ones. You can watch them lying +in the pools under the willow trees, waving their tails.' + +'It's the Golden Country--almost,' he murmured. + +'The Golden Country?' + +'It's nothing, really. A landscape I've seen sometimes in a dream.' + +'Look!' whispered Julia. + +A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away, almost at the level +of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen them. It was in the sun, they in +the shade. It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place +again, ducked its head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance +to the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In the +afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Winston and Julia clung +together, fascinated. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with +astonishing variations, never once repeating itself, almost as though the +bird were deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped +for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then swelled its +speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston watched it with a sort +of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, +no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood +and pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether after all there +was a microphone hidden somewhere near. He and Julia had spoken only in +low whispers, and it would not pick up what they had said, but it would +pick up the thrush. Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, +beetle-like man was listening intently--listening to that. But by degrees +the flood of music drove all speculations out of his mind. It was as +though it were a kind of liquid stuff that poured all over him and got +mixed up with the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He stopped +thinking and merely felt. The girl's waist in the bend of his arm was soft +and warm. He pulled her round so that they were breast to breast; her body +seemed to melt into his. Wherever his hands moved it was all as yielding as +water. Their mouths clung together; it was quite different from the hard +kisses they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces apart again +both of them sighed deeply. The bird took fright and fled with a clatter +of wings. + +Winston put his lips against her ear. 'NOW,' he whispered. + +'Not here,' she whispered back. 'Come back to the hide-out. It's safer.' + +Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they threaded their way back +to the clearing. When they were once inside the ring of saplings she turned +and faced him. They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared +round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him for an instant, +then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And, yes! it was almost as in his +dream. Almost as swiftly as he had imagined it, she had torn her clothes +off, and when she flung them aside it was with that same magnificent +gesture by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her body +gleamed white in the sun. But for a moment he did not look at her body; +his eyes were anchored by the freckled face with its faint, bold smile. +He knelt down before her and took her hands in his. + +'Have you done this before?' + +'Of course. Hundreds of times--well, scores of times, anyway.' + +'With Party members?' + +'Yes, always with Party members.' + +'With members of the Inner Party?' + +'Not with those swine, no. But there's plenty that WOULD if they got half +a chance. They're not so holy as they make out.' + +His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: he wished it had been +hundreds--thousands. Anything that hinted at corruption always filled him +with a wild hope. Who knew, perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, +its cult of strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing +iniquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with leprosy or +syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Anything to rot, to weaken, to +undermine! He pulled her down so that they were kneeling face to face. + +'Listen. The more men you've had, the more I love you. Do you understand +that?' + +'Yes, perfectly.' + +'I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want any virtue to exist anywhere. +I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.' + +'Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to the bones.' + +'You like doing this? I don't mean simply me: I mean the thing in itself?' + +'I adore it.' + +That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the love of one +person but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that +was the force that would tear the Party to pieces. He pressed her down +upon the grass, among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no +difficulty. Presently the rising and falling of their breasts slowed to +normal speed, and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they fell apart. The +sun seemed to have grown hotter. They were both sleepy. He reached out for +the discarded overalls and pulled them partly over her. Almost immediately +they fell asleep and slept for about half an hour. + +Winston woke first. He sat up and watched the freckled face, still +peacefully asleep, pillowed on the palm of her hand. Except for her mouth, +you could not call her beautiful. There was a line or two round the eyes, +if you looked closely. The short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and +soft. It occurred to him that he still did not know her surname or where +she lived. + +The young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in him a pitying, +protecting feeling. But the mindless tenderness that he had felt under +the hazel tree, while the thrush was singing, had not quite come back. +He pulled the overalls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the +old days, he thought, a man looked at a girl's body and saw that it was +desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you could not have pure +love or pure lust nowadays. No emotion was pure, because everything was +mixed up with fear and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax +a victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act. + + + + +Chapter 3 + + + +'We can come here once again,' said Julia. 'It's generally safe to use any +hide-out twice. But not for another month or two, of course.' + +As soon as she woke up her demeanour had changed. She became alert and +business-like, put her clothes on, knotted the scarlet sash about her +waist, and began arranging the details of the journey home. It seemed +natural to leave this to her. She obviously had a practical cunning which +Winston lacked, and she seemed also to have an exhaustive knowledge of the +countryside round London, stored away from innumerable community hikes. +The route she gave him was quite different from the one by which he had +come, and brought him out at a different railway station. 'Never go home +the same way as you went out,' she said, as though enunciating an important +general principle. She would leave first, and Winston was to wait half an +hour before following her. + +She had named a place where they could meet after work, four evenings +hence. It was a street in one of the poorer quarters, where there was an +open market which was generally crowded and noisy. She would be hanging +about among the stalls, pretending to be in search of shoelaces or +sewing-thread. If she judged that the coast was clear she would blow +her nose when he approached; otherwise he was to walk past her without +recognition. But with luck, in the middle of the crowd, it would be +safe to talk for a quarter of an hour and arrange another meeting. + +'And now I must go,' she said as soon as he had mastered his instructions. +'I'm due back at nineteen-thirty. I've got to put in two hours for the +Junior Anti-Sex League, handing out leaflets, or something. Isn't it +bloody? Give me a brush-down, would you? Have I got any twigs in my hair? +Are you sure? Then good-bye, my love, good-bye!' + +She flung herself into his arms, kissed him almost violently, and a moment +later pushed her way through the saplings and disappeared into the wood +with very little noise. Even now he had not found out her surname or her +address. However, it made no difference, for it was inconceivable that +they could ever meet indoors or exchange any kind of written communication. + +As it happened, they never went back to the clearing in the wood. During +the month of May there was only one further occasion on which they actually +succeeded in making love. That was in another hiding-place known to Julia, +the belfry of a ruinous church in an almost-deserted stretch of country +where an atomic bomb had fallen thirty years earlier. It was a good +hiding-place when once you got there, but the getting there was very +dangerous. For the rest they could meet only in the streets, in a different +place every evening and never for more than half an hour at a time. In the +street it was usually possible to talk, after a fashion. As they drifted +down the crowded pavements, not quite abreast and never looking at one +another, they carried on a curious, intermittent conversation which flicked +on and off like the beams of a lighthouse, suddenly nipped into silence +by the approach of a Party uniform or the proximity of a telescreen, then +taken up again minutes later in the middle of a sentence, then abruptly +cut short as they parted at the agreed spot, then continued almost without +introduction on the following day. Julia appeared to be quite used to this +kind of conversation, which she called 'talking by instalments'. She was +also surprisingly adept at speaking without moving her lips. Just once in +almost a month of nightly meetings they managed to exchange a kiss. They +were passing in silence down a side-street (Julia would never speak when +they were away from the main streets) when there was a deafening roar, the +earth heaved, and the air darkened, and Winston found himself lying on his +side, bruised and terrified. A rocket bomb must have dropped quite near at +hand. Suddenly he became aware of Julia's face a few centimetres from his +own, deathly white, as white as chalk. Even her lips were white. She was +dead! He clasped her against him and found that he was kissing a live +warm face. But there was some powdery stuff that got in the way of his +lips. Both of their faces were thickly coated with plaster. + +There were evenings when they reached their rendezvous and then had to +walk past one another without a sign, because a patrol had just come round +the corner or a helicopter was hovering overhead. Even if it had been +less dangerous, it would still have been difficult to find time to meet. +Winston's working week was sixty hours, Julia's was even longer, and +their free days varied according to the pressure of work and did not +often coincide. Julia, in any case, seldom had an evening completely free. +She spent an astonishing amount of time in attending lectures and +demonstrations, distributing literature for the junior Anti-Sex League, +preparing banners for Hate Week, making collections for the savings +campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said, it was camouflage. +If you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones. She even induced +Winston to mortgage yet another of his evenings by enrolling himself for +the part-time munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Party +members. So, one evening every week, Winston spent four hours of paralysing +boredom, screwing together small bits of metal which were probably parts +of bomb fuses, in a draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of +hammers mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens. + +When they met in the church tower the gaps in their fragmentary +conversation were filled up. It was a blazing afternoon. The air in the +little square chamber above the bells was hot and stagnant, and smelt +overpoweringly of pigeon dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty, +twig-littered floor, one or other of them getting up from time to time to +cast a glance through the arrowslits and make sure that no one was coming. + +Julia was twenty-six years old. She lived in a hostel with thirty other +girls ('Always in the stink of women! How I hate women!' she said +parenthetically), and she worked, as he had guessed, on the novel-writing +machines in the Fiction Department. She enjoyed her work, which consisted +chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky electric motor. +She was 'not clever', but was fond of using her hands and felt at home +with machinery. She could describe the whole process of composing a novel, +from the general directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the +final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not interested in the +finished product. She 'didn't much care for reading,' she said. Books were +just a commodity that had to be produced, like jam or bootlaces. + +She had no memories of anything before the early sixties and the only +person she had ever known who talked frequently of the days before the +Revolution was a grandfather who had disappeared when she was eight. At +school she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the gymnastics +trophy two years running. She had been a troop-leader in the Spies and a +branch secretary in the Youth League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex +League. She had always borne an excellent character. She had even (an +infallible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in Pornosec, +the sub-section of the Fiction Department which turned out cheap +pornography for distribution among the proles. It was nicknamed Muck House +by the people who worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for +a year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with titles like +'Spanking Stories' or 'One Night in a Girls' School', to be bought +furtively by proletarian youths who were under the impression that they +were buying something illegal. + +'What are these books like?' said Winston curiously. + +'Oh, ghastly rubbish. They're boring, really. They only have six plots, +but they swap them round a bit. Of course I was only on the kaleidoscopes. +I was never in the Rewrite Squad. I'm not literary, dear--not even enough +for that.' + +He learned with astonishment that all the workers in Pornosec, except the +heads of the departments, were girls. The theory was that men, whose sex +instincts were less controllable than those of women, were in greater +danger of being corrupted by the filth they handled. + +'They don't even like having married women there,' she added. Girls are +always supposed to be so pure. Here's one who isn't, anyway. + +She had had her first love-affair when she was sixteen, with a Party member +of sixty who later committed suicide to avoid arrest. 'And a good job too,' +said Julia, 'otherwise they'd have had my name out of him when he +confessed.' Since then there had been various others. Life as she saw it +was quite simple. You wanted a good time; 'they', meaning the Party, +wanted to stop you having it; you broke the rules as best you could. She +seemed to think it just as natural that 'they' should want to rob you of +your pleasures as that you should want to avoid being caught. She hated +the Party, and said so in the crudest words, but she made no general +criticism of it. Except where it touched upon her own life she had no +interest in Party doctrine. He noticed that she never used Newspeak words +except the ones that had passed into everyday use. She had never heard of +the Brotherhood, and refused to believe in its existence. Any kind of +organized revolt against the Party, which was bound to be a failure, +struck her as stupid. The clever thing was to break the rules and stay +alive all the same. He wondered vaguely how many others like her there +might be in the younger generation people who had grown up in the world of +the Revolution, knowing nothing else, accepting the Party as something +unalterable, like the sky, not rebelling against its authority but simply +evading it, as a rabbit dodges a dog. + +They did not discuss the possibility of getting married. It was too remote +to be worth thinking about. No imaginable committee would ever sanction +such a marriage even if Katharine, Winston's wife, could somehow have been +got rid of. It was hopeless even as a daydream. + +'What was she like, your wife?' said Julia. + +'She was--do you know the Newspeak word GOODTHINKFUL? Meaning naturally +orthodox, incapable of thinking a bad thought?' + +'No, I didn't know the word, but I know the kind of person, right enough.' + +He began telling her the story of his married life, but curiously enough +she appeared to know the essential parts of it already. She described +to him, almost as though she had seen or felt it, the stiffening of +Katharine's body as soon as he touched her, the way in which she still +seemed to be pushing him from her with all her strength, even when her +arms were clasped tightly round him. With Julia he felt no difficulty in +talking about such things: Katharine, in any case, had long ceased to be +a painful memory and became merely a distasteful one. + +'I could have stood it if it hadn't been for one thing,' he said. He told +her about the frigid little ceremony that Katharine had forced him to go +through on the same night every week. 'She hated it, but nothing would +make her stop doing it. She used to call it--but you'll never guess.' + +'Our duty to the Party,' said Julia promptly. + +'How did you know that?' + +'I've been at school too, dear. Sex talks once a month for the +over-sixteens. And in the Youth Movement. They rub it into you for years. +I dare say it works in a lot of cases. But of course you can never tell; +people are such hypocrites.' + +She began to enlarge upon the subject. With Julia, everything came back +to her own sexuality. As soon as this was touched upon in any way she was +capable of great acuteness. Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner +meaning of the Party's sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex +instinct created a world of its own which was outside the Party's control +and which therefore had to be destroyed if possible. What was more +important was that sexual privation induced hysteria, which was desirable +because it could be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship. The way +she put it was: + +'When you make love you're using up energy; and afterwards you feel happy +and don't give a damn for anything. They can't bear you to feel like that. +They want you to be bursting with energy all the time. All this marching +up and down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour. If +you're happy inside yourself, why should you get excited about Big Brother +and the Three-Year Plans and the Two Minutes Hate and all the rest of +their bloody rot?' + +That was very true, he thought. There was a direct intimate connexion +between chastity and political orthodoxy. For how could the fear, the +hatred, and the lunatic credulity which the Party needed in its members be +kept at the right pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct +and using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to the +Party, and the Party had turned it to account. They had played a similar +trick with the instinct of parenthood. The family could not actually be +abolished, and, indeed, people were encouraged to be fond of their +children, in almost the old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand, +were systematically turned against their parents and taught to spy on them +and report their deviations. The family had become in effect an extension +of the Thought Police. It was a device by means of which everyone could be +surrounded night and day by informers who knew him intimately. + +Abruptly his mind went back to Katharine. Katharine would unquestionably +have denounced him to the Thought Police if she had not happened to be too +stupid to detect the unorthodoxy of his opinions. But what really recalled +her to him at this moment was the stifling heat of the afternoon, which +had brought the sweat out on his forehead. He began telling Julia of +something that had happened, or rather had failed to happen, on another +sweltering summer afternoon, eleven years ago. + +It was three or four months after they were married. They had lost their +way on a community hike somewhere in Kent. They had only lagged behind +the others for a couple of minutes, but they took a wrong turning, and +presently found themselves pulled up short by the edge of an old chalk +quarry. It was a sheer drop of ten or twenty metres, with boulders at the +bottom. There was nobody of whom they could ask the way. As soon as she +realized that they were lost Katharine became very uneasy. To be away +from the noisy mob of hikers even for a moment gave her a feeling of +wrong-doing. She wanted to hurry back by the way they had come and start +searching in the other direction. But at this moment Winston noticed some +tufts of loosestrife growing in the cracks of the cliff beneath them. +One tuft was of two colours, magenta and brick-red, apparently growing on +the same root. He had never seen anything of the kind before, and he called +to Katharine to come and look at it. + +'Look, Katharine! Look at those flowers. That clump down near the bottom. +Do you see they're two different colours?' + +She had already turned to go, but she did rather fretfully come back for +a moment. She even leaned out over the cliff face to see where he was +pointing. He was standing a little behind her, and he put his hand on +her waist to steady her. At this moment it suddenly occurred to him how +completely alone they were. There was not a human creature anywhere, not a +leaf stirring, not even a bird awake. In a place like this the danger that +there would be a hidden microphone was very small, and even if there was a +microphone it would only pick up sounds. It was the hottest sleepiest hour +of the afternoon. The sun blazed down upon them, the sweat tickled his +face. And the thought struck him... + +'Why didn't you give her a good shove?' said Julia. 'I would have.' + +'Yes, dear, you would have. I would, if I'd been the same person then as +I am now. Or perhaps I would--I'm not certain.' + +'Are you sorry you didn't?' + +'Yes. On the whole I'm sorry I didn't.' + +They were sitting side by side on the dusty floor. He pulled her closer +against him. Her head rested on his shoulder, the pleasant smell of her +hair conquering the pigeon dung. She was very young, he thought, she +still expected something from life, she did not understand that to push +an inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing. + +'Actually it would have made no difference,' he said. + +'Then why are you sorry you didn't do it?' + +'Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this game that we're +playing, we can't win. Some kinds of failure are better than other kinds, +that's all.' + +He felt her shoulders give a wriggle of dissent. She always contradicted +him when he said anything of this kind. She would not accept it as a law +of nature that the individual is always defeated. In a way she realized +that she herself was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would +catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind she believed +that it was somehow possible to construct a secret world in which you could +live as you chose. All you needed was luck and cunning and boldness. She +did not understand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the +only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead, that from +the moment of declaring war on the Party it was better to think of yourself +as a corpse. + +'We are the dead,' he said. + +'We're not dead yet,' said Julia prosaically. + +'Not physically. Six months, a year--five years, conceivably. I am afraid +of death. You are young, so presumably you're more afraid of it than I am. +Obviously we shall put it off as long as we can. But it makes very little +difference. So long as human beings stay human, death and life are the +same thing.' + +'Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or a skeleton? Don't +you enjoy being alive? Don't you like feeling: This is me, this is my hand, +this is my leg, I'm real, I'm solid, I'm alive! Don't you like THIS?' + +She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against him. He could feel +her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her overalls. Her body seemed to be +pouring some of its youth and vigour into his. + +'Yes, I like that,' he said. + +'Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear, we've got to fix +up about the next time we meet. We may as well go back to the place in +the wood. We've given it a good long rest. But you must get there by a +different way this time. I've got it all planned out. You take the +train--but look, I'll draw it out for you.' + +And in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust, +and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began drawing a map on the floor. + + + + +Chapter 4 + + + +Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr Charrington's shop. +Beside the window the enormous bed was made up, with ragged blankets and +a coverless bolster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was +ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gateleg table, the +glass paperweight which he had bought on his last visit gleamed softly out +of the half-darkness. + +In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and two cups, +provided by Mr Charrington. Winston lit the burner and set a pan of water +to boil. He had brought an envelope full of Victory Coffee and some +saccharine tablets. The clock's hands said seventeen-twenty: it was +nineteen-twenty really. She was coming at nineteen-thirty. + +Folly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous, suicidal folly. +Of all the crimes that a Party member could commit, this one was the least +possible to conceal. Actually the idea had first floated into his head in +the form of a vision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the surface +of the gateleg table. As he had foreseen, Mr Charrington had made no +difficulty about letting the room. He was obviously glad of the few dollars +that it would bring him. Nor did he seem shocked or become offensively +knowing when it was made clear that Winston wanted the room for the purpose +of a love-affair. Instead he looked into the middle distance and spoke in +generalities, with so delicate an air as to give the impression that he +had become partly invisible. Privacy, he said, was a very valuable thing. +Everyone wanted a place where they could be alone occasionally. And when +they had such a place, it was only common courtesy in anyone else who knew +of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even, seeming almost to fade +out of existence as he did so, added that there were two entries to the +house, one of them through the back yard, which gave on an alley. + +Under the window somebody was singing. Winston peeped out, secure in the +protection of the muslin curtain. The June sun was still high in the sky, +and in the sun-filled court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman +pillar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped about her +middle, was stumping to and fro between a washtub and a clothes line, +pegging out a series of square white things which Winston recognized as +babies' diapers. Whenever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she +was singing in a powerful contralto: + + + It was only an 'opeless fancy. + It passed like an Ipril dye, + But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred! + They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye! + + +The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless +similar songs published for the benefit of the proles by a sub-section of +the Music Department. The words of these songs were composed without any +human intervention whatever on an instrument known as a versificator. +But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the dreadful rubbish into an +almost pleasant sound. He could hear the woman singing and the scrape of +her shoes on the flagstones, and the cries of the children in the street, +and somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and yet the +room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of a telescreen. + +Folly, folly, folly! he thought again. It was inconceivable that they could +frequent this place for more than a few weeks without being caught. But +the temptation of having a hiding-place that was truly their own, indoors +and near at hand, had been too much for both of them. For some time +after their visit to the church belfry it had been impossible to arrange +meetings. Working hours had been drastically increased in anticipation of +Hate Week. It was more than a month distant, but the enormous, complex +preparations that it entailed were throwing extra work on to everybody. +Finally both of them managed to secure a free afternoon on the same day. +They had agreed to go back to the clearing in the wood. On the evening +beforehand they met briefly in the street. As usual, Winston hardly looked +at Julia as they drifted towards one another in the crowd, but from the +short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was paler than usual. + +'It's all off,' she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to speak. +'Tomorrow, I mean.' + +'What?' + +'Tomorrow afternoon. I can't come.' + +'Why not?' + +'Oh, the usual reason. It's started early this time.' + +For a moment he was violently angry. During the month that he had known +her the nature of his desire for her had changed. At the beginning there +had been little true sensuality in it. Their first love-making had been +simply an act of the will. But after the second time it was different. The +smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her skin seemed +to have got inside him, or into the air all round him. She had become a +physical necessity, something that he not only wanted but felt that he +had a right to. When she said that she could not come, he had the feeling +that she was cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd pressed +them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave the tips of his +fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to invite not desire but affection. It +struck him that when one lived with a woman this particular disappointment +must be a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness, such as he had +not felt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He wished that they +were a married couple of ten years' standing. He wished that he were +walking through the streets with her just as they were doing now but openly +and without fear, talking of trivialities and buying odds and ends for the +household. He wished above all that they had some place where they could +be alone together without feeling the obligation to make love every time +they met. It was not actually at that moment, but at some time on the +following day, that the idea of renting Mr Charrington's room had occurred +to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed with unexpected +readiness. Both of them knew that it was lunacy. It was as though they were +intentionally stepping nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the +edge of the bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love. +It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and out of one's +consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times, preceding death as +surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not avoid it, but one could perhaps +postpone it: and yet instead, every now and again, by a conscious, wilful +act, one chose to shorten the interval before it happened. + +At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia burst into the +room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse brown canvas, such as he had +sometimes seen her carrying to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward +to take her in his arms, but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly, +partly because she was still holding the tool-bag. + +'Half a second,' she said. 'Just let me show you what I've brought. Did +you bring some of that filthy Victory Coffee? I thought you would. You +can chuck it away again, because we shan't be needing it. Look here.' + +She fell on her knees, threw open the bag, and tumbled out some spanners +and a screwdriver that filled the top part of it. Underneath were a number +of neat paper packets. The first packet that she passed to Winston had a +strange and yet vaguely familiar feeling. It was filled with some kind of +heavy, sand-like stuff which yielded wherever you touched it. + +'It isn't sugar?' he said. + +'Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here's a loaf of bread--proper +white bread, not our bloody stuff--and a little pot of jam. And here's a +tin of milk--but look! This is the one I'm really proud of. I had to wrap +a bit of sacking round it, because----' + +But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it up. The smell was +already filling the room, a rich hot smell which seemed like an emanation +from his early childhood, but which one did occasionally meet with even +now, blowing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or diffusing itself +mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant and then lost +again. + +'It's coffee,' he murmured, 'real coffee.' + +'It's Inner Party coffee. There's a whole kilo here,' she said. + +'How did you manage to get hold of all these things?' + +'It's all Inner Party stuff. There's nothing those swine don't have, +nothing. But of course waiters and servants and people pinch things, +and--look, I got a little packet of tea as well.' + +Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a corner of the packet. + +'It's real tea. Not blackberry leaves.' + +'There's been a lot of tea about lately. They've captured India, or +something,' she said vaguely. 'But listen, dear. I want you to turn your +back on me for three minutes. Go and sit on the other side of the bed. +Don't go too near the window. And don't turn round till I tell you.' + +Winston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain. Down in the yard +the red-armed woman was still marching to and fro between the washtub and +the line. She took two more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep +feeling: + + + They sye that time 'eals all things, + They sye you can always forget; + But the smiles an' the tears acrorss the years + They twist my 'eart-strings yet! + + +She knew the whole drivelling song by heart, it seemed. Her voice floated +upward with the sweet summer air, very tuneful, charged with a sort of +happy melancholy. One had the feeling that she would have been perfectly +content, if the June evening had been endless and the supply of clothes +inexhaustible, to remain there for a thousand years, pegging out diapers +and singing rubbish. It struck him as a curious fact that he had never +heard a member of the Party singing alone and spontaneously. It would even +have seemed slightly unorthodox, a dangerous eccentricity, like talking to +oneself. Perhaps it was only when people were somewhere near the starvation +level that they had anything to sing about. + +'You can turn round now,' said Julia. + +He turned round, and for a second almost failed to recognize her. What he +had actually expected was to see her naked. But she was not naked. The +transformation that had happened was much more surprising than that. She +had painted her face. + +She must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian quarters and bought +herself a complete set of make-up materials. Her lips were deeply reddened, +her cheeks rouged, her nose powdered; there was even a touch of something +under the eyes to make them brighter. It was not very skilfully done, but +Winston's standards in such matters were not high. He had never before +seen or imagined a woman of the Party with cosmetics on her face. The +improvement in her appearance was startling. With just a few dabs of colour +in the right places she had become not only very much prettier, but, above +all, far more feminine. Her short hair and boyish overalls merely added +to the effect. As he took her in his arms a wave of synthetic violets +flooded his nostrils. He remembered the half-darkness of a basement +kitchen, and a woman's cavernous mouth. It was the very same scent that +she had used; but at the moment it did not seem to matter. + +'Scent too!' he said. + +'Yes, dear, scent too. And do you know what I'm going to do next? I'm +going to get hold of a real woman's frock from somewhere and wear it +instead of these bloody trousers. I'll wear silk stockings and high-heeled +shoes! In this room I'm going to be a woman, not a Party comrade.' + +They flung their clothes off and climbed into the huge mahogany bed. It +was the first time that he had stripped himself naked in her presence. +Until now he had been too much ashamed of his pale and meagre body, with +the varicose veins standing out on his calves and the discoloured patch +over his ankle. There were no sheets, but the blanket they lay on was +threadbare and smooth, and the size and springiness of the bed astonished +both of them. 'It's sure to be full of bugs, but who cares?' said Julia. +One never saw a double bed nowadays, except in the homes of the proles. +Winston had occasionally slept in one in his boyhood: Julia had never been +in one before, so far as she could remember. + +Presently they fell asleep for a little while. When Winston woke up the +hands of the clock had crept round to nearly nine. He did not stir, because +Julia was sleeping with her head in the crook of his arm. Most of her +make-up had transferred itself to his own face or the bolster, but a light +stain of rouge still brought out the beauty of her cheekbone. A yellow ray +from the sinking sun fell across the foot of the bed and lighted up the +fireplace, where the water in the pan was boiling fast. Down in the yard +the woman had stopped singing, but the faint shouts of children floated in +from the street. He wondered vaguely whether in the abolished past it had +been a normal experience to lie in bed like this, in the cool of a summer +evening, a man and a woman with no clothes on, making love when they chose, +talking of what they chose, not feeling any compulsion to get up, simply +lying there and listening to peaceful sounds outside. Surely there could +never have been a time when that seemed ordinary? Julia woke up, rubbed +her eyes, and raised herself on her elbow to look at the oilstove. + +'Half that water's boiled away,' she said. 'I'll get up and make some +coffee in another moment. We've got an hour. What time do they cut the +lights off at your flats?' + +'Twenty-three thirty.' + +'It's twenty-three at the hostel. But you have to get in earlier than that, +because--Hi! Get out, you filthy brute!' + +She suddenly twisted herself over in the bed, seized a shoe from the floor, +and sent it hurtling into the corner with a boyish jerk of her arm, exactly +as he had seen her fling the dictionary at Goldstein, that morning during +the Two Minutes Hate. + +'What was it?' he said in surprise. + +'A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wainscoting. There's a +hole down there. I gave him a good fright, anyway.' + +'Rats!' murmured Winston. 'In this room!' + +'They're all over the place,' said Julia indifferently as she lay down +again. 'We've even got them in the kitchen at the hostel. Some parts of +London are swarming with them. Did you know they attack children? Yes, +they do. In some of these streets a woman daren't leave a baby alone for +two minutes. It's the great huge brown ones that do it. And the nasty +thing is that the brutes always----' + +'DON'T GO ON!' said Winston, with his eyes tightly shut. + +'Dearest! You've gone quite pale. What's the matter? Do they make you feel +sick?' + +'Of all horrors in the world--a rat!' + +She pressed herself against him and wound her limbs round him, as though +to reassure him with the warmth of her body. He did not reopen his eyes +immediately. For several moments he had had the feeling of being back in a +nightmare which had recurred from time to time throughout his life. It was +always very much the same. He was standing in front of a wall of darkness, +and on the other side of it there was something unendurable, something too +dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was always one of +self-deception, because he did in fact know what was behind the wall of +darkness. With a deadly effort, like wrenching a piece out of his own +brain, he could even have dragged the thing into the open. He always woke +up without discovering what it was: but somehow it was connected with what +Julia had been saying when he cut her short. + +'I'm sorry,' he said, 'it's nothing. I don't like rats, that's all.' + +'Don't worry, dear, we're not going to have the filthy brutes in here. +I'll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before we go. And next time we +come here I'll bring some plaster and bung it up properly.' + +Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten. Feeling slightly +ashamed of himself, he sat up against the bedhead. Julia got out of bed, +pulled on her overalls, and made the coffee. The smell that rose from the +saucepan was so powerful and exciting that they shut the window lest +anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive. What was even +better than the taste of the coffee was the silky texture given to it by +the sugar, a thing Winston had almost forgotten after years of saccharine. +With one hand in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other, +Julia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the bookcase, +pointing out the best way of repairing the gateleg table, plumping herself +down in the ragged arm-chair to see if it was comfortable, and examining +the absurd twelve-hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought +the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a better +light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always, by the soft, +rainwatery appearance of the glass. + +'What is it, do you think?' said Julia. + +'I don't think it's anything--I mean, I don't think it was ever put to any +use. That's what I like about it. It's a little chunk of history that +they've forgotten to alter. It's a message from a hundred years ago, if +one knew how to read it.' + +'And that picture over there'--she nodded at the engraving on the opposite +wall--'would that be a hundred years old?' + +'More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can't tell. It's impossible to discover +the age of anything nowadays.' + +She went over to look at it. 'Here's where that brute stuck his nose out,' +she said, kicking the wainscoting immediately below the picture. 'What is +this place? I've seen it before somewhere.' + +'It's a church, or at least it used to be. St Clement Danes its name was.' +The fragment of rhyme that Mr Charrington had taught him came back into +his head, and he added half-nostalgically: "Oranges and lemons, say the +bells of St Clement's!" + +To his astonishment she capped the line: + + + 'You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's, + When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey----' + + +'I can't remember how it goes on after that. But anyway I remember it ends +up, "Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop +off your head!"' + +It was like the two halves of a countersign. But there must be another +line after 'the bells of Old Bailey'. Perhaps it could be dug out of +Mr Charrington's memory, if he were suitably prompted. + +'Who taught you that?' he said. + +'My grandfather. He used to say it to me when I was a little girl. He was +vaporized when I was eight--at any rate, he disappeared. I wonder what a +lemon was,' she added inconsequently. 'I've seen oranges. They're a kind +of round yellow fruit with a thick skin.' + +'I can remember lemons,' said Winston. 'They were quite common in the +fifties. They were so sour that it set your teeth on edge even to smell +them.' + +'I bet that picture's got bugs behind it,' said Julia. 'I'll take it down +and give it a good clean some day. I suppose it's almost time we were +leaving. I must start washing this paint off. What a bore! I'll get the +lipstick off your face afterwards.' + +Winston did not get up for a few minutes more. The room was darkening. He +turned over towards the light and lay gazing into the glass paperweight. +The inexhaustibly interesting thing was not the fragment of coral but the +interior of the glass itself. There was such a depth of it, and yet it was +almost as transparent as air. It was as though the surface of the glass +had been the arch of the sky, enclosing a tiny world with its atmosphere +complete. He had the feeling that he could get inside it, and that in +fact he was inside it, along with the mahogany bed and the gateleg table, +and the clock and the steel engraving and the paperweight itself. The +paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was Julia's life and his +own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal. + + + + +Chapter 5 + + + +Syme had vanished. A morning came, and he was missing from work: a few +thoughtless people commented on his absence. On the next day nobody +mentioned him. On the third day Winston went into the vestibule of the +Records Department to look at the notice-board. One of the notices carried +a printed list of the members of the Chess Committee, of whom Syme had +been one. It looked almost exactly as it had looked before--nothing had +been crossed out--but it was one name shorter. It was enough. Syme had +ceased to exist: he had never existed. + +The weather was baking hot. In the labyrinthine Ministry the windowless, +air-conditioned rooms kept their normal temperature, but outside the +pavements scorched one's feet and the stench of the Tubes at the rush hours +was a horror. The preparations for Hate Week were in full swing, and the +staffs of all the Ministries were working overtime. Processions, meetings, +military parades, lectures, waxworks, displays, film shows, telescreen +programmes all had to be organized; stands had to be erected, effigies +built, slogans coined, songs written, rumours circulated, photographs +faked. Julia's unit in the Fiction Department had been taken off the +production of novels and was rushing out a series of atrocity pamphlets. +Winston, in addition to his regular work, spent long periods every day in +going through back files of 'The Times' and altering and embellishing news +items which were to be quoted in speeches. Late at night, when crowds of +rowdy proles roamed the streets, the town had a curiously febrile air. The +rocket bombs crashed oftener than ever, and sometimes in the far distance +there were enormous explosions which no one could explain and about which +there were wild rumours. + +The new tune which was to be the theme-song of Hate Week (the Hate Song, +it was called) had already been composed and was being endlessly plugged +on the telescreens. It had a savage, barking rhythm which could not exactly +be called music, but resembled the beating of a drum. Roared out by +hundreds of voices to the tramp of marching feet, it was terrifying. The +proles had taken a fancy to it, and in the midnight streets it competed +with the still-popular 'It was only a hopeless fancy'. The Parsons children +played it at all hours of the night and day, unbearably, on a comb and a +piece of toilet paper. Winston's evenings were fuller than ever. Squads of +volunteers, organized by Parsons, were preparing the street for Hate Week, +stitching banners, painting posters, erecting flagstaffs on the roofs, and +perilously slinging wires across the street for the reception of streamers. +Parsons boasted that Victory Mansions alone would display four hundred +metres of bunting. He was in his native element and as happy as a lark. +The heat and the manual work had even given him a pretext for reverting +to shorts and an open shirt in the evenings. He was everywhere at once, +pushing, pulling, sawing, hammering, improvising, jollying everyone along +with comradely exhortations and giving out from every fold of his body what +seemed an inexhaustible supply of acrid-smelling sweat. + +A new poster had suddenly appeared all over London. It had no caption, +and represented simply the monstrous figure of a Eurasian soldier, three +or four metres high, striding forward with expressionless Mongolian face +and enormous boots, a submachine gun pointed from his hip. From whatever +angle you looked at the poster, the muzzle of the gun, magnified by the +foreshortening, seemed to be pointed straight at you. The thing had been +plastered on every blank space on every wall, even outnumbering the +portraits of Big Brother. The proles, normally apathetic about the war, +were being lashed into one of their periodical frenzies of patriotism. +As though to harmonize with the general mood, the rocket bombs had been +killing larger numbers of people than usual. One fell on a crowded film +theatre in Stepney, burying several hundred victims among the ruins. The +whole population of the neighbourhood turned out for a long, trailing +funeral which went on for hours and was in effect an indignation meeting. +Another bomb fell on a piece of waste ground which was used as a playground +and several dozen children were blown to pieces. There were further angry +demonstrations, Goldstein was burned in effigy, hundreds of copies of the +poster of the Eurasian soldier were torn down and added to the flames, and +a number of shops were looted in the turmoil; then a rumour flew round +that spies were directing the rocket bombs by means of wireless waves, and +an old couple who were suspected of being of foreign extraction had their +house set on fire and perished of suffocation. + +In the room over Mr Charrington's shop, when they could get there, Julia +and Winston lay side by side on a stripped bed under the open window, +naked for the sake of coolness. The rat had never come back, but the bugs +had multiplied hideously in the heat. It did not seem to matter. Dirty or +clean, the room was paradise. As soon as they arrived they would sprinkle +everything with pepper bought on the black market, tear off their clothes, +and make love with sweating bodies, then fall asleep and wake to find that +the bugs had rallied and were massing for the counter-attack. + +Four, five, six--seven times they met during the month of June. Winston +had dropped his habit of drinking gin at all hours. He seemed to have lost +the need for it. He had grown fatter, his varicose ulcer had subsided, +leaving only a brown stain on the skin above his ankle, his fits of +coughing in the early morning had stopped. The process of life had ceased +to be intolerable, he had no longer any impulse to make faces at the +telescreen or shout curses at the top of his voice. Now that they had a +secure hiding-place, almost a home, it did not even seem a hardship that +they could only meet infrequently and for a couple of hours at a time. +What mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist. To know +that it was there, inviolate, was almost the same as being in it. The room +was a world, a pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk. +Mr Charrington, thought Winston, was another extinct animal. He usually +stopped to talk with Mr Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs. +The old man seemed seldom or never to go out of doors, and on the other +hand to have almost no customers. He led a ghostlike existence between the +tiny, dark shop, and an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his +meals and which contained, among other things, an unbelievably ancient +gramophone with an enormous horn. He seemed glad of the opportunity to +talk. Wandering about among his worthless stock, with his long nose and +thick spectacles and his bowed shoulders in the velvet jacket, he had +always vaguely the air of being a collector rather than a tradesman. +With a sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this scrap of rubbish or +that--a china bottle-stopper, the painted lid of a broken snuffbox, a +pinchbeck locket containing a strand of some long-dead baby's hair--never +asking that Winston should buy it, merely that he should admire it. To +talk to him was like listening to the tinkling of a worn-out musical-box. +He had dragged out from the corners of his memory some more fragments of +forgotten rhymes. There was one about four and twenty blackbirds, and +another about a cow with a crumpled horn, and another about the death +of poor Cock Robin. 'It just occurred to me you might be interested,' he +would say with a deprecating little laugh whenever he produced a new +fragment. But he could never recall more than a few lines of any one +rhyme. + +Both of them knew--in a way, it was never out of their minds that what +was now happening could not last long. There were times when the fact of +impending death seemed as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they would +cling together with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned soul +grasping at his last morsel of pleasure when the clock is within five +minutes of striking. But there were also times when they had the illusion +not only of safety but of permanence. So long as they were actually in +this room, they both felt, no harm could come to them. Getting there was +difficult and dangerous, but the room itself was sanctuary. It was as when +Winston had gazed into the heart of the paperweight, with the feeling that +it would be possible to get inside that glassy world, and that once inside +it time could be arrested. Often they gave themselves up to daydreams of +escape. Their luck would hold indefinitely, and they would carry on their +intrigue, just like this, for the remainder of their natural lives. Or +Katharine would die, and by subtle manoeuvrings Winston and Julia would +succeed in getting married. Or they would commit suicide together. Or +they would disappear, alter themselves out of recognition, learn to speak +with proletarian accents, get jobs in a factory and live out their lives +undetected in a back-street. It was all nonsense, as they both knew. In +reality there was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable, +suicide, they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day +and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed +an unconquerable instinct, just as one's lungs will always draw the next +breath so long as there is air available. + +Sometimes, too, they talked of engaging in active rebellion against the +Party, but with no notion of how to take the first step. Even if the +fabulous Brotherhood was a reality, there still remained the difficulty +of finding one's way into it. He told her of the strange intimacy that +existed, or seemed to exist, between himself and O'Brien, and of the +impulse he sometimes felt, simply to walk into O'Brien's presence, announce +that he was the enemy of the Party, and demand his help. Curiously enough, +this did not strike her as an impossibly rash thing to do. She was used to +judging people by their faces, and it seemed natural to her that Winston +should believe O'Brien to be trustworthy on the strength of a single flash +of the eyes. Moreover she took it for granted that everyone, or nearly +everyone, secretly hated the Party and would break the rules if he thought +it safe to do so. But she refused to believe that widespread, organized +opposition existed or could exist. The tales about Goldstein and his +underground army, she said, were simply a lot of rubbish which the Party +had invented for its own purposes and which you had to pretend to believe +in. Times beyond number, at Party rallies and spontaneous demonstrations, +she had shouted at the top of her voice for the execution of people whose +names she had never heard and in whose supposed crimes she had not the +faintest belief. When public trials were happening she had taken her place +in the detachments from the Youth League who surrounded the courts from +morning to night, chanting at intervals 'Death to the traitors!' During +the Two Minutes Hate she always excelled all others in shouting insults +at Goldstein. Yet she had only the dimmest idea of who Goldstein was and +what doctrines he was supposed to represent. She had grown up since the +Revolution and was too young to remember the ideological battles of the +fifties and sixties. Such a thing as an independent political movement was +outside her imagination: and in any case the Party was invincible. It +would always exist, and it would always be the same. You could only rebel +against it by secret disobedience or, at most, by isolated acts of +violence such as killing somebody or blowing something up. + +In some ways she was far more acute than Winston, and far less susceptible +to Party propaganda. Once when he happened in some connexion to mention +the war against Eurasia, she startled him by saying casually that in her +opinion the war was not happening. The rocket bombs which fell daily on +London were probably fired by the Government of Oceania itself, 'just to +keep people frightened'. This was an idea that had literally never occurred +to him. She also stirred a sort of envy in him by telling him that during +the Two Minutes Hate her great difficulty was to avoid bursting out +laughing. But she only questioned the teachings of the Party when they +in some way touched upon her own life. Often she was ready to accept +the official mythology, simply because the difference between truth and +falsehood did not seem important to her. She believed, for instance, having +learnt it at school, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. (In his own +schooldays, Winston remembered, in the late fifties, it was only the +helicopter that the Party claimed to have invented; a dozen years later, +when Julia was at school, it was already claiming the aeroplane; one +generation more, and it would be claiming the steam engine.) And when he +told her that aeroplanes had been in existence before he was born and long +before the Revolution, the fact struck her as totally uninteresting. After +all, what did it matter who had invented aeroplanes? It was rather more +of a shock to him when he discovered from some chance remark that she did +not remember that Oceania, four years ago, had been at war with Eastasia +and at peace with Eurasia. It was true that she regarded the whole war as +a sham: but apparently she had not even noticed that the name of the enemy +had changed. 'I thought we'd always been at war with Eurasia,' she said +vaguely. It frightened him a little. The invention of aeroplanes dated +from long before her birth, but the switchover in the war had happened +only four years ago, well after she was grown up. He argued with her about +it for perhaps a quarter of an hour. In the end he succeeded in forcing +her memory back until she did dimly recall that at one time Eastasia and +not Eurasia had been the enemy. But the issue still struck her as +unimportant. 'Who cares?' she said impatiently. 'It's always one bloody +war after another, and one knows the news is all lies anyway.' + +Sometimes he talked to her of the Records Department and the impudent +forgeries that he committed there. Such things did not appear to horrify +her. She did not feel the abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought +of lies becoming truths. He told her the story of Jones, Aaronson, and +Rutherford and the momentous slip of paper which he had once held between +his fingers. It did not make much impression on her. At first, indeed, she +failed to grasp the point of the story. + +'Were they friends of yours?' she said. + +'No, I never knew them. They were Inner Party members. Besides, they were +far older men than I was. They belonged to the old days, before the +Revolution. I barely knew them by sight.' + +'Then what was there to worry about? People are being killed off all the +time, aren't they?' + +He tried to make her understand. 'This was an exceptional case. It wasn't +just a question of somebody being killed. Do you realize that the past, +starting from yesterday, has been actually abolished? If it survives +anywhere, it's in a few solid objects with no words attached to them, like +that lump of glass there. Already we know almost literally nothing about +the Revolution and the years before the Revolution. Every record has been +destroyed or falsified, every book has been rewritten, every picture has +been repainted, every statue and street and building has been renamed, +every date has been altered. And that process is continuing day by day and +minute by minute. History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless +present in which the Party is always right. I know, of course, that the +past is falsified, but it would never be possible for me to prove it, even +when I did the falsification myself. After the thing is done, no evidence +ever remains. The only evidence is inside my own mind, and I don't know +with any certainty that any other human being shares my memories. Just in +that one instance, in my whole life, I did possess actual concrete evidence +after the event--years after it.' + +'And what good was that?' + +'It was no good, because I threw it away a few minutes later. But if the +same thing happened today, I should keep it.' + +'Well, I wouldn't!' said Julia. 'I'm quite ready to take risks, but only +for something worth while, not for bits of old newspaper. What could you +have done with it even if you had kept it?' + +'Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have planted a few doubts +here and there, supposing that I'd dared to show it to anybody. I don't +imagine that we can alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine +little knots of resistance springing up here and there--small groups of +people banding themselves together, and gradually growing, and even leaving +a few records behind, so that the next generations can carry on where we +leave off.' + +'I'm not interested in the next generation, dear. I'm interested in US.' + +'You're only a rebel from the waist downwards,' he told her. + +She thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms round him in delight. + +In the ramifications of party doctrine she had not the faintest interest. +Whenever he began to talk of the principles of Ingsoc, doublethink, the +mutability of the past, and the denial of objective reality, and to use +Newspeak words, she became bored and confused and said that she never paid +any attention to that kind of thing. One knew that it was all rubbish, so +why let oneself be worried by it? She knew when to cheer and when to boo, +and that was all one needed. If he persisted in talking of such subjects, +she had a disconcerting habit of falling asleep. She was one of those +people who can go to sleep at any hour and in any position. Talking to her, +he realized how easy it was to present an appearance of orthodoxy while +having no grasp whatever of what orthodoxy meant. In a way, the world-view +of the Party imposed itself most successfully on people incapable of +understanding it. They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations +of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity of what was +demanded of them, and were not sufficiently interested in public events to +notice what was happening. By lack of understanding they remained sane. +They simply swallowed everything, and what they swallowed did them no harm, +because it left no residue behind, just as a grain of corn will pass +undigested through the body of a bird. + + + + +Chapter 6 + + + +It had happened at last. The expected message had come. All his life, it +seemed to him, he had been waiting for this to happen. + +He was walking down the long corridor at the Ministry and he was almost +at the spot where Julia had slipped the note into his hand when he became +aware that someone larger than himself was walking just behind him. The +person, whoever it was, gave a small cough, evidently as a prelude to +speaking. Winston stopped abruptly and turned. It was O'Brien. + +At last they were face to face, and it seemed that his only impulse was +to run away. His heart bounded violently. He would have been incapable of +speaking. O'Brien, however, had continued forward in the same movement, +laying a friendly hand for a moment on Winston's arm, so that the two of +them were walking side by side. He began speaking with the peculiar grave +courtesy that differentiated him from the majority of Inner Party members. + +'I had been hoping for an opportunity of talking to you,' he said. 'I was +reading one of your Newspeak articles in 'The Times' the other day. You +take a scholarly interest in Newspeak, I believe?' + +Winston had recovered part of his self-possession. 'Hardly scholarly,' he +said. 'I'm only an amateur. It's not my subject. I have never had anything +to do with the actual construction of the language.' + +'But you write it very elegantly,' said O'Brien. 'That is not only my own +opinion. I was talking recently to a friend of yours who is certainly an +expert. His name has slipped my memory for the moment.' + +Again Winston's heart stirred painfully. It was inconceivable that this +was anything other than a reference to Syme. But Syme was not only dead, +he was abolished, an unperson. Any identifiable reference to him would have +been mortally dangerous. O'Brien's remark must obviously have been intended +as a signal, a codeword. By sharing a small act of thoughtcrime he had +turned the two of them into accomplices. They had continued to stroll +slowly down the corridor, but now O'Brien halted. With the curious, +disarming friendliness that he always managed to put in to the gesture he +resettled his spectacles on his nose. Then he went on: + +'What I had really intended to say was that in your article I noticed you +had used two words which have become obsolete. But they have only become +so very recently. Have you seen the tenth edition of the Newspeak +Dictionary?' + +'No,' said Winston. 'I didn't think it had been issued yet. We are still +using the ninth in the Records Department.' + +'The tenth edition is not due to appear for some months, I believe. But a +few advance copies have been circulated. I have one myself. It might +interest you to look at it, perhaps?' + +'Very much so,' said Winston, immediately seeing where this tended. + +'Some of the new developments are most ingenious. The reduction in the +number of verbs--that is the point that will appeal to you, I think. Let +me see, shall I send a messenger to you with the dictionary? But I am +afraid I invariably forget anything of that kind. Perhaps you could pick +it up at my flat at some time that suited you? Wait. Let me give you my +address.' + +They were standing in front of a telescreen. Somewhat absent-mindedly +O'Brien felt two of his pockets and then produced a small leather-covered +notebook and a gold ink-pencil. Immediately beneath the telescreen, in +such a position that anyone who was watching at the other end of the +instrument could read what he was writing, he scribbled an address, tore +out the page and handed it to Winston. + +'I am usually at home in the evenings,' he said. 'If not, my servant will +give you the dictionary.' + +He was gone, leaving Winston holding the scrap of paper, which this time +there was no need to conceal. Nevertheless he carefully memorized what was +written on it, and some hours later dropped it into the memory hole along +with a mass of other papers. + +They had been talking to one another for a couple of minutes at the most. +There was only one meaning that the episode could possibly have. It had +been contrived as a way of letting Winston know O'Brien's address. This +was necessary, because except by direct enquiry it was never possible to +discover where anyone lived. There were no directories of any kind. 'If +you ever want to see me, this is where I can be found,' was what O'Brien +had been saying to him. Perhaps there would even be a message concealed +somewhere in the dictionary. But at any rate, one thing was certain. The +conspiracy that he had dreamed of did exist, and he had reached the outer +edges of it. + +He knew that sooner or later he would obey O'Brien's summons. Perhaps +tomorrow, perhaps after a long delay--he was not certain. What was +happening was only the working-out of a process that had started years +ago. The first step had been a secret, involuntary thought, the second +had been the opening of the diary. He had moved from thoughts to words, +and now from words to actions. The last step was something that would +happen in the Ministry of Love. He had accepted it. The end was contained +in the beginning. But it was frightening: or, more exactly, it was like +a foretaste of death, like being a little less alive. Even while he was +speaking to O'Brien, when the meaning of the words had sunk in, a chilly +shuddering feeling had taken possession of his body. He had the sensation +of stepping into the dampness of a grave, and it was not much better +because he had always known that the grave was there and waiting for him. + + + + +Chapter 7 + + + +Winston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Julia rolled sleepily +against him, murmuring something that might have been 'What's the matter?' + +'I dreamt--' he began, and stopped short. It was too complex to be put +into words. There was the dream itself, and there was a memory connected +with it that had swum into his mind in the few seconds after waking. + +He lay back with his eyes shut, still sodden in the atmosphere of the +dream. It was a vast, luminous dream in which his whole life seemed to +stretch out before him like a landscape on a summer evening after rain. +It had all occurred inside the glass paperweight, but the surface of the +glass was the dome of the sky, and inside the dome everything was flooded +with clear soft light in which one could see into interminable distances. +The dream had also been comprehended by--indeed, in some sense it had +consisted in--a gesture of the arm made by his mother, and made again +thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the news film, +trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets, before the helicopter +blew them both to pieces. + +'Do you know,' he said, 'that until this moment I believed I had murdered +my mother?' + +'Why did you murder her?' said Julia, almost asleep. + +'I didn't murder her. Not physically.' + +In the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his mother, and within +a few moments of waking the cluster of small events surrounding it had all +come back. It was a memory that he must have deliberately pushed out of +his consciousness over many years. He was not certain of the date, but he +could not have been less than ten years old, possibly twelve, when it had +happened. + +His father had disappeared some time earlier, how much earlier he could +not remember. He remembered better the rackety, uneasy circumstances of +the time: the periodical panics about air-raids and the sheltering in Tube +stations, the piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proclamations +posted at street corners, the gangs of youths in shirts all the same +colour, the enormous queues outside the bakeries, the intermittent +machine-gun fire in the distance--above all, the fact that there was +never enough to eat. He remembered long afternoons spent with other boys +in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking out the ribs of +cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust +from which they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting +for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were +known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad +patches in the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake. + +When his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or any +violent grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have +become completely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was +waiting for something that she knew must happen. She did everything that +was needed--cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted +the mantelpiece--always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous +motion, like an artist's lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large +shapely body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For hours at a +time she would sit almost immobile on the bed, nursing his young sister, +a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two or three, with a face made simian +by thinness. Very occasionally she would take Winston in her arms and +press him against her for a long time without saying anything. He was +aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this was somehow +connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen. + +He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, close-smelling room that +seemed half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas ring +in the fender, and a shelf where food was kept, and on the landing outside +there was a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He remembered +his mother's statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something +in a saucepan. Above all he remembered his continuous hunger, and the +fierce sordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly, +over and over again, why there was not more food, he would shout and storm +at her (he even remembered the tones of his voice, which was beginning to +break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or he would +attempt a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his +share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than his share. She +took it for granted that he, 'the boy', should have the biggest portion; +but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more. At every meal +she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little +sister was sick and also needed food, but it was no use. He would cry out +with rage when she stopped ladling, he would try to wrench the saucepan +and spoon out of her hands, he would grab bits from his sister's plate. +He knew that he was starving the other two, but he could not help it; he +even felt that he had a right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his belly +seemed to justify him. Between meals, if his mother did not stand guard, +he was constantly pilfering at the wretched store of food on the shelf. + +One day a chocolate ration was issued. There had been no such issue for +weeks or months past. He remembered quite clearly that precious little +morsel of chocolate. It was a two-ounce slab (they still talked about +ounces in those days) between the three of them. It was obvious that it +ought to be divided into three equal parts. Suddenly, as though he were +listening to somebody else, Winston heard himself demanding in a loud +booming voice that he should be given the whole piece. His mother told him +not to be greedy. There was a long, nagging argument that went round and +round, with shouts, whines, tears, remonstrances, bargainings. His tiny +sister, clinging to her mother with both hands, exactly like a baby monkey, +sat looking over her shoulder at him with large, mournful eyes. In the +end his mother broke off three-quarters of the chocolate and gave it to +Winston, giving the other quarter to his sister. The little girl took hold +of it and looked at it dully, perhaps not knowing what it was. Winston +stood watching her for a moment. Then with a sudden swift spring he had +snatched the piece of chocolate out of his sister's hand and was fleeing +for the door. + +'Winston, Winston!' his mother called after him. 'Come back! Give your +sister back her chocolate!' + +He stopped, but did not come back. His mother's anxious eyes were fixed on +his face. Even now he was thinking about the thing, he did not know what +it was that was on the point of happening. His sister, conscious of having +been robbed of something, had set up a feeble wail. His mother drew her +arm round the child and pressed its face against her breast. Something in +the gesture told him that his sister was dying. He turned and fled down +the stairs, with the chocolate growing sticky in his hand. + +He never saw his mother again. After he had devoured the chocolate he felt +somewhat ashamed of himself and hung about in the streets for several +hours, until hunger drove him home. When he came back his mother had +disappeared. This was already becoming normal at that time. Nothing was +gone from the room except his mother and his sister. They had not taken +any clothes, not even his mother's overcoat. To this day he did not know +with any certainty that his mother was dead. It was perfectly possible +that she had merely been sent to a forced-labour camp. As for his sister, +she might have been removed, like Winston himself, to one of the colonies +for homeless children (Reclamation Centres, they were called) which had +grown up as a result of the civil war, or she might have been sent to the +labour camp along with his mother, or simply left somewhere or other +to die. + +The dream was still vivid in his mind, especially the enveloping protecting +gesture of the arm in which its whole meaning seemed to be contained. His +mind went back to another dream of two months ago. Exactly as his mother +had sat on the dingy white-quilted bed, with the child clinging to her, so +she had sat in the sunken ship, far underneath him, and drowning deeper +every minute, but still looking up at him through the darkening water. + +He told Julia the story of his mother's disappearance. Without opening her +eyes she rolled over and settled herself into a more comfortable position. + +'I expect you were a beastly little swine in those days,' she said +indistinctly. 'All children are swine.' + +'Yes. But the real point of the story----' + +From her breathing it was evident that she was going off to sleep again. +He would have liked to continue talking about his mother. He did not +suppose, from what he could remember of her, that she had been an unusual +woman, still less an intelligent one; and yet she had possessed a kind of +nobility, a kind of purity, simply because the standards that she obeyed +were private ones. Her feelings were her own, and could not be altered +from outside. It would not have occurred to her that an action which is +ineffectual thereby becomes meaningless. If you loved someone, you loved +him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love. When +the last of the chocolate was gone, his mother had clasped the child in +her arms. It was no use, it changed nothing, it did not produce more +chocolate, it did not avert the child's death or her own; but it seemed +natural to her to do it. The refugee woman in the boat had also covered +the little boy with her arm, which was no more use against the bullets +than a sheet of paper. The terrible thing that the Party had done was to +persuade you that mere impulses, mere feelings, were of no account, while +at the same time robbing you of all power over the material world. When +once you were in the grip of the Party, what you felt or did not feel, +what you did or refrained from doing, made literally no difference. +Whatever happened you vanished, and neither you nor your actions were ever +heard of again. You were lifted clean out of the stream of history. And +yet to the people of only two generations ago this would not have seemed +all-important, because they were not attempting to alter history. They +were governed by private loyalties which they did not question. What +mattered were individual relationships, and a completely helpless gesture, +an embrace, a tear, a word spoken to a dying man, could have value in +itself. The proles, it suddenly occurred to him, had remained in this +condition. They were not loyal to a party or a country or an idea, they +were loyal to one another. For the first time in his life he did not +despise the proles or think of them merely as an inert force which would +one day spring to life and regenerate the world. The proles had stayed +human. They had not become hardened inside. They had held on to the +primitive emotions which he himself had to re-learn by conscious effort. +And in thinking this he remembered, without apparent relevance, how a few +weeks ago he had seen a severed hand lying on the pavement and had kicked +it into the gutter as though it had been a cabbage-stalk. + +'The proles are human beings,' he said aloud. 'We are not human.' + +'Why not?' said Julia, who had woken up again. + +He thought for a little while. 'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, +'that the best thing for us to do would be simply to walk out of here +before it's too late, and never see each other again?' + +'Yes, dear, it has occurred to me, several times. But I'm not going to do +it, all the same.' + +'We've been lucky,' he said 'but it can't last much longer. You're young. +You look normal and innocent. If you keep clear of people like me, you +might stay alive for another fifty years.' + +'No. I've thought it all out. What you do, I'm going to do. And don't be +too downhearted. I'm rather good at staying alive.' + +'We may be together for another six months--a year--there's no knowing. +At the end we're certain to be apart. Do you realize how utterly alone we +shall be? When once they get hold of us there will be nothing, literally +nothing, that either of us can do for the other. If I confess, they'll +shoot you, and if I refuse to confess, they'll shoot you just the same. +Nothing that I can do or say, or stop myself from saying, will put off +your death for as much as five minutes. Neither of us will even know +whether the other is alive or dead. We shall be utterly without power of +any kind. The one thing that matters is that we shouldn't betray one +another, although even that can't make the slightest difference.' + +'If you mean confessing,' she said, 'we shall do that, right enough. +Everybody always confesses. You can't help it. They torture you.' + +'I don't mean confessing. Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do +doesn't matter: only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving +you--that would be the real betrayal.' + +She thought it over. 'They can't do that,' she said finally. 'It's the one +thing they can't do. They can make you say anything--ANYTHING--but they +can't make you believe it. They can't get inside you.' + +'No,' he said a little more hopefully, 'no; that's quite true. They can't +get inside you. If you can FEEL that staying human is worth while, even +when it can't have any result whatever, you've beaten them.' + +He thought of the telescreen with its never-sleeping ear. They could spy +upon you night and day, but if you kept your head you could still outwit +them. With all their cleverness they had never mastered the secret of +finding out what another human being was thinking. Perhaps that was less +true when you were actually in their hands. One did not know what happened +inside the Ministry of Love, but it was possible to guess: tortures, drugs, +delicate instruments that registered your nervous reactions, gradual +wearing-down by sleeplessness and solitude and persistent questioning. +Facts, at any rate, could not be kept hidden. They could be tracked down +by enquiry, they could be squeezed out of you by torture. But if the object +was not to stay alive but to stay human, what difference did it ultimately +make? They could not alter your feelings: for that matter you could not +alter them yourself, even if you wanted to. They could lay bare in the +utmost detail everything that you had done or said or thought; but the +inner heart, whose workings were mysterious even to yourself, remained +impregnable. + + + + +Chapter 8 + + + +They had done it, they had done it at last! + +The room they were standing in was long-shaped and softly lit. The +telescreen was dimmed to a low murmur; the richness of the dark-blue carpet +gave one the impression of treading on velvet. At the far end of the room +O'Brien was sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp, with a mass of +papers on either side of him. He had not bothered to look up when the +servant showed Julia and Winston in. + +Winston's heart was thumping so hard that he doubted whether he would be +able to speak. They had done it, they had done it at last, was all he +could think. It had been a rash act to come here at all, and sheer folly +to arrive together; though it was true that they had come by different +routes and only met on O'Brien's doorstep. But merely to walk into such a +place needed an effort of the nerve. It was only on very rare occasions +that one saw inside the dwelling-places of the Inner Party, or even +penetrated into the quarter of the town where they lived. The whole +atmosphere of the huge block of flats, the richness and spaciousness of +everything, the unfamiliar smells of good food and good tobacco, the +silent and incredibly rapid lifts sliding up and down, the white-jacketed +servants hurrying to and fro--everything was intimidating. Although he had +a good pretext for coming here, he was haunted at every step by the fear +that a black-uniformed guard would suddenly appear from round the corner, +demand his papers, and order him to get out. O'Brien's servant, however, +had admitted the two of them without demur. He was a small, dark-haired +man in a white jacket, with a diamond-shaped, completely expressionless +face which might have been that of a Chinese. The passage down which he +led them was softly carpeted, with cream-papered walls and white +wainscoting, all exquisitely clean. That too was intimidating. Winston +could not remember ever to have seen a passageway whose walls were not +grimy from the contact of human bodies. + +O'Brien had a slip of paper between his fingers and seemed to be studying +it intently. His heavy face, bent down so that one could see the line of +the nose, looked both formidable and intelligent. For perhaps twenty +seconds he sat without stirring. Then he pulled the speakwrite towards +him and rapped out a message in the hybrid jargon of the Ministries: + +'Items one comma five comma seven approved fullwise stop suggestion +contained item six doubleplus ridiculous verging crimethink cancel stop +unproceed constructionwise antegetting plusfull estimates machinery +overheads stop end message.' + +He rose deliberately from his chair and came towards them across the +soundless carpet. A little of the official atmosphere seemed to have fallen +away from him with the Newspeak words, but his expression was grimmer than +usual, as though he were not pleased at being disturbed. The terror that +Winston already felt was suddenly shot through by a streak of ordinary +embarrassment. It seemed to him quite possible that he had simply made a +stupid mistake. For what evidence had he in reality that O'Brien was any +kind of political conspirator? Nothing but a flash of the eyes and a single +equivocal remark: beyond that, only his own secret imaginings, founded on +a dream. He could not even fall back on the pretence that he had come to +borrow the dictionary, because in that case Julia's presence was impossible +to explain. As O'Brien passed the telescreen a thought seemed to strike +him. He stopped, turned aside and pressed a switch on the wall. There was +a sharp snap. The voice had stopped. + +Julia uttered a tiny sound, a sort of squeak of surprise. Even in the midst +of his panic, Winston was too much taken aback to be able to hold his +tongue. + +'You can turn it off!' he said. + +'Yes,' said O'Brien, 'we can turn it off. We have that privilege.' + +He was opposite them now. His solid form towered over the pair of them, +and the expression on his face was still indecipherable. He was waiting, +somewhat sternly, for Winston to speak, but about what? Even now it was +quite conceivable that he was simply a busy man wondering irritably why he +had been interrupted. Nobody spoke. After the stopping of the telescreen +the room seemed deadly silent. The seconds marched past, enormous. With +difficulty Winston continued to keep his eyes fixed on O'Brien's. Then +suddenly the grim face broke down into what might have been the beginnings +of a smile. With his characteristic gesture O'Brien resettled his +spectacles on his nose. + +'Shall I say it, or will you?' he said. + +'I will say it,' said Winston promptly. 'That thing is really turned off?' + +'Yes, everything is turned off. We are alone.' + +'We have come here because----' + +He paused, realizing for the first time the vagueness of +his own motives. Since he did not in fact know what kind of +help he expected from O'Brien, it was not easy to say why he +had come here. He went on, conscious that what he was saying +must sound both feeble and pretentious: + +'We believe that there is some kind of conspiracy, some kind of secret +organization working against the Party, and that you are involved in it. +We want to join it and work for it. We are enemies of the Party. We +disbelieve in the principles of Ingsoc. We are thought-criminals. We are +also adulterers. I tell you this because we want to put ourselves at your +mercy. If you want us to incriminate ourselves in any other way, we are +ready.' + +He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, with the feeling that the door +had opened. Sure enough, the little yellow-faced servant had come in +without knocking. Winston saw that he was carrying a tray with a decanter +and glasses. + +'Martin is one of us,' said O'Brien impassively. 'Bring the drinks over +here, Martin. Put them on the round table. Have we enough chairs? Then +we may as well sit down and talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself, +Martin. This is business. You can stop being a servant for the next ten +minutes.' + +The little man sat down, quite at his ease, and yet still with a +servant-like air, the air of a valet enjoying a privilege. Winston +regarded him out of the corner of his eye. It struck him that the man's +whole life was playing a part, and that he felt it to be dangerous to +drop his assumed personality even for a moment. O'Brien took the decanter +by the neck and filled up the glasses with a dark-red liquid. It aroused +in Winston dim memories of something seen long ago on a wall or a +hoarding--a vast bottle composed of electric lights which seemed to move +up and down and pour its contents into a glass. Seen from the top the +stuff looked almost black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby. +It had a sour-sweet smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff at +it with frank curiosity. + +'It is called wine,' said O'Brien with a faint smile. 'You will have read +about it in books, no doubt. Not much of it gets to the Outer Party, I am +afraid.' His face grew solemn again, and he raised his glass: 'I think it +is fitting that we should begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To +Emmanuel Goldstein.' + +Winston took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine was a thing he +had read and dreamed about. Like the glass paperweight or Mr Charrington's +half-remembered rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic past, the +olden time as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts. For some reason +he had always thought of wine as having an intensely sweet taste, like +that of blackberry jam and an immediate intoxicating effect. Actually, +when he came to swallow it, the stuff was distinctly disappointing. The +truth was that after years of gin-drinking he could barely taste it. He +set down the empty glass. + +'Then there is such a person as Goldstein?' he said. + +'Yes, there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I do not know.' + +'And the conspiracy--the organization? Is it real? It is not simply an +invention of the Thought Police?' + +'No, it is real. The Brotherhood, we call it. You will never learn much +more about the Brotherhood than that it exists and that you belong to it. +I will come back to that presently.' He looked at his wrist-watch. 'It is +unwise even for members of the Inner Party to turn off the telescreen for +more than half an hour. You ought not to have come here together, and +you will have to leave separately. You, comrade'--he bowed his head to +Julia--'will leave first. We have about twenty minutes at our disposal. +You will understand that I must start by asking you certain questions. +In general terms, what are you prepared to do?' + +'Anything that we are capable of,' said Winston. + +O'Brien had turned himself a little in his chair so that he was facing +Winston. He almost ignored Julia, seeming to take it for granted that +Winston could speak for her. For a moment the lids flitted down over his +eyes. He began asking his questions in a low, expressionless voice, as +though this were a routine, a sort of catechism, most of whose answers +were known to him already. + +'You are prepared to give your lives?' + +'Yes.' + +'You are prepared to commit murder?' + +'Yes.' + +'To commit acts of sabotage which may cause the death of hundreds of +innocent people?' + +'Yes.' + +'To betray your country to foreign powers?' + +'Yes.' + +'You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to corrupt the minds +of children, to distribute habit-forming drugs, to encourage prostitution, +to disseminate venereal diseases--to do anything which is likely to cause +demoralization and weaken the power of the Party?' + +'Yes.' + +'If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to throw sulphuric +acid in a child's face--are you prepared to do that?' + +'Yes.' + +'You are prepared to lose your identity and live out the rest of your life +as a waiter or a dock-worker?' + +'Yes.' + +'You are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we order you to do so?' + +'Yes.' + +'You are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never see one another +again?' + +'No!' broke in Julia. + +It appeared to Winston that a long time passed before he answered. For a +moment he seemed even to have been deprived of the power of speech. His +tongue worked soundlessly, forming the opening syllables first of one word, +then of the other, over and over again. Until he had said it, he did not +know which word he was going to say. 'No,' he said finally. + +'You did well to tell me,' said O'Brien. 'It is necessary for us to know +everything.' + +He turned himself toward Julia and added in a voice with somewhat more +expression in it: + +'Do you understand that even if he survives, it may be as a different +person? We may be obliged to give him a new identity. His face, his +movements, the shape of his hands, the colour of his hair--even his voice +would be different. And you yourself might have become a different person. +Our surgeons can alter people beyond recognition. Sometimes it is +necessary. Sometimes we even amputate a limb.' + +Winston could not help snatching another sidelong glance at Martin's +Mongolian face. There were no scars that he could see. Julia had turned a +shade paler, so that her freckles were showing, but she faced O'Brien +boldly. She murmured something that seemed to be assent. + +'Good. Then that is settled.' + +There was a silver box of cigarettes on the table. With a rather +absent-minded air O'Brien pushed them towards the others, took one himself, +then stood up and began to pace slowly to and fro, as though he could think +better standing. They were very good cigarettes, very thick and +well-packed, with an unfamiliar silkiness in the paper. O'Brien looked at +his wrist-watch again. + +'You had better go back to your Pantry, Martin,' he said. 'I shall switch +on in a quarter of an hour. Take a good look at these comrades' faces +before you go. You will be seeing them again. I may not.' + +Exactly as they had done at the front door, the little man's dark eyes +flickered over their faces. There was not a trace of friendliness in his +manner. He was memorizing their appearance, but he felt no interest in +them, or appeared to feel none. It occurred to Winston that a synthetic +face was perhaps incapable of changing its expression. Without speaking +or giving any kind of salutation, Martin went out, closing the door +silently behind him. O'Brien was strolling up and down, one hand in the +pocket of his black overalls, the other holding his cigarette. + +'You understand,' he said, 'that you will be fighting in the dark. You +will always be in the dark. You will receive orders and you will obey them, +without knowing why. Later I shall send you a book from which you will +learn the true nature of the society we live in, and the strategy by which +we shall destroy it. When you have read the book, you will be full members +of the Brotherhood. But between the general aims that we are fighting for +and the immediate tasks of the moment, you will never know anything. I +tell you that the Brotherhood exists, but I cannot tell you whether it +numbers a hundred members, or ten million. From your personal knowledge +you will never be able to say that it numbers even as many as a dozen. You +will have three or four contacts, who will be renewed from time to time as +they disappear. As this was your first contact, it will be preserved. When +you receive orders, they will come from me. If we find it necessary to +communicate with you, it will be through Martin. When you are finally +caught, you will confess. That is unavoidable. But you will have very +little to confess, other than your own actions. You will not be able to +betray more than a handful of unimportant people. Probably you will not +even betray me. By that time I may be dead, or I shall have become a +different person, with a different face.' + +He continued to move to and fro over the soft carpet. In spite of the +bulkiness of his body there was a remarkable grace in his movements. It +came out even in the gesture with which he thrust a hand into his pocket, +or manipulated a cigarette. More even than of strength, he gave an +impression of confidence and of an understanding tinged by irony. However +much in earnest he might be, he had nothing of the single-mindedness that +belongs to a fanatic. When he spoke of murder, suicide, venereal disease, +amputated limbs, and altered faces, it was with a faint air of persiflage. +'This is unavoidable,' his voice seemed to say; 'this is what we have got +to do, unflinchingly. But this is not what we shall be doing when life is +worth living again.' A wave of admiration, almost of worship, flowed out +from Winston towards O'Brien. For the moment he had forgotten the shadowy +figure of Goldstein. When you looked at O'Brien's powerful shoulders and +his blunt-featured face, so ugly and yet so civilized, it was impossible +to believe that he could be defeated. There was no stratagem that he was +not equal to, no danger that he could not foresee. Even Julia seemed to +be impressed. She had let her cigarette go out and was listening intently. +O'Brien went on: + +'You will have heard rumours of the existence of the Brotherhood. No doubt +you have formed your own picture of it. You have imagined, probably, a +huge underworld of conspirators, meeting secretly in cellars, scribbling +messages on walls, recognizing one another by codewords or by special +movements of the hand. Nothing of the kind exists. The members of the +Brotherhood have no way of recognizing one another, and it is impossible +for any one member to be aware of the identity of more than a few others. +Goldstein himself, if he fell into the hands of the Thought Police, could +not give them a complete list of members, or any information that would +lead them to a complete list. No such list exists. The Brotherhood cannot +be wiped out because it is not an organization in the ordinary sense. +Nothing holds it together except an idea which is indestructible. You +will never have anything to sustain you, except the idea. You will get no +comradeship and no encouragement. When finally you are caught, you will +get no help. We never help our members. At most, when it is absolutely +necessary that someone should be silenced, we are occasionally able to +smuggle a razor blade into a prisoner's cell. You will have to get used +to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, +you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are +the only results that you will ever see. There is no possibility that any +perceptible change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the dead. +Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls +of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there +is no knowing. It might be a thousand years. At present nothing is possible +except to extend the area of sanity little by little. We cannot act +collectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards from individual to +individual, generation after generation. In the face of the Thought Police +there is no other way.' + +He halted and looked for the third time at his wrist-watch. + +'It is almost time for you to leave, comrade,' he said to Julia. 'Wait. +The decanter is still half full.' + +He filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the stem. + +'What shall it be this time?' he said, still with the same faint +suggestion of irony. 'To the confusion of the Thought Police? To the +death of Big Brother? To humanity? To the future?' + +'To the past,' said Winston. + +'The past is more important,' agreed O'Brien gravely. + +They emptied their glasses, and a moment later Julia stood up to go. +O'Brien took a small box from the top of a cabinet and handed her a flat +white tablet which he told her to place on her tongue. It was important, +he said, not to go out smelling of wine: the lift attendants were very +observant. As soon as the door had shut behind her he appeared to forget +her existence. He took another pace or two up and down, then stopped. + +'There are details to be settled,' he said. 'I assume that you have a +hiding-place of some kind?' + +Winston explained about the room over Mr Charrington's shop. + +'That will do for the moment. Later we will arrange something else for you. +It is important to change one's hiding-place frequently. Meanwhile I shall +send you a copy of THE BOOK'--even O'Brien, Winston noticed, seemed to +pronounce the words as though they were in italics--'Goldstein's book, you +understand, as soon as possible. It may be some days before I can get hold +of one. There are not many in existence, as you can imagine. The Thought +Police hunt them down and destroy them almost as fast as we can produce +them. It makes very little difference. The book is indestructible. If +the last copy were gone, we could reproduce it almost word for word. Do +you carry a brief-case to work with you?' he added. + +'As a rule, yes.' + +'What is it like?' + +'Black, very shabby. With two straps.' + +'Black, two straps, very shabby--good. One day in the fairly near +future--I cannot give a date--one of the messages among your morning's +work will contain a misprinted word, and you will have to ask for a +repeat. On the following day you will go to work without your brief-case. +At some time during the day, in the street, a man will touch you on the +arm and say "I think you have dropped your brief-case." The one he gives +you will contain a copy of Goldstein's book. You will return it within +fourteen days.' + +They were silent for a moment. + +'There are a couple of minutes before you need go,' said O'Brien. 'We +shall meet again--if we do meet again----' + +Winston looked up at him. 'In the place where there is no darkness?' +he said hesitantly. + +O'Brien nodded without appearance of surprise. 'In the place where there +is no darkness,' he said, as though he had recognized the allusion. 'And +in the meantime, is there anything that you wish to say before you leave? +Any message? Any question?.' + +Winston thought. There did not seem to be any further question that he +wanted to ask: still less did he feel any impulse to utter high-sounding +generalities. Instead of anything directly connected with O'Brien or the +Brotherhood, there came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the +dark bedroom where his mother had spent her last days, and the little room +over Mr Charrington's shop, and the glass paperweight, and the steel +engraving in its rosewood frame. Almost at random he said: + +'Did you ever happen to hear an old rhyme that begins "Oranges and lemons, +say the bells of St Clement's"?' + +Again O'Brien nodded. With a sort of grave courtesy he completed the +stanza: + + + 'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's, + You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's, + When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey, + When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.' + + +'You knew the last line!' said Winston. + +'Yes, I knew the last line. And now, I am afraid, it is time for you to go. +But wait. You had better let me give you one of these tablets.' + +As Winston stood up O'Brien held out a hand. His powerful grip crushed +the bones of Winston's palm. At the door Winston looked back, but O'Brien +seemed already to be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting +with his hand on the switch that controlled the telescreen. Beyond him +Winston could see the writing-table with its green-shaded lamp and the +speakwrite and the wire baskets deep-laden with papers. The incident was +closed. Within thirty seconds, it occurred to him, O'Brien would be back +at his interrupted and important work on behalf of the Party. + + + + +Chapter 9 + + + +Winston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was the right word. It had +come into his head spontaneously. His body seemed to have not only the +weakness of a jelly, but its translucency. He felt that if he held up his +hand he would be able to see the light through it. All the blood and +lymph had been drained out of him by an enormous debauch of work, leaving +only a frail structure of nerves, bones, and skin. All sensations seemed +to be magnified. His overalls fretted his shoulders, the pavement tickled +his feet, even the opening and closing of a hand was an effort that made +his joints creak. + +He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So had everyone else in +the Ministry. Now it was all over, and he had literally nothing to do, no +Party work of any description, until tomorrow morning. He could spend six +hours in the hiding-place and another nine in his own bed. Slowly, in +mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a dingy street in the direction +of Mr Charrington's shop, keeping one eye open for the patrols, but +irrationally convinced that this afternoon there was no danger of anyone +interfering with him. The heavy brief-case that he was carrying bumped +against his knee at each step, sending a tingling sensation up and down +the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book, which he had now had in his +possession for six days and had not yet opened, nor even looked at. + +On the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the speeches, the +shouting, the singing, the banners, the posters, the films, the waxworks, +the rolling of drums and squealing of trumpets, the tramp of marching feet, +the grinding of the caterpillars of tanks, the roar of massed planes, +the booming of guns--after six days of this, when the great orgasm was +quivering to its climax and the general hatred of Eurasia had boiled up +into such delirium that if the crowd could have got their hands on the +2,000 Eurasian war-criminals who were to be publicly hanged on the last +day of the proceedings, they would unquestionably have torn them to +pieces--at just this moment it had been announced that Oceania was not +after all at war with Eurasia. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Eurasia +was an ally. + +There was, of course, no admission that any change had taken place. Merely +it became known, with extreme suddenness and everywhere at once, that +Eastasia and not Eurasia was the enemy. Winston was taking part in a +demonstration in one of the central London squares at the moment when it +happened. It was night, and the white faces and the scarlet banners were +luridly floodlit. The square was packed with several thousand people, +including a block of about a thousand schoolchildren in the uniform of the +Spies. On a scarlet-draped platform an orator of the Inner Party, a small +lean man with disproportionately long arms and a large bald skull over +which a few lank locks straggled, was haranguing the crowd. A little +Rumpelstiltskin figure, contorted with hatred, he gripped the neck of the +microphone with one hand while the other, enormous at the end of a bony +arm, clawed the air menacingly above his head. His voice, made metallic by +the amplifiers, boomed forth an endless catalogue of atrocities, massacres, +deportations, lootings, rapings, torture of prisoners, bombing of +civilians, lying propaganda, unjust aggressions, broken treaties. It was +almost impossible to listen to him without being first convinced and then +maddened. At every few moments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the +voice of the speaker was drowned by a wild beast-like roaring that rose +uncontrollably from thousands of throats. The most savage yells of all +came from the schoolchildren. The speech had been proceeding for perhaps +twenty minutes when a messenger hurried on to the platform and a scrap of +paper was slipped into the speaker's hand. He unrolled and read it without +pausing in his speech. Nothing altered in his voice or manner, or in the +content of what he was saying, but suddenly the names were different. +Without words said, a wave of understanding rippled through the crowd. +Oceania was at war with Eastasia! The next moment there was a tremendous +commotion. The banners and posters with which the square was decorated +were all wrong! Quite half of them had the wrong faces on them. It was +sabotage! The agents of Goldstein had been at work! There was a riotous +interlude while posters were ripped from the walls, banners torn to shreds +and trampled underfoot. The Spies performed prodigies of activity in +clambering over the rooftops and cutting the streamers that fluttered from +the chimneys. But within two or three minutes it was all over. The orator, +still gripping the neck of the microphone, his shoulders hunched forward, +his free hand clawing at the air, had gone straight on with his speech. +One minute more, and the feral roars of rage were again bursting from the +crowd. The Hate continued exactly as before, except that the target had +been changed. + +The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was that the speaker had +switched from one line to the other actually in midsentence, not only +without a pause, but without even breaking the syntax. But at the moment +he had other things to preoccupy him. It was during the moment of disorder +while the posters were being torn down that a man whose face he did not +see had tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Excuse me, I think you've +dropped your brief-case.' He took the brief-case abstractedly, without +speaking. He knew that it would be days before he had an opportunity to +look inside it. The instant that the demonstration was over he went +straight to the Ministry of Truth, though the time was now nearly +twenty-three hours. The entire staff of the Ministry had done likewise. +The orders already issuing from the telescreen, recalling them to their +posts, were hardly necessary. + +Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always been at war with +Eastasia. A large part of the political literature of five years was now +completely obsolete. Reports and records of all kinds, newspapers, books, +pamphlets, films, sound-tracks, photographs--all had to be rectified at +lightning speed. Although no directive was ever issued, it was known that +the chiefs of the Department intended that within one week no reference +to the war with Eurasia, or the alliance with Eastasia, should remain in +existence anywhere. The work was overwhelming, all the more so because +the processes that it involved could not be called by their true +names. Everyone in the Records Department worked eighteen hours in the +twenty-four, with two three-hour snatches of sleep. Mattresses were brought +up from the cellars and pitched all over the corridors: meals consisted of +sandwiches and Victory Coffee wheeled round on trolleys by attendants from +the canteen. Each time that Winston broke off for one of his spells of +sleep he tried to leave his desk clear of work, and each time that he +crawled back sticky-eyed and aching, it was to find that another shower +of paper cylinders had covered the desk like a snowdrift, half-burying the +speakwrite and overflowing on to the floor, so that the first job was +always to stack them into a neat enough pile to give him room to work. +What was worst of all was that the work was by no means purely mechanical. +Often it was enough merely to substitute one name for another, but any +detailed report of events demanded care and imagination. Even the +geographical knowledge that one needed in transferring the war from one +part of the world to another was considerable. + +By the third day his eyes ached unbearably and his spectacles needed wiping +every few minutes. It was like struggling with some crushing physical task, +something which one had the right to refuse and which one was nevertheless +neurotically anxious to accomplish. In so far as he had time to remember +it, he was not troubled by the fact that every word he murmured into the +speakwrite, every stroke of his ink-pencil, was a deliberate lie. He was +as anxious as anyone else in the Department that the forgery should be +perfect. On the morning of the sixth day the dribble of cylinders slowed +down. For as much as half an hour nothing came out of the tube; then one +more cylinder, then nothing. Everywhere at about the same time the work +was easing off. A deep and as it were secret sigh went through the +Department. A mighty deed, which could never be mentioned, had been +achieved. It was now impossible for any human being to prove by documentary +evidence that the war with Eurasia had ever happened. At twelve hundred it +was unexpectedly announced that all workers in the Ministry were free till +tomorrow morning. Winston, still carrying the brief-case containing the +book, which had remained between his feet while he worked and under his +body while he slept, went home, shaved himself, and almost fell asleep in +his bath, although the water was barely more than tepid. + +With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he climbed the stair above +Mr Charrington's shop. He was tired, but not sleepy any longer. He opened +the window, lit the dirty little oilstove and put on a pan of water for +coffee. Julia would arrive presently: meanwhile there was the book. He +sat down in the sluttish armchair and undid the straps of the brief-case. + +A heavy black volume, amateurishly bound, with no name or title on the +cover. The print also looked slightly irregular. The pages were worn at +the edges, and fell apart, easily, as though the book had passed through +many hands. The inscription on the title-page ran: + + + THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF + OLIGARCHICAL COLLECTIVISM + by + Emmanuel Goldstein + + +Winston began reading: + + +Chapter I +Ignorance is Strength + +Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic Age, +there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle, +and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have borne +countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as their +attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the +essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous +upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always +reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium, +however far it is pushed one way or the other. + +The aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable... + + +Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact that he +was reading, in comfort and safety. He was alone: no telescreen, no ear at +the keyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the +page with his hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From +somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of children: in the room +itself there was no sound except the insect voice of the clock. He settled +deeper into the arm-chair and put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss, +it was eternity. Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one +knows that one will ultimately read and re-read every word, he opened it +at a different place and found himself at Chapter III. He went on reading: + + +Chapter III +War is Peace + +The splitting up of the world into three great super-states was an event +which could be and indeed was foreseen before the middle of the twentieth +century. With the absorption of Europe by Russia and of the British Empire +by the United States, two of the three existing powers, Eurasia and +Oceania, were already effectively in being. The third, Eastasia, only +emerged as a distinct unit after another decade of confused fighting. The +frontiers between the three super-states are in some places arbitrary, and +in others they fluctuate according to the fortunes of war, but in general +they follow geographical lines. Eurasia comprises the whole of the northern +part of the European and Asiatic land-mass, from Portugal to the Bering +Strait. Oceania comprises the Americas, the Atlantic islands including the +British Isles, Australasia, and the southern portion of Africa. Eastasia, +smaller than the others and with a less definite western frontier, +comprises China and the countries to the south of it, the Japanese islands +and a large but fluctuating portion of Manchuria, Mongolia, and Tibet. + +In one combination or another, these three super-states are permanently at +war, and have been so for the past twenty-five years. War, however, is no +longer the desperate, annihilating struggle that it was in the early +decades of the twentieth century. It is a warfare of limited aims between +combatants who are unable to destroy one another, have no material cause +for fighting and are not divided by any genuine ideological difference. +This is not to say that either the conduct of war, or the prevailing +attitude towards it, has become less bloodthirsty or more chivalrous. +On the contrary, war hysteria is continuous and universal in all countries, +and such acts as raping, looting, the slaughter of children, the reduction +of whole populations to slavery, and reprisals against prisoners which +extend even to boiling and burying alive, are looked upon as normal, +and, when they are committed by one's own side and not by the enemy, +meritorious. But in a physical sense war involves very small numbers of +people, mostly highly-trained specialists, and causes comparatively few +casualties. The fighting, when there is any, takes place on the vague +frontiers whose whereabouts the average man can only guess at, or round +the Floating Fortresses which guard strategic spots on the sea lanes. In +the centres of civilization war means no more than a continuous shortage +of consumption goods, and the occasional crash of a rocket bomb which may +cause a few scores of deaths. War has in fact changed its character. More +exactly, the reasons for which war is waged have changed in their order of +importance. Motives which were already present to some small extent in the +great wars of the early twentieth century have now become dominant and +are consciously recognized and acted upon. + +To understand the nature of the present war--for in spite of the regrouping +which occurs every few years, it is always the same war--one must realize +in the first place that it is impossible for it to be decisive. None of +the three super-states could be definitively conquered even by the other +two in combination. They are too evenly matched, and their natural defences +are too formidable. Eurasia is protected by its vast land spaces, Oceania +by the width of the Atlantic and the Pacific, Eastasia by the fecundity +and industriousness of its inhabitants. Secondly, there is no longer, in +a material sense, anything to fight about. With the establishment of +self-contained economies, in which production and consumption are geared +to one another, the scramble for markets which was a main cause of +previous wars has come to an end, while the competition for raw materials +is no longer a matter of life and death. In any case each of the three +super-states is so vast that it can obtain almost all the materials that +it needs within its own boundaries. In so far as the war has a direct +economic purpose, it is a war for labour power. Between the frontiers of +the super-states, and not permanently in the possession of any of them, +there lies a rough quadrilateral with its corners at Tangier, Brazzaville, +Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing within it about a fifth of the population +of the earth. It is for the possession of these thickly-populated regions, +and of the northern ice-cap, that the three powers are constantly +struggling. In practice no one power ever controls the whole of the +disputed area. Portions of it are constantly changing hands, and it is the +chance of seizing this or that fragment by a sudden stroke of treachery +that dictates the endless changes of alignment. + +All of the disputed territories contain valuable minerals, and some of +them yield important vegetable products such as rubber which in colder +climates it is necessary to synthesize by comparatively expensive methods. +But above all they contain a bottomless reserve of cheap labour. Whichever +power controls equatorial Africa, or the countries of the Middle East, or +Southern India, or the Indonesian Archipelago, disposes also of the bodies +of scores or hundreds of millions of ill-paid and hard-working coolies. +The inhabitants of these areas, reduced more or less openly to the status +of slaves, pass continually from conqueror to conqueror, and are expended +like so much coal or oil in the race to turn out more armaments, to capture +more territory, to control more labour power, to turn out more armaments, +to capture more territory, and so on indefinitely. It should be noted that +the fighting never really moves beyond the edges of the disputed areas. +The frontiers of Eurasia flow back and forth between the basin of the Congo +and the northern shore of the Mediterranean; the islands of the Indian +Ocean and the Pacific are constantly being captured and recaptured by +Oceania or by Eastasia; in Mongolia the dividing line between Eurasia and +Eastasia is never stable; round the Pole all three powers lay claim to +enormous territories which in fact are largely uninhabited and unexplored: +but the balance of power always remains roughly even, and the territory +which forms the heartland of each super-state always remains inviolate. +Moreover, the labour of the exploited peoples round the Equator is not +really necessary to the world's economy. They add nothing to the wealth of +the world, since whatever they produce is used for purposes of war, and +the object of waging a war is always to be in a better position in which +to wage another war. By their labour the slave populations allow the tempo +of continuous warfare to be speeded up. But if they did not exist, the +structure of world society, and the process by which it maintains itself, +would not be essentially different. + +The primary aim of modern warfare (in accordance with the principles of +DOUBLETHINK, this aim is simultaneously recognized and not recognized by +the directing brains of the Inner Party) is to use up the products of the +machine without raising the general standard of living. Ever since the end +of the nineteenth century, the problem of what to do with the surplus of +consumption goods has been latent in industrial society. At present, when +few human beings even have enough to eat, this problem is obviously not +urgent, and it might not have become so, even if no artificial processes +of destruction had been at work. The world of today is a bare, hungry, +dilapidated place compared with the world that existed before 1914, and +still more so if compared with the imaginary future to which the people of +that period looked forward. In the early twentieth century, the vision of +a future society unbelievably rich, leisured, orderly, and efficient--a +glittering antiseptic world of glass and steel and snow-white concrete--was +part of the consciousness of nearly every literate person. Science and +technology were developing at a prodigious speed, and it seemed natural to +assume that they would go on developing. This failed to happen, partly +because of the impoverishment caused by a long series of wars and +revolutions, partly because scientific and technical progress depended on +the empirical habit of thought, which could not survive in a strictly +regimented society. As a whole the world is more primitive today than it +was fifty years ago. Certain backward areas have advanced, and various +devices, always in some way connected with warfare and police espionage, +have been developed, but experiment and invention have largely stopped, +and the ravages of the atomic war of the nineteen-fifties have never been +fully repaired. Nevertheless the dangers inherent in the machine are still +there. From the moment when the machine first made its appearance it +was clear to all thinking people that the need for human drudgery, and +therefore to a great extent for human inequality, had disappeared. If the +machine were used deliberately for that end, hunger, overwork, dirt, +illiteracy, and disease could be eliminated within a few generations. +And in fact, without being used for any such purpose, but by a sort of +automatic process--by producing wealth which it was sometimes impossible +not to distribute--the machine did raise the living standards of the +average human being very greatly over a period of about fifty years at +the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries. + +But it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth threatened the +destruction--indeed, in some sense was the destruction--of a hierarchical +society. In a world in which everyone worked short hours, had enough to +eat, lived in a house with a bathroom and a refrigerator, and possessed +a motor-car or even an aeroplane, the most obvious and perhaps the most +important form of inequality would already have disappeared. If it once +became general, wealth would confer no distinction. It was possible, no +doubt, to imagine a society in which WEALTH, in the sense of personal +possessions and luxuries, should be evenly distributed, while POWER +remained in the hands of a small privileged caste. But in practice such +a society could not long remain stable. For if leisure and security were +enjoyed by all alike, the great mass of human beings who are normally +stupefied by poverty would become literate and would learn to think for +themselves; and when once they had done this, they would sooner or later +realize that the privileged minority had no function, and they would sweep +it away. In the long run, a hierarchical society was only possible on a +basis of poverty and ignorance. To return to the agricultural past, as +some thinkers about the beginning of the twentieth century dreamed of +doing, was not a practicable solution. It conflicted with the tendency +towards mechanization which had become quasi-instinctive throughout almost +the whole world, and moreover, any country which remained industrially +backward was helpless in a military sense and was bound to be dominated, +directly or indirectly, by its more advanced rivals. + +Nor was it a satisfactory solution to keep the masses in poverty by +restricting the output of goods. This happened to a great extent during +the final phase of capitalism, roughly between 1920 and 1940. The economy +of many countries was allowed to stagnate, land went out of cultivation, +capital equipment was not added to, great blocks of the population were +prevented from working and kept half alive by State charity. But this, +too, entailed military weakness, and since the privations it inflicted +were obviously unnecessary, it made opposition inevitable. The problem was +how to keep the wheels of industry turning without increasing the real +wealth of the world. Goods must be produced, but they must not be +distributed. And in practice the only way of achieving this was by +continuous warfare. + +The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human lives, +but of the products of human labour. War is a way of shattering to pieces, +or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths of the sea, +materials which might otherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, +and hence, in the long run, too intelligent. Even when weapons of war are +not actually destroyed, their manufacture is still a convenient way of +expending labour power without producing anything that can be consumed. +A Floating Fortress, for example, has locked up in it the labour that +would build several hundred cargo-ships. Ultimately it is scrapped as +obsolete, never having brought any material benefit to anybody, and with +further enormous labours another Floating Fortress is built. In principle +the war effort is always so planned as to eat up any surplus that might +exist after meeting the bare needs of the population. In practice the needs +of the population are always underestimated, with the result that there is +a chronic shortage of half the necessities of life; but this is looked on +as an advantage. It is deliberate policy to keep even the favoured groups +somewhere near the brink of hardship, because a general state of scarcity +increases the importance of small privileges and thus magnifies the +distinction between one group and another. By the standards of the early +twentieth century, even a member of the Inner Party lives an austere, +laborious kind of life. Nevertheless, the few luxuries that he does enjoy +his large, well-appointed flat, the better texture of his clothes, the +better quality of his food and drink and tobacco, his two or three +servants, his private motor-car or helicopter--set him in a different world +from a member of the Outer Party, and the members of the Outer Party have +a similar advantage in comparison with the submerged masses whom we call +'the proles'. The social atmosphere is that of a besieged city, where the +possession of a lump of horseflesh makes the difference between wealth and +poverty. And at the same time the consciousness of being at war, and +therefore in danger, makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste +seem the natural, unavoidable condition of survival. + +War, it will be seen, accomplishes the necessary destruction, but +accomplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way. In principle it would +be quite simple to waste the surplus labour of the world by building +temples and pyramids, by digging holes and filling them up again, or even +by producing vast quantities of goods and then setting fire to them. But +this would provide only the economic and not the emotional basis for a +hierarchical society. What is concerned here is not the morale of masses, +whose attitude is unimportant so long as they are kept steadily at work, +but the morale of the Party itself. Even the humblest Party member is +expected to be competent, industrious, and even intelligent within narrow +limits, but it is also necessary that he should be a credulous and ignorant +fanatic whose prevailing moods are fear, hatred, adulation, and orgiastic +triumph. In other words it is necessary that he should have the mentality +appropriate to a state of war. It does not matter whether the war is +actually happening, and, since no decisive victory is possible, it does +not matter whether the war is going well or badly. All that is needed is +that a state of war should exist. The splitting of the intelligence which +the Party requires of its members, and which is more easily achieved in an +atmosphere of war, is now almost universal, but the higher up the ranks +one goes, the more marked it becomes. It is precisely in the Inner Party +that war hysteria and hatred of the enemy are strongest. In his capacity +as an administrator, it is often necessary for a member of the Inner Party +to know that this or that item of war news is untruthful, and he may often +be aware that the entire war is spurious and is either not happening or +is being waged for purposes quite other than the declared ones: but such +knowledge is easily neutralized by the technique of DOUBLETHINK. Meanwhile +no Inner Party member wavers for an instant in his mystical belief that +the war is real, and that it is bound to end victoriously, with Oceania +the undisputed master of the entire world. + +All members of the Inner Party believe in this coming conquest as an +article of faith. It is to be achieved either by gradually acquiring more +and more territory and so building up an overwhelming preponderance of +power, or by the discovery of some new and unanswerable weapon. The search +for new weapons continues unceasingly, and is one of the very few remaining +activities in which the inventive or speculative type of mind can find any +outlet. In Oceania at the present day, Science, in the old sense, has +almost ceased to exist. In Newspeak there is no word for 'Science'. The +empirical method of thought, on which all the scientific achievements of +the past were founded, is opposed to the most fundamental principles of +Ingsoc. And even technological progress only happens when its products can +in some way be used for the diminution of human liberty. In all the useful +arts the world is either standing still or going backwards. The fields are +cultivated with horse-ploughs while books are written by machinery. But +in matters of vital importance--meaning, in effect, war and police +espionage--the empirical approach is still encouraged, or at least +tolerated. The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole surface of +the earth and to extinguish once and for all the possibility of independent +thought. There are therefore two great problems which the Party is +concerned to solve. One is how to discover, against his will, what another +human being is thinking, and the other is how to kill several hundred +million people in a few seconds without giving warning beforehand. In +so far as scientific research still continues, this is its subject matter. +The scientist of today is either a mixture of psychologist and inquisitor, +studying with real ordinary minuteness the meaning of facial expressions, +gestures, and tones of voice, and testing the truth-producing effects of +drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis, and physical torture; or he is chemist, +physicist, or biologist concerned only with such branches of his special +subject as are relevant to the taking of life. In the vast laboratories +of the Ministry of Peace, and in the experimental stations hidden in the +Brazilian forests, or in the Australian desert, or on lost islands of +the Antarctic, the teams of experts are indefatigably at work. Some are +concerned simply with planning the logistics of future wars; others devise +larger and larger rocket bombs, more and more powerful explosives, and more +and more impenetrable armour-plating; others search for new and deadlier +gases, or for soluble poisons capable of being produced in such quantities +as to destroy the vegetation of whole continents, or for breeds of disease +germs immunized against all possible antibodies; others strive to produce +a vehicle that shall bore its way under the soil like a submarine under +the water, or an aeroplane as independent of its base as a sailing-ship; +others explore even remoter possibilities such as focusing the sun's rays +through lenses suspended thousands of kilometres away in space, or +producing artificial earthquakes and tidal waves by tapping the heat at +the earth's centre. + +But none of these projects ever comes anywhere near realization, and none +of the three super-states ever gains a significant lead on the others. +What is more remarkable is that all three powers already possess, in the +atomic bomb, a weapon far more powerful than any that their present +researches are likely to discover. Although the Party, according to its +habit, claims the invention for itself, atomic bombs first appeared as +early as the nineteen-forties, and were first used on a large scale about +ten years later. At that time some hundreds of bombs were dropped on +industrial centres, chiefly in European Russia, Western Europe, and +North America. The effect was to convince the ruling groups of all +countries that a few more atomic bombs would mean the end of organized +society, and hence of their own power. Thereafter, although no formal +agreement was ever made or hinted at, no more bombs were dropped. All three +powers merely continue to produce atomic bombs and store them up against +the decisive opportunity which they all believe will come sooner or later. +And meanwhile the art of war has remained almost stationary for thirty or +forty years. Helicopters are more used than they were formerly, bombing +planes have been largely superseded by self-propelled projectiles, and the +fragile movable battleship has given way to the almost unsinkable Floating +Fortress; but otherwise there has been little development. The tank, the +submarine, the torpedo, the machine gun, even the rifle and the hand +grenade are still in use. And in spite of the endless slaughters reported +in the Press and on the telescreens, the desperate battles of earlier wars, +in which hundreds of thousands or even millions of men were often killed +in a few weeks, have never been repeated. + +None of the three super-states ever attempts any manoeuvre which involves +the risk of serious defeat. When any large operation is undertaken, it is +usually a surprise attack against an ally. The strategy that all three +powers are following, or pretend to themselves that they are following, +is the same. The plan is, by a combination of fighting, bargaining, and +well-timed strokes of treachery, to acquire a ring of bases completely +encircling one or other of the rival states, and then to sign a pact of +friendship with that rival and remain on peaceful terms for so many years +as to lull suspicion to sleep. During this time rockets loaded with atomic +bombs can be assembled at all the strategic spots; finally they will all +be fired simultaneously, with effects so devastating as to make retaliation +impossible. It will then be time to sign a pact of friendship with the +remaining world-power, in preparation for another attack. This scheme, it +is hardly necessary to say, is a mere daydream, impossible of realization. +Moreover, no fighting ever occurs except in the disputed areas round the +Equator and the Pole: no invasion of enemy territory is ever undertaken. +This explains the fact that in some places the frontiers between the +super-states are arbitrary. Eurasia, for example, could easily conquer the +British Isles, which are geographically part of Europe, or on the other +hand it would be possible for Oceania to push its frontiers to the Rhine +or even to the Vistula. But this would violate the principle, followed on +all sides though never formulated, of cultural integrity. If Oceania were +to conquer the areas that used once to be known as France and Germany, it +would be necessary either to exterminate the inhabitants, a task of great +physical difficulty, or to assimilate a population of about a hundred +million people, who, so far as technical development goes, are roughly on +the Oceanic level. The problem is the same for all three super-states. +It is absolutely necessary to their structure that there should be no +contact with foreigners, except, to a limited extent, with war prisoners +and coloured slaves. Even the official ally of the moment is always +regarded with the darkest suspicion. War prisoners apart, the average +citizen of Oceania never sets eyes on a citizen of either Eurasia or +Eastasia, and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If he +were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover that they are +creatures similar to himself and that most of what he has been told about +them is lies. The sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the +fear, hatred, and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might +evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides that however often Persia, +or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon may change hands, the main frontiers must +never be crossed by anything except bombs. + +Under this lies a fact never mentioned aloud, but tacitly understood and +acted upon: namely, that the conditions of life in all three super-states +are very much the same. In Oceania the prevailing philosophy is called +Ingsoc, in Eurasia it is called Neo-Bolshevism, and in Eastasia it is +called by a Chinese name usually translated as Death-Worship, but perhaps +better rendered as Obliteration of the Self. The citizen of Oceania is not +allowed to know anything of the tenets of the other two philosophies, but +he is taught to execrate them as barbarous outrages upon morality and +common sense. Actually the three philosophies are barely distinguishable, +and the social systems which they support are not distinguishable at all. +Everywhere there is the same pyramidal structure, the same worship of +semi-divine leader, the same economy existing by and for continuous +warfare. It follows that the three super-states not only cannot conquer +one another, but would gain no advantage by doing so. On the contrary, +so long as they remain in conflict they prop one another up, like three +sheaves of corn. And, as usual, the ruling groups of all three powers are +simultaneously aware and unaware of what they are doing. Their lives are +dedicated to world conquest, but they also know that it is necessary that +the war should continue everlastingly and without victory. Meanwhile the +fact that there IS no danger of conquest makes possible the denial of +reality which is the special feature of Ingsoc and its rival systems of +thought. Here it is necessary to repeat what has been said earlier, that +by becoming continuous war has fundamentally changed its character. + +In past ages, a war, almost by definition, was something that sooner or +later came to an end, usually in unmistakable victory or defeat. In the +past, also, war was one of the main instruments by which human societies +were kept in touch with physical reality. All rulers in all ages have tried +to impose a false view of the world upon their followers, but they could +not afford to encourage any illusion that tended to impair military +efficiency. So long as defeat meant the loss of independence, or some other +result generally held to be undesirable, the precautions against defeat +had to be serious. Physical facts could not be ignored. In philosophy, or +religion, or ethics, or politics, two and two might make five, but when +one was designing a gun or an aeroplane they had to make four. Inefficient +nations were always conquered sooner or later, and the struggle for +efficiency was inimical to illusions. Moreover, to be efficient it was +necessary to be able to learn from the past, which meant having a fairly +accurate idea of what had happened in the past. Newspapers and history +books were, of course, always coloured and biased, but falsification of +the kind that is practised today would have been impossible. War was a +sure safeguard of sanity, and so far as the ruling classes were concerned +it was probably the most important of all safeguards. While wars could be +won or lost, no ruling class could be completely irresponsible. + +But when war becomes literally continuous, it also ceases to be dangerous. +When war is continuous there is no such thing as military necessity. +Technical progress can cease and the most palpable facts can be denied or +disregarded. As we have seen, researches that could be called scientific +are still carried out for the purposes of war, but they are essentially a +kind of daydreaming, and their failure to show results is not important. +Efficiency, even military efficiency, is no longer needed. Nothing is +efficient in Oceania except the Thought Police. Since each of the three +super-states is unconquerable, each is in effect a separate universe within +which almost any perversion of thought can be safely practised. Reality +only exerts its pressure through the needs of everyday life--the need to +eat and drink, to get shelter and clothing, to avoid swallowing poison or +stepping out of top-storey windows, and the like. Between life and death, +and between physical pleasure and physical pain, there is still a +distinction, but that is all. Cut off from contact with the outer world, +and with the past, the citizen of Oceania is like a man in interstellar +space, who has no way of knowing which direction is up and which is down. +The rulers of such a state are absolute, as the Pharaohs or the Caesars +could not be. They are obliged to prevent their followers from starving +to death in numbers large enough to be inconvenient, and they are obliged +to remain at the same low level of military technique as their rivals; but +once that minimum is achieved, they can twist reality into whatever shape +they choose. + +The war, therefore, if we judge it by the standards of previous wars, is +merely an imposture. It is like the battles between certain ruminant +animals whose horns are set at such an angle that they are incapable of +hurting one another. But though it is unreal it is not meaningless. It +eats up the surplus of consumable goods, and it helps to preserve the +special mental atmosphere that a hierarchical society needs. War, it will +be seen, is now a purely internal affair. In the past, the ruling groups +of all countries, although they might recognize their common interest and +therefore limit the destructiveness of war, did fight against one another, +and the victor always plundered the vanquished. In our own day they are +not fighting against one another at all. The war is waged by each ruling +group against its own subjects, and the object of the war is not to make +or prevent conquests of territory, but to keep the structure of society +intact. The very word 'war', therefore, has become misleading. It would +probably be accurate to say that by becoming continuous war has ceased to +exist. The peculiar pressure that it exerted on human beings between the +Neolithic Age and the early twentieth century has disappeared and been +replaced by something quite different. The effect would be much the same +if the three super-states, instead of fighting one another, should agree +to live in perpetual peace, each inviolate within its own boundaries. For +in that case each would still be a self-contained universe, freed for ever +from the sobering influence of external danger. A peace that was truly +permanent would be the same as a permanent war. This--although the vast +majority of Party members understand it only in a shallower sense--is the +inner meaning of the Party slogan: WAR IS PEACE. + + +Winston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in remote distance a +rocket bomb thundered. The blissful feeling of being alone with the +forbidden book, in a room with no telescreen, had not worn 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, +more systematic, less fear-ridden. The best books, he perceived, are those +that tell you what you know already. He had just turned back to Chapter I +when he heard Julia's footstep on the stair and started out of his chair +to meet her. She dumped her brown tool-bag on the floor and flung herself +into his arms. It was more than a week since they had seen one another. + +'I've got THE BOOK,' he said as they disentangled themselves. + +'Oh, you've got it? Good,' she said without much interest, and almost +immediately knelt down beside the oil stove to make the coffee. + +They did not return to the subject until they had been in bed for half an +hour. The evening was just cool enough to make it worth while to pull up +the counterpane. From below came the familiar sound of singing and the +scrape of boots on the flagstones. The brawny red-armed woman whom Winston +had seen there on his first visit was almost a fixture in the yard. There +seemed to be no hour of daylight when she was not marching to and fro +between the washtub and the line, alternately gagging herself with clothes +pegs and breaking forth into lusty song. Julia had settled down on her +side and seemed to be already on the point of falling asleep. He reached +out for the book, which was lying on the floor, and sat up against the +bedhead. + +'We must read it,' he said. 'You too. All members of the Brotherhood have +to read it.' + +'You read it,' she said with her eyes shut. 'Read it aloud. That's the +best way. Then you can explain it to me as you go.' + +The clock's hands said six, meaning eighteen. They had three or four hours +ahead of them. He propped the book against his knees and began reading: + + +Chapter I +Ignorance is Strength + +Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic Age, +there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle, +and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have borne +countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as their +attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the +essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous +upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always +reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium, +however far it is pushed one way or the other + + +'Julia, are you awake?' said Winston. + +'Yes, my love, I'm listening. Go on. It's marvellous.' + +He continued reading: + + +The aims of these three groups are entirely irreconcilable. The aim of +the High is to remain where they are. The aim of the Middle is to change +places with the High. The aim of the Low, when they have an aim--for it +is an abiding characteristic of the Low that they are too much crushed +by drudgery to be more than intermittently conscious of anything outside +their daily lives--is to abolish all distinctions and create a society in +which all men shall be equal. Thus throughout history a struggle which is +the same in its main outlines recurs over and over again. For long periods +the High seem to be securely in power, but sooner or later there always +comes a moment when they lose either their belief in themselves or their +capacity to govern efficiently, or both. They are then overthrown by the +Middle, who enlist the Low on their side by pretending to them that they +are fighting for liberty and justice. As soon as they have reached their +objective, the Middle thrust the Low back into their old position of +servitude, and themselves become the High. Presently a new Middle group +splits off from one of the other groups, or from both of them, and the +struggle begins over again. Of the three groups, only the Low are never +even temporarily successful in achieving their aims. It would be an +exaggeration to say that throughout history there has been no progress of +a material kind. Even today, in a period of decline, the average human +being is physically better off than he was a few centuries ago. But no +advance in wealth, no softening of manners, no reform or revolution has +ever brought human equality a millimetre nearer. From the point of view of +the Low, no historic change has ever meant much more than a change in the +name of their masters. + +By the late nineteenth century the recurrence of this pattern had become +obvious to many observers. There then rose schools of thinkers who +interpreted history as a cyclical process and claimed to show that +inequality was the unalterable law of human life. This doctrine, of course, +had always had its adherents, but in the manner in which it was now put +forward there was a significant change. In the past the need for a +hierarchical form of society had been the doctrine specifically of the +High. It had been preached by kings and aristocrats and by the priests, +lawyers, and the like who were parasitical upon them, and it had generally +been softened by promises of compensation in an imaginary world beyond the +grave. The Middle, so long as it was struggling for power, had always made +use of such terms as freedom, justice, and fraternity. Now, however, the +concept of human brotherhood began to be assailed by people who were not +yet in positions of command, but merely hoped to be so before long. In the +past the Middle had made revolutions under the banner of equality, and +then had established a fresh tyranny as soon as the old one was overthrown. +The new Middle groups in effect proclaimed their tyranny beforehand. +Socialism, a theory which appeared in the early nineteenth century and was +the last link in a chain of thought stretching back to the slave rebellions +of antiquity, was still deeply infected by the Utopianism of past ages. +But in each variant of Socialism that appeared from about 1900 onwards the +aim of establishing liberty and equality was more and more openly +abandoned. The new movements which appeared in the middle years of the +century, Ingsoc in Oceania, Neo-Bolshevism in Eurasia, Death-Worship, as +it is commonly called, in Eastasia, had the conscious aim of perpetuating +UNfreedom and INequality. These new movements, of course, grew out of the +old ones and tended to keep their names and pay lip-service to their +ideology. But the purpose of all of them was to arrest progress and freeze +history at a chosen moment. The familiar pendulum swing was to happen once +more, and then stop. As usual, the High were to be turned out by the +Middle, who would then become the High; but this time, by conscious +strategy, the High would be able to maintain their position permanently. + +The new doctrines arose partly because of the accumulation of historical +knowledge, and the growth of the historical sense, which had hardly existed +before the nineteenth century. The cyclical movement of history was now +intelligible, or appeared to be so; and if it was intelligible, then it +was alterable. But the principal, underlying cause was that, as early +as the beginning of the twentieth century, human equality had become +technically possible. It was still true that men were not equal in their +native talents and that functions had to be specialized in ways that +favoured some individuals against others; but there was no longer any real +need for class distinctions or for large differences of wealth. In earlier +ages, class distinctions had been not only inevitable but desirable. +Inequality was the price of civilization. With the development of machine +production, however, the case was altered. Even if it was still necessary +for human beings to do different kinds of work, it was no longer necessary +for them to live at different social or economic levels. Therefore, from +the point of view of the new groups who were on the point of seizing power, +human equality was no longer an ideal to be striven after, but a danger to +be averted. In more primitive ages, when a just and peaceful society was +in fact not possible, it had been fairly easy to believe it. The idea of +an earthly paradise in which men should live together in a state of +brotherhood, without laws and without brute labour, had haunted the human +imagination for thousands of years. And this vision had had a certain hold +even on the groups who actually profited by each historical change. The +heirs of the French, English, and American revolutions had partly believed +in their own phrases about the rights of man, freedom of speech, equality +before the law, and the like, and have even allowed their conduct to be +influenced by them to some extent. But by the fourth decade of the +twentieth century all the main currents of political thought were +authoritarian. The earthly paradise had been discredited at exactly the +moment when it became realizable. Every new political theory, by whatever +name it called itself, led back to hierarchy and regimentation. And in the +general hardening of outlook that set in round about 1930, practices which +had been long abandoned, in some cases for hundreds of years--imprisonment +without trial, the use of war prisoners as slaves, public executions, +torture to extract confessions, the use of hostages, and the deportation +of whole populations--not only became common again, but were tolerated +and even defended by people who considered themselves enlightened and +progressive. + +It was only after a decade of national wars, civil wars, revolutions, and +counter-revolutions in all parts of the world that Ingsoc and its rivals +emerged as fully worked-out political theories. But they had been +foreshadowed by the various systems, generally called totalitarian, which +had appeared earlier in the century, and the main outlines of the world +which would emerge from the prevailing chaos had long been obvious. What +kind of people would control this world had been equally obvious. The new +aristocracy was made up for the most part of bureaucrats, scientists, +technicians, trade-union organizers, publicity experts, sociologists, +teachers, journalists, and professional politicians. These people, whose +origins lay in the salaried middle class and the upper grades of the +working class, had been shaped and brought together by the barren world of +monopoly industry and centralized government. As compared with their +opposite numbers in past ages, they were less avaricious, less tempted by +luxury, hungrier for pure power, and, above all, more conscious of what +they were doing and more intent on crushing opposition. This last +difference was cardinal. By comparison with that existing today, all the +tyrannies of the past were half-hearted and inefficient. The ruling groups +were always infected to some extent by liberal ideas, and were content to +leave loose ends everywhere, to regard only the overt act and to be +uninterested in what their subjects were thinking. Even the Catholic Church +of the Middle Ages was tolerant by modern standards. Part of the reason +for this was that in the past no government had the power to keep its +citizens under constant surveillance. The invention of print, however, +made it easier to manipulate public opinion, and the film and the radio +carried the process further. With the development of television, and +the technical advance which made it possible to receive and transmit +simultaneously on the same instrument, private life came to an end. Every +citizen, or at least every citizen important enough to be worth watching, +could be kept for twenty-four hours a day under the eyes of the police +and in the sound of official propaganda, with all other channels of +communication closed. The possibility of enforcing not only complete +obedience to the will of the State, but complete uniformity of opinion +on all subjects, now existed for the first time. + +After the revolutionary period of the fifties and sixties, society +regrouped itself, as always, into High, Middle, and Low. But the new High +group, unlike all its forerunners, did not act upon instinct but knew what +was needed to safeguard its position. It had long been realized that the +only secure basis for oligarchy is collectivism. Wealth and privilege +are most easily defended when they are possessed jointly. The so-called +'abolition of private property' which took place in the middle years of +the century meant, in effect, the concentration of property in far fewer +hands than before: but with this difference, that the new owners were a +group instead of a mass of individuals. Individually, no member of the +Party owns anything, except petty personal belongings. Collectively, the +Party owns everything in Oceania, because it controls everything, and +disposes of the products as it thinks fit. In the years following the +Revolution it was able to step into this commanding position almost +unopposed, because the whole process was represented as an act of +collectivization. It had always been assumed that if the capitalist class +were expropriated, Socialism must follow: and unquestionably the +capitalists had been expropriated. Factories, mines, land, houses, +transport--everything had been taken away from them: and since these +things were no longer private property, it followed that they must be +public property. Ingsoc, which grew out of the earlier Socialist movement +and inherited its phraseology, has in fact carried out the main item in +the Socialist programme; with the result, foreseen and intended beforehand, +that economic inequality has been made permanent. + +But the problems of perpetuating a hierarchical society go deeper than +this. There are only four ways in which a ruling group can fall from power. +Either it is conquered from without, or it governs so inefficiently that +the masses are stirred to revolt, or it allows a strong and discontented +Middle group to come into being, or it loses its own self-confidence and +willingness to govern. These causes do not operate singly, and as a rule +all four of them are present in some degree. A ruling class which could +guard against all of them would remain in power permanently. Ultimately +the determining factor is the mental attitude of the ruling class itself. + +After the middle of the present century, the first danger had in reality +disappeared. Each of the three powers which now divide the world is in +fact unconquerable, and could only become conquerable through slow +demographic changes which a government with wide powers can easily avert. +The second danger, also, is only a theoretical one. The masses never +revolt of their own accord, and they never revolt merely because they are +oppressed. Indeed, so long as they are not permitted to have standards of +comparison, they never even become aware that they are oppressed. The +recurrent economic crises of past times were totally unnecessary and are +not now permitted to happen, but other and equally large dislocations +can and do happen without having political results, because there is no +way in which discontent can become articulate. As for the problem of +over-production, which has been latent in our society since the development +of machine technique, it is solved by the device of continuous warfare +(see Chapter III), which is also useful in keying up public morale to the +necessary pitch. From the point of view of our present rulers, therefore, +the only genuine dangers are the splitting-off of a new group of able, +under-employed, power-hungry people, and the growth of liberalism and +scepticism in their own ranks. The problem, that is to say, is educational. +It is a problem of continuously moulding the consciousness both of the +directing group and of the larger executive group that lies immediately +below it. The consciousness of the masses needs only to be influenced in +a negative way. + +Given this background, one could infer, if one did not know it already, +the general structure of Oceanic society. At the apex of the pyramid comes +Big Brother. Big Brother is infallible and all-powerful. Every success, +every achievement, every victory, every scientific discovery, all +knowledge, all wisdom, all happiness, all virtue, are held to issue +directly from his leadership and inspiration. Nobody has ever seen Big +Brother. He is a face on the hoardings, a voice on the telescreen. We +may be reasonably sure that he will never die, and there is already +considerable uncertainty as to when he was born. Big Brother is the guise +in which the Party chooses to exhibit itself to the world. His function is +to act as a focusing point for love, fear, and reverence, emotions which +are more easily felt towards an individual than towards an organization. +Below Big Brother comes the Inner Party. Its numbers limited to six +millions, or something less than 2 per cent of the population of Oceania. +Below the Inner Party comes the Outer Party, which, if the Inner Party is +described as the brain of the State, may be justly likened to the hands. +Below that come the dumb masses whom we habitually refer to as 'the +proles', numbering perhaps 85 per cent of the population. In the terms +of our earlier classification, the proles are the Low: for the slave +population of the equatorial lands who pass constantly from conqueror +to conqueror, are not a permanent or necessary part of the structure. + +In principle, membership of these three groups is not hereditary. The +child of Inner Party parents is in theory not born into the Inner Party. +Admission to either branch of the Party is by examination, taken at the +age of sixteen. Nor is there any racial discrimination, or any marked +domination of one province by another. Jews, Negroes, South Americans of +pure Indian blood are to be found in the highest ranks of the Party, and +the administrators of any area are always drawn from the inhabitants of +that area. In no part of Oceania do the inhabitants have the feeling that +they are a colonial population ruled from a distant capital. Oceania has +no capital, and its titular head is a person whose whereabouts nobody +knows. Except that English is its chief LINGUA FRANCA and Newspeak its +official language, it is not centralized in any way. Its rulers are not +held together by blood-ties but by adherence to a common doctrine. It is +true that our society is stratified, and very rigidly stratified, on what +at first sight appear to be hereditary lines. There is far less to-and-fro +movement between the different groups than happened under capitalism or +even in the pre-industrial age. Between the two branches of the Party +there is a certain amount of interchange, but only so much as will ensure +that weaklings are excluded from the Inner Party and that ambitious +members of the Outer Party are made harmless by allowing them to rise. +Proletarians, in practice, are not allowed to graduate into the Party. The +most gifted among them, who might possibly become nuclei of discontent, +are simply marked down by the Thought Police and eliminated. But this +state of affairs is not necessarily permanent, nor is it a matter of +principle. The Party is not a class in the old sense of the word. It does +not aim at transmitting power to its own children, as such; and if there +were no other way of keeping the ablest people at the top, it would be +perfectly prepared to recruit an entire new generation from the ranks of +the proletariat. In the crucial years, the fact that the Party was not a +hereditary body did a great deal to neutralize opposition. The older kind +of Socialist, who had been trained to fight against something called +'class privilege' assumed that what is not hereditary cannot be permanent. +He did not see that the continuity of an oligarchy need not be physical, +nor did he pause to reflect that hereditary aristocracies have always been +shortlived, whereas adoptive organizations such as the Catholic Church +have sometimes lasted for hundreds or thousands of years. The essence of +oligarchical rule is not father-to-son inheritance, but the persistence of +a certain world-view and a certain way of life, imposed by the dead upon +the living. A ruling group is a ruling group so long as it can nominate +its successors. The Party is not concerned with perpetuating its blood but +with perpetuating itself. WHO wields power is not important, provided that +the hierarchical structure remains always the same. + +All the beliefs, habits, tastes, emotions, mental attitudes that +characterize our time are really designed to sustain the mystique of +the Party and prevent the true nature of present-day society from being +perceived. Physical rebellion, or any preliminary move towards rebellion, +is at present not possible. From the proletarians nothing is to be feared. +Left to themselves, they will continue from generation to generation and +from century to century, working, breeding, and dying, not only without +any impulse to rebel, but without the power of grasping that the world +could be other than it is. They could only become dangerous if the advance +of industrial technique made it necessary to educate them more highly; +but, since military and commercial rivalry are no longer important, the +level of popular education is actually declining. What opinions the masses +hold, or do not hold, is looked on as a matter of indifference. They can +be granted intellectual liberty because they have no intellect. In a Party +member, on the other hand, not even the smallest deviation of opinion on +the most unimportant subject can be tolerated. + +A Party member lives from birth to death under the eye of the Thought +Police. Even when he is alone he can never be sure that he is alone. +Wherever he may be, asleep or awake, working or resting, in his bath or in +bed, he can be inspected without warning and without knowing that he is +being inspected. Nothing that he does is indifferent. His friendships, his +relaxations, his behaviour towards his wife and children, the expression +of his face when he is alone, the words he mutters in sleep, even the +characteristic movements of his body, are all jealously scrutinized. Not +only any actual misdemeanour, but any eccentricity, however small, any +change of habits, any nervous mannerism that could possibly be the symptom +of an inner struggle, is certain to be detected. He has no freedom of +choice in any direction whatever. On the other hand his actions are not +regulated by law or by any clearly formulated code of behaviour. In Oceania +there is no law. Thoughts and actions which, when detected, mean certain +death are not formally forbidden, and the endless purges, arrests, +tortures, imprisonments, and vaporizations are not inflicted as punishment +for crimes which have actually been committed, but are merely the +wiping-out of persons who might perhaps commit a crime at some time in the +future. A Party member is required to have not only the right opinions, +but the right instincts. Many of the beliefs and attitudes demanded of him +are never plainly stated, and could not be stated without laying bare the +contradictions inherent in Ingsoc. If he is a person naturally orthodox +(in Newspeak a GOODTHINKER), he will in all circumstances know, without +taking thought, what is the true belief or the desirable emotion. But in +any case an elaborate mental training, undergone in childhood and grouping +itself round the Newspeak words CRIMESTOP, BLACKWHITE, and DOUBLETHINK, +makes him unwilling and unable to think too deeply on any subject whatever. + +A Party member is expected to have no private emotions and no respites +from enthusiasm. He is supposed to live in a continuous frenzy of hatred +of foreign enemies and internal traitors, triumph over victories, and +self-abasement before the power and wisdom of the Party. The discontents +produced by his bare, unsatisfying life are deliberately turned outwards +and dissipated by such devices as the Two Minutes Hate, and the +speculations which might possibly induce a sceptical or rebellious attitude +are killed in advance by his early acquired inner discipline. The first +and simplest stage in the discipline, which can be taught even to young +children, is called, in Newspeak, CRIMESTOP. CRIMESTOP means the faculty +of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous +thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to +perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if +they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train +of thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction. CRIMESTOP, +in short, means protective stupidity. But stupidity is not enough. On the +contrary, orthodoxy in the full sense demands a control over one's own +mental processes as complete as that of a contortionist over his body. +Oceanic society rests ultimately on the belief that Big Brother is +omnipotent and that the Party is infallible. But since in reality Big +Brother is not omnipotent and the party is not infallible, there is need +for an unwearying, moment-to-moment flexibility in the treatment of facts. +The keyword here is BLACKWHITE. Like so many Newspeak words, this word has +two mutually contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it means the +habit of impudently claiming that black is white, in contradiction of the +plain facts. Applied to a Party member, it means a loyal willingness to +say that black is white when Party discipline demands this. But it means +also the ability to BELIEVE that black is white, and more, to KNOW that +black is white, and to forget that one has ever believed the contrary. +This demands a continuous alteration of the past, made possible by the +system of thought which really embraces all the rest, and which is known +in Newspeak as DOUBLETHINK. + +The alteration of the past is necessary for two reasons, one of which is +subsidiary and, so to speak, precautionary. The subsidiary reason is that +the Party member, like the proletarian, tolerates present-day conditions +partly because he has no standards of comparison. He must be cut off from +the past, just as he must be cut off from foreign countries, because it is +necessary for him to believe that he is better off than his ancestors and +that the average level of material comfort is constantly rising. But by +far the more important reason for the readjustment of the past is the +need to safeguard the infallibility of the Party. It is not merely that +speeches, statistics, and records of every kind must be constantly brought +up to date in order to show that the predictions of the Party were in +all cases right. It is also that no change in doctrine or in political +alignment can ever be admitted. For to change one's mind, or even one's +policy, is a confession of weakness. If, for example, Eurasia or Eastasia +(whichever it may be) is the enemy today, then that country must always +have been the enemy. And if the facts say otherwise then the facts must +be altered. Thus history is continuously rewritten. This day-to-day +falsification of the past, carried out by the Ministry of Truth, is as +necessary to the stability of the regime as the work of repression and +espionage carried out by the Ministry of Love. + +The mutability of the past is the central tenet of Ingsoc. Past events, +it is argued, have no objective existence, but survive only in written +records and in human memories. The past is whatever the records and the +memories agree upon. And since the Party is in full control of all records +and in equally full control of the minds of its members, it follows that +the past is whatever the Party chooses to make it. It also follows that +though the past is alterable, it never has been altered in any specific +instance. For when it has been recreated in whatever shape is needed at +the moment, then this new version IS the past, and no different past can +ever have existed. This holds good even when, as often happens, the same +event has to be altered out of recognition several times in the course of +a year. At all times the Party is in possession of absolute truth, and +clearly the absolute can never have been different from what it is now. +It will be seen that the control of the past depends above all on the +training of memory. To make sure that all written records agree with +the orthodoxy of the moment is merely a mechanical act. But it is also +necessary to REMEMBER that events happened in the desired manner. And if +it is necessary to rearrange one's memories or to tamper with written +records, then it is necessary to FORGET that one has done so. The trick of +doing this can be learned like any other mental technique. It is learned +by the majority of Party members, and certainly by all who are intelligent +as well as orthodox. In Oldspeak it is called, quite frankly, 'reality +control'. In Newspeak it is called DOUBLETHINK, though DOUBLETHINK +comprises much else as well. + +DOUBLETHINK means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one's +mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them. The Party intellectual +knows in which direction his memories must be altered; he therefore knows +that he is playing tricks with reality; but by the exercise of DOUBLETHINK +he also satisfies himself that reality is not violated. The process has to +be conscious, or it would not be carried out with sufficient precision, +but it also has to be unconscious, or it would bring with it a feeling of +falsity and hence of guilt. DOUBLETHINK lies at the very heart of Ingsoc, +since the essential act of the Party is to use conscious deception while +retaining the firmness of purpose that goes with complete honesty. To tell +deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that +has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to +draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the +existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the +reality which one denies--all this is indispensably necessary. Even in +using the word DOUBLETHINK it is necessary to exercise DOUBLETHINK. For +by using the word one admits that one is tampering with reality; by a +fresh act of DOUBLETHINK one erases this knowledge; and so on indefinitely, +with the lie always one leap ahead of the truth. Ultimately it is by means +of DOUBLETHINK that the Party has been able--and may, for all we know, +continue to be able for thousands of years--to arrest the course of +history. + +All past oligarchies have fallen from power either because they ossified +or because they grew soft. Either they became stupid and arrogant, failed +to adjust themselves to changing circumstances, and were overthrown; or +they became liberal and cowardly, made concessions when they should have +used force, and once again were overthrown. They fell, that is to say, +either through consciousness or through unconsciousness. It is the +achievement of the Party to have produced a system of thought in which +both conditions can exist simultaneously. And upon no other intellectual +basis could the dominion of the Party be made permanent. If one is to rule, +and to continue ruling, one must be able to dislocate the sense of reality. +For the secret of rulership is to combine a belief in one's own +infallibility with the Power to learn from past mistakes. + +It need hardly be said that the subtlest practitioners of DOUBLETHINK are +those who invented DOUBLETHINK and know that it is a vast system of mental +cheating. In our society, those who have the best knowledge of what is +happening are also those who are furthest from seeing the world as it is. +In general, the greater the understanding, the greater the delusion; the +more intelligent, the less sane. One clear illustration of this is the +fact that war hysteria increases in intensity as one rises in the social +scale. Those whose attitude towards the war is most nearly rational are +the subject peoples of the disputed territories. To these people the war +is simply a continuous calamity which sweeps to and fro over their bodies +like a tidal wave. Which side is winning is a matter of complete +indifference to them. They are aware that a change of overlordship means +simply that they will be doing the same work as before for new masters who +treat them in the same manner as the old ones. The slightly more favoured +workers whom we call 'the proles' are only intermittently conscious of the +war. When it is necessary they can be prodded into frenzies of fear and +hatred, but when left to themselves they are capable of forgetting for +long periods that the war is happening. It is in the ranks of the Party, +and above all of the Inner Party, that the true war enthusiasm is found. +World-conquest is believed in most firmly by those who know it to be +impossible. This peculiar linking-together of opposites--knowledge with +ignorance, cynicism with fanaticism--is one of the chief distinguishing +marks of Oceanic society. The official ideology abounds with contradictions +even when there is no practical reason for them. Thus, the Party rejects +and vilifies every principle for which the Socialist movement originally +stood, and it chooses to do this in the name of Socialism. It preaches +a contempt for the working class unexampled for centuries past, and it +dresses its members in a uniform which was at one time peculiar to manual +workers and was adopted for that reason. It systematically undermines the +solidarity of the family, and it calls its leader by a name which is a +direct appeal to the sentiment of family loyalty. Even the names of the +four Ministries by which we are governed exhibit a sort of impudence in +their deliberate reversal of the facts. The Ministry of Peace concerns +itself with war, the Ministry of Truth with lies, the Ministry of Love +with torture and the Ministry of Plenty with starvation. These +contradictions are not accidental, nor do they result from ordinary +hypocrisy; they are deliberate exercises in DOUBLETHINK. For it is only +by reconciling contradictions that power can be retained indefinitely. +In no other way could the ancient cycle be broken. If human equality is +to be for ever averted--if the High, as we have called them, are to keep +their places permanently--then the prevailing mental condition must be +controlled insanity. + +But there is one question which until this moment we have almost ignored. +It is; WHY should human equality be averted? Supposing that the mechanics +of the process have been rightly described, what is the motive for this +huge, accurately planned effort to freeze history at a particular moment +of time? + +Here we reach the central secret. As we have seen. the mystique of the +Party, and above all of the Inner Party, depends upon DOUBLETHINK But +deeper than this lies the original motive, the never-questioned instinct +that first led to the seizure of power and brought DOUBLETHINK, the +Thought Police, continuous warfare, and all the other necessary +paraphernalia into existence afterwards. This motive really consists... + + +Winston became aware of silence, as one becomes aware of a new sound. It +seemed to him that Julia had been very still for some time past. She was +lying on her side, naked from the waist upwards, with her cheek pillowed +on her hand and one dark lock tumbling across her eyes. Her breast rose +and fell slowly and regularly. + +'Julia.' + +No answer. + +'Julia, are you awake?' + +No answer. She was asleep. He shut the book, put it carefully on the floor, +lay down, and pulled the coverlet over both of them. + +He had still, he reflected, not learned the ultimate secret. He understood +HOW; he did not understand WHY. Chapter I, like Chapter III, had not +actually told him anything that he did not know, it had merely systematized +the knowledge that he possessed already. But after reading it he knew +better than before that he was not mad. Being in a minority, even a +minority of one, did not make you mad. There was truth and there was +untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world, you +were not mad. A yellow beam from the sinking sun slanted in through the +window and fell across the pillow. He shut his eyes. The sun on his face +and the girl's smooth body touching his own gave him a strong, sleepy, +confident feeling. He was safe, everything was all right. He fell asleep +murmuring 'Sanity is not statistical,' with the feeling that this remark +contained in it a profound wisdom. + +***** + +When he woke it was with the sensation of having slept for a long time, +but a glance at the old-fashioned clock told him that it was only +twenty-thirty. He lay dozing for a while; then the usual deep-lunged +singing struck up from the yard below: + + + 'It was only an 'opeless fancy, + It passed like an Ipril dye, + But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred + They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye!' + + +The drivelling song seemed to have kept its popularity. You still heard it +all over the place. It had outlived the Hate Song. Julia woke at the +sound, stretched herself luxuriously, and got out of bed. + +'I'm hungry,' she said. 'Let's make some more coffee. Damn! The stove's +gone out and the water's cold.' She picked the stove up and shook it. +'There's no oil in it.' + +'We can get some from old Charrington, I expect.' + +'The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I'm going to put my clothes +on,' she added. 'It seems to have got colder.' + +Winston also got up and dressed himself. The indefatigable voice sang on: + + + 'They sye that time 'eals all things, + They sye you can always forget; + But the smiles an' the tears acrorss the years + They twist my 'eart-strings yet!' + + +As he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across to the window. +The sun must have gone down behind the houses; it was not shining into the +yard any longer. The flagstones were wet as though they had just been +washed, and he had the feeling that the sky had been washed too, so fresh +and pale was the blue between the chimney-pots. Tirelessly the woman +marched to and fro, corking and uncorking herself, singing and falling +silent, and pegging out more diapers, and more and yet more. He wondered +whether she took in washing for a living or was merely the slave of twenty +or thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to his side; together they +gazed down with a sort of fascination at the sturdy figure below. As he +looked at the woman in her characteristic attitude, her thick arms reaching +up for the line, her powerful mare-like buttocks protruded, it struck him +for the first time that she was beautiful. It had never before occurred to +him that the body of a woman of fifty, blown up to monstrous dimensions by +childbearing, then hardened, roughened by work till it was coarse in the +grain like an over-ripe turnip, could be beautiful. But it was so, and +after all, he thought, why not? The solid, contourless body, like a block +of granite, and the rasping red skin, bore the same relation to the body +of a girl as the rose-hip to the rose. Why should the fruit be held +inferior to the flower? + +'She's beautiful,' he murmured. + +'She's a metre across the hips, easily,' said Julia. + +'That is her style of beauty,' said Winston. + +He held Julia's supple waist easily encircled by his arm. From the hip to +the knee her flank was against his. Out of their bodies no child would +ever come. That was the one thing they could never do. Only by word of +mouth, from mind to mind, could they pass on the secret. The woman down +there had no mind, she had only strong arms, a warm heart, and a fertile +belly. He wondered how many children she had given birth to. It might +easily be fifteen. She had had her momentary flowering, a year, perhaps, +of wild-rose beauty and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized +fruit and grown hard and red and coarse, and then her life had been +laundering, scrubbing, darning, cooking, sweeping, polishing, mending, +scrubbing, laundering, first for children, then for grandchildren, over +thirty unbroken years. At the end of it she was still singing. The mystical +reverence that he felt for her was somehow mixed up with the aspect of +the pale, cloudless sky, stretching away behind the chimney-pots into +interminable distance. It was curious to think that the sky was the same +for everybody, in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people +under the sky were also very much the same--everywhere, all over the world, +hundreds of thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant +of one another's existence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and +yet almost exactly the same--people who had never learned to think but who +were storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power that +would one day overturn the world. If there was hope, it lay in the proles! +Without having read to the end of THE BOOK, he knew that that must be +Goldstein's final message. The future belonged to the proles. And could he +be sure that when their time came the world they constructed would not be +just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as the world of the Party? Yes, +because at the least it would be a world of sanity. Where there is +equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later it would happen, strength +would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal, you could not +doubt it when you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end +their awakening would come. And until that happened, though it might be a +thousand years, they would stay alive against all the odds, like birds, +passing on from body to body the vitality which the Party did not share +and could not kill. + +'Do you remember,' he said, 'the thrush that sang to us, that first day, +at the edge of the wood?' + +'He wasn't singing to us,' said Julia. 'He was singing to please himself. +Not even that. He was just singing.' + +The birds sang, the proles sang. the Party did not sing. All round the +world, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious, +forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, +in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and +Japan--everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous +by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still singing. +Out of those mighty loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. +You were the dead, theirs was the future. But you could share in that +future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body, and passed +on the secret doctrine that two plus two make four. + +'We are the dead,' he said. + +'We are the dead,' echoed Julia dutifully. + +'You are the dead,' said an iron voice behind them. + +They sprang apart. Winston's entrails seemed to have turned into ice. He +could see the white all round the irises of Julia's eyes. Her face had +turned a milky yellow. The smear of rouge that was still on each cheekbone +stood out sharply, almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath. + +'You are the dead,' repeated the iron voice. + +'It was behind the picture,' breathed Julia. + +'It was behind the picture,' said the voice. 'Remain exactly where you +are. Make no movement until you are ordered.' + +It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except +stand gazing into one another's eyes. To run for life, to get out of the +house before it was too late--no such thought occurred to them. Unthinkable +to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch +had been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture had fallen +to the floor uncovering the telescreen behind it. + +'Now they can see us,' said Julia. + +'Now we can see you,' said the voice. 'Stand out in the middle of the +room. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands behind your heads. Do not touch +one another.' + +They were not touching, but it seemed to him that he could feel Julia's +body shaking. Or perhaps it was merely the shaking of his own. He could +just stop his teeth from chattering, but his knees were beyond his control. +There was a sound of trampling boots below, inside the house and outside. +The yard seemed to be full of men. Something was being dragged across the +stones. The woman's singing had stopped abruptly. There was a long, rolling +clang, as though the washtub had been flung across the yard, and then a +confusion of angry shouts which ended in a yell of pain. + +'The house is surrounded,' said Winston. + +'The house is surrounded,' said the voice. + +He heard Julia snap her teeth together. 'I suppose we may as well say +good-bye,' she said. + +'You may as well say good-bye,' said the voice. And then another quite +different voice, a thin, cultivated voice which Winston had the impression +of having heard before, struck in; 'And by the way, while we are on the +subject, "Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to +chop off your head"!' + +Something crashed on to the bed behind Winston's back. The head of a ladder +had been thrust through the window and had burst in the frame. Someone was +climbing through the window. There was a stampede of boots up the stairs. +The room was full of solid men in black uniforms, with iron-shod boots on +their feet and truncheons in their hands. + +Winston was not trembling any longer. Even his eyes he barely moved. One +thing alone mattered; to keep still, to keep still and not give them an +excuse to hit you! A man with a smooth prize-fighter's jowl in which the +mouth was only a slit paused opposite him balancing his truncheon +meditatively between thumb and forefinger. Winston met his eyes. The +feeling of nakedness, with one's hands behind one's head and one's face +and body all exposed, was almost unbearable. The man protruded the tip +of a white tongue, licked the place where his lips should have been, and +then passed on. There was another crash. Someone had picked up the glass +paperweight from the table and smashed it to pieces on the hearth-stone. + +The fragment of coral, a tiny crinkle of pink like a sugar rosebud from +a cake, rolled across the mat. How small, thought Winston, how small it +always was! There was a gasp and a thump behind him, and he received a +violent kick on the ankle which nearly flung him off his balance. One of +the men had smashed his fist into Julia's solar plexus, doubling her up +like a pocket ruler. She was thrashing about on the floor, fighting for +breath. Winston dared not turn his head even by a millimetre, but sometimes +her livid, gasping face came within the angle of his vision. Even in his +terror it was as though he could feel the pain in his own body, the deadly +pain which nevertheless was less urgent than the struggle to get back her +breath. He knew what it was like; the terrible, agonizing pain which was +there all the while but could not be suffered yet, because before all else +it was necessary to be able to breathe. Then two of the men hoisted her +up by knees and shoulders, and carried her out of the room like a sack. +Winston had a glimpse of her face, upside down, yellow and contorted, with +the eyes shut, and still with a smear of rouge on either cheek; and that +was the last he saw of her. + +He stood dead still. No one had hit him yet. Thoughts which came of their +own accord but seemed totally uninteresting began to flit through his +mind. He wondered whether they had got Mr Charrington. He wondered what +they had done to the woman in the yard. He noticed that he badly wanted +to urinate, and felt a faint surprise, because he had done so only two or +three hours ago. He noticed that the clock on the mantelpiece said nine, +meaning twenty-one. But the light seemed too strong. Would not the light +be fading at twenty-one hours on an August evening? He wondered whether +after all he and Julia had mistaken the time--had slept the clock round +and thought it was twenty-thirty when really it was nought eight-thirty +on the following morning. But he did not pursue the thought further. +It was not interesting. + +There was another, lighter step in the passage. Mr Charrington came into +the room. The demeanour of the black-uniformed men suddenly became more +subdued. Something had also changed in Mr Charrington's appearance. His +eye fell on the fragments of the glass paperweight. + +'Pick up those pieces,' he said sharply. + +A man stooped to obey. The cockney accent had disappeared; Winston suddenly +realized whose voice it was that he had heard a few moments ago on the +telescreen. Mr Charrington was still wearing his old velvet jacket, but +his hair, which had been almost white, had turned black. Also he was not +wearing his spectacles. He gave Winston a single sharp glance, as though +verifying his identity, and then paid no more attention to him. He was +still recognizable, but he was not the same person any longer. His body +had straightened, and seemed to have grown bigger. His face had undergone +only tiny changes that had nevertheless worked a complete transformation. +The black eyebrows were less bushy, the wrinkles were gone, the whole +lines of the face seemed to have altered; even the nose seemed shorter. It +was the alert, cold face of a man of about five-and-thirty. It occurred to +Winston that for the first time in his life he was looking, with knowledge, +at a member of the Thought Police. + + + + + +PART THREE + + + + +Chapter 1 + + + +He did not know where he was. Presumably he was in the Ministry of Love, +but there was no way of making certain. He was in a high-ceilinged +windowless cell with walls of glittering white porcelain. Concealed lamps +flooded it with cold light, and there was a low, steady humming sound +which he supposed had something to do with the air supply. A bench, or +shelf, just wide enough to sit on ran round the wall, broken only by the +door and, at the end opposite the door, a lavatory pan with no wooden +seat. There were four telescreens, one in each wall. + +There was a dull aching in his belly. It had been there ever since they +had bundled him into the closed van and driven him away. But he was also +hungry, with a gnawing, unwholesome kind of hunger. It might be twenty-four +hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did not know, +probably never would know, whether it had been morning or evening when +they arrested him. Since he was arrested he had not been fed. + +He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his hands crossed +on his knee. He had already learned to sit still. If you made unexpected +movements they yelled at you from the telescreen. But the craving for food +was growing upon him. What he longed for above all was a piece of bread. +He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the pocket of his +overalls. It was even possible--he thought this because from time to time +something seemed to tickle his leg--that there might be a sizeable bit of +crust there. In the end the temptation to find out overcame his fear; he +slipped a hand into his pocket. + +'Smith!' yelled a voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W.! Hands out of +pockets in the cells!' + +He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Before being brought +here he had been taken to another place which must have been an ordinary +prison or a temporary lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know how +long he had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and no +daylight it was hard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evil-smelling +place. They had put him into a cell similar to the one he was now in, +but filthily dirty and at all times crowded by ten or fifteen people. The +majority of them were common criminals, but there were a few political +prisoners among them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty +bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his belly to take much +interest in his surroundings, but still noticing the astonishing difference +in demeanour between the Party prisoners and the others. The Party +prisoners were always silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals +seemed to care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards, +fought back fiercely when their belongings were impounded, wrote obscene +words on the floor, ate smuggled food which they produced from mysterious +hiding-places in their clothes, and even shouted down the telescreen when +it tried to restore order. On the other hand some of them seemed to be on +good terms with the guards, called them by nicknames, and tried to wheedle +cigarettes through the spyhole in the door. The guards, too, treated the +common criminals with a certain forbearance, even when they had to handle +them roughly. There was much talk about the forced-labour camps to which +most of the prisoners expected to be sent. It was 'all right' in the +camps, he gathered, so long as you had good contacts and knew the ropes. +There was bribery, favouritism, and racketeering of every kind, there was +homosexuality and prostitution, there was even illicit alcohol distilled +from potatoes. The positions of trust were given only to the common +criminals, especially the gangsters and the murderers, who formed a sort +of aristocracy. All the dirty jobs were done by the politicals. + +There was a constant come-and-go of prisoners of every description: +drug-peddlers, thieves, bandits, black-marketeers, drunks, prostitutes. +Some of the drunks were so violent that the other prisoners had to combine +to suppress them. An enormous wreck of a woman, aged about sixty, with +great tumbling breasts and thick coils of white hair which had come down +in her struggles, was carried in, kicking and shouting, by four guards, +who had hold of her one at each corner. They wrenched off the boots with +which she had been trying to kick them, and dumped her down across +Winston's lap, almost breaking his thigh-bones. The woman hoisted herself +upright and followed them out with a yell of 'F---- bastards!' Then, +noticing that she was sitting on something uneven, she slid off Winston's +knees on to the bench. + +'Beg pardon, dearie,' she said. 'I wouldn't 'a sat on you, only the buggers +put me there. They dono 'ow to treat a lady, do they?' She paused, patted +her breast, and belched. 'Pardon,' she said, 'I ain't meself, quite.' + +She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor. + +'Thass better,' she said, leaning back with closed eyes. 'Never keep it +down, thass what I say. Get it up while it's fresh on your stomach, like.' + +She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and seemed immediately +to take a fancy to him. She put a vast arm round his shoulder and drew him +towards her, breathing beer and vomit into his face. + +'Wass your name, dearie?' she said. + +'Smith,' said Winston. + +'Smith?' said the woman. 'Thass funny. My name's Smith too. Why,' she +added sentimentally, 'I might be your mother!' + +She might, thought Winston, be his mother. She was about the right age and +physique, and it was probable that people changed somewhat after twenty +years in a forced-labour camp. + +No one else had spoken to him. To a surprising extent the ordinary +criminals ignored the Party prisoners. 'The polITS,' they called them, +with a sort of uninterested contempt. The Party prisoners seemed terrified +of speaking to anybody, and above all of speaking to one another. Only +once, when two Party members, both women, were pressed close together on +the bench, he overheard amid the din of voices a few hurriedly-whispered +words; and in particular a reference to something called 'room one-oh-one', +which he did not understand. + +It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought him here. The +dull pain in his belly never went away, but sometimes it grew better and +sometimes worse, and his thoughts expanded or contracted accordingly. When +it grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his desire for +food. When it grew better, panic took hold of him. There were moments +when he foresaw the things that would happen to him with such actuality +that his heart galloped and his breath stopped. He felt the smash of +truncheons on his elbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself +grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercy through broken teeth. He +hardly thought of Julia. He could not fix his mind on her. He loved her +and would not betray her; but that was only a fact, known as he knew the +rules of arithmetic. He felt no love for her, and he hardly even wondered +what was happening to her. He thought oftener of O'Brien, with a flickering +hope. O'Brien might know that he had been arrested. The Brotherhood, he +had said, never tried to save its members. But there was the razor blade; +they would send the razor blade if they could. There would be perhaps five +seconds before the guard could rush into the cell. The blade would bite +into him with a sort of burning coldness, and even the fingers that held +it would be cut to the bone. Everything came back to his sick body, which +shrank trembling from the smallest pain. He was not certain that he would +use the razor blade even if he got the chance. It was more natural to exist +from moment to moment, accepting another ten minutes' life even with the +certainty that there was torture at the end of it. + +Sometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain bricks in the +walls of the cell. It should have been easy, but he always lost count at +some point or another. More often he wondered where he was, and what time +of day it was. At one moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight +outside, and at the next equally certain that it was pitch darkness. In +this place, he knew instinctively, the lights would never be turned out. +It was the place with no darkness: he saw now why O'Brien had seemed to +recognize the allusion. In the Ministry of Love there were no windows. His +cell might be at the heart of the building or against its outer wall; it +might be ten floors below ground, or thirty above it. He moved himself +mentally from place to place, and tried to determine by the feeling of his +body whether he was perched high in the air or buried deep underground. + +There was a sound of marching boots outside. The steel door opened with +a clang. A young officer, a trim black-uniformed figure who seemed to +glitter all over with polished leather, and whose pale, straight-featured +face was like a wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway. He motioned +to the guards outside to bring in the prisoner they were leading. The +poet Ampleforth shambled into the cell. The door clanged shut again. + +Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from side to side, as +though having some idea that there was another door to go out of, and then +began to wander up and down the cell. He had not yet noticed Winston's +presence. His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre above +the level of Winston's head. He was shoeless; large, dirty toes were +sticking out of the holes in his socks. He was also several days away +from a shave. A scrubby beard covered his face to the cheekbones, giving +him an air of ruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and +nervous movements. + +Winston roused himself a little from his lethargy. He must speak +to Ampleforth, and risk the yell from the telescreen. It was even +conceivable that Ampleforth was the bearer of the razor blade. + +'Ampleforth,' he said. + +There was no yell from the telescreen. Ampleforth paused, mildly startled. +His eyes focused themselves slowly on Winston. + +'Ah, Smith!' he said. 'You too!' + +'What are you in for?' + +'To tell you the truth--' He sat down awkwardly on the bench opposite +Winston. 'There is only one offence, is there not?' he said. + +'And have you committed it?' + +'Apparently I have.' + +He put a hand to his forehead and pressed his temples for a moment, as +though trying to remember something. + +'These things happen,' he began vaguely. 'I have been able to recall one +instance--a possible instance. It was an indiscretion, undoubtedly. We +were producing a definitive edition of the poems of Kipling. I allowed the +word "God" to remain at the end of a line. I could not help it!' he added +almost indignantly, raising his face to look at Winston. 'It was impossible +to change the line. The rhyme was "rod". Do you realize that there are only +twelve rhymes to "rod" in the entire language? For days I had racked my +brains. There WAS no other rhyme.' + +The expression on his face changed. The annoyance passed out of it and for +a moment he looked almost pleased. A sort of intellectual warmth, the joy +of the pedant who has found out some useless fact, shone through the dirt +and scrubby hair. + +'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, 'that the whole history of English +poetry has been determined by the fact that the English language lacks +rhymes?' + +No, that particular thought had never occurred to Winston. Nor, in the +circumstances, did it strike him as very important or interesting. + +'Do you know what time of day it is?' he said. + +Ampleforth looked startled again. 'I had hardly thought about it. They +arrested me--it could be two days ago--perhaps three.' His eyes flitted +round the walls, as though he half expected to find a window somewhere. +'There is no difference between night and day in this place. I do not see +how one can calculate the time.' + +They talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without apparent reason, +a yell from the telescreen bade them be silent. Winston sat quietly, his +hands crossed. Ampleforth, too large to sit in comfort on the narrow +bench, fidgeted from side to side, clasping his lank hands first round one +knee, then round the other. The telescreen barked at him to keep still. +Time passed. Twenty minutes, an hour--it was difficult to judge. Once more +there was a sound of boots outside. Winston's entrails contracted. Soon, +very soon, perhaps in five minutes, perhaps now, the tramp of boots would +mean that his own turn had come. + +The door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped into the cell. With +a brief movement of the hand he indicated Ampleforth. + +'Room 101,' he said. + +Ampleforth marched clumsily out between the guards, his face vaguely +perturbed, but uncomprehending. + +What seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Winston's belly had +revived. His mind sagged round and round on the same trick, like a ball +falling again and again into the same series of slots. He had only six +thoughts. The pain in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the +screaming; O'Brien; Julia; the razor blade. There was another spasm in his +entrails, the heavy boots were approaching. As the door opened, the wave +of air that it created brought in a powerful smell of cold sweat. Parsons +walked into the cell. He was wearing khaki shorts and a sports-shirt. + +This time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness. + +'YOU here!' he said. + +Parsons gave Winston a glance in which there was neither interest nor +surprise, but only misery. He began walking jerkily up and down, evidently +unable to keep still. Each time he straightened his pudgy knees it was +apparent that they were trembling. His eyes had a wide-open, staring look, +as though he could not prevent himself from gazing at something in the +middle distance. + +'What are you in for?' said Winston. + +'Thoughtcrime!' said Parsons, almost blubbering. The tone of his voice +implied at once a complete admission of his guilt and a sort of incredulous +horror that such a word could be applied to himself. He paused opposite +Winston and began eagerly appealing to him: 'You don't think they'll shoot +me, do you, old chap? They don't shoot you if you haven't actually done +anything--only thoughts, which you can't help? I know they give you a fair +hearing. Oh, I trust them for that! They'll know my record, won't they? +YOU know what kind of chap I was. Not a bad chap in my way. Not brainy, of +course, but keen. I tried to do my best for the Party, didn't I? I'll get +off with five years, don't you think? Or even ten years? A chap like me +could make himself pretty useful in a labour-camp. They wouldn't shoot me +for going off the rails just once?' + +'Are you guilty?' said Winston. + +'Of course I'm guilty!' cried Parsons with a servile glance at the +telescreen. 'You don't think the Party would arrest an innocent man, +do you?' His frog-like face grew calmer, and even took on a slightly +sanctimonious expression. 'Thoughtcrime is a dreadful thing, old man,' +he said sententiously. 'It's insidious. It can get hold of you without +your even knowing it. Do you know how it got hold of me? In my sleep! Yes, +that's a fact. There I was, working away, trying to do my bit--never knew +I had any bad stuff in my mind at all. And then I started talking in my +sleep. Do you know what they heard me saying?' + +He sank his voice, like someone who is obliged for medical reasons to +utter an obscenity. + +'"Down with Big Brother!" Yes, I said that! Said it over and over again, +it seems. Between you and me, old man, I'm glad they got me before it went +any further. Do you know what I'm going to say to them when I go up before +the tribunal? "Thank you," I'm going to say, "thank you for saving me +before it was too late."' + +'Who denounced you?' said Winston. + +'It was my little daughter,' said Parsons with a sort of doleful pride. +'She listened at the keyhole. Heard what I was saying, and nipped off to +the patrols the very next day. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh? +I don't bear her any grudge for it. In fact I'm proud of her. It shows I +brought her up in the right spirit, anyway.' + +He made a few more jerky movements up and down, several times, casting a +longing glance at the lavatory pan. Then he suddenly ripped down his +shorts. + +'Excuse me, old man,' he said. 'I can't help it. It's the waiting.' + +He plumped his large posterior into the lavatory pan. Winston covered his +face with his hands. + +'Smith!' yelled the voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W.! Uncover your +face. No faces covered in the cells.' + +Winston uncovered his face. Parsons used the lavatory, loudly and +abundantly. It then turned out that the plug was defective and the cell +stank abominably for hours afterwards. + +Parsons was removed. More prisoners came and went, mysteriously. One, a +woman, was consigned to 'Room 101', and, Winston noticed, seemed to shrivel +and turn a different colour when she heard the words. A time came when, if +it had been morning when he was brought here, it would be afternoon; or if +it had been afternoon, then it would be midnight. There were six prisoners +in the cell, men and women. All sat very still. Opposite Winston there sat +a man with a chinless, toothy face exactly like that of some large, +harmless rodent. His fat, mottled cheeks were so pouched at the bottom +that it was difficult not to believe that he had little stores of food +tucked away there. His pale-grey eyes flitted timorously from face to face +and turned quickly away again when he caught anyone's eye. + +The door opened, and another prisoner was brought in whose appearance sent +a momentary chill through Winston. He was a commonplace, mean-looking man +who might have been an engineer or technician of some kind. But what was +startling was the emaciation of his face. It was like a skull. Because of +its thinness the mouth and eyes looked disproportionately large, and the +eyes seemed filled with a murderous, unappeasable hatred of somebody or +something. + +The man sat down on the bench at a little distance from Winston. Winston +did not look at him again, but the tormented, skull-like face was as +vivid in his mind as though it had been straight in front of his eyes. +Suddenly he realized what was the matter. The man was dying of starvation. +The same thought seemed to occur almost simultaneously to everyone in the +cell. There was a very faint stirring all the way round the bench. The +eyes of the chinless man kept flitting towards the skull-faced man, then +turning guiltily away, then being dragged back by an irresistible +attraction. Presently he began to fidget on his seat. At last he stood up, +waddled clumsily across the cell, dug down into the pocket of his overalls, +and, with an abashed air, held out a grimy piece of bread to the +skull-faced man. + +There was a furious, deafening roar from the telescreen. The chinless man +jumped in his tracks. The skull-faced man had quickly thrust his hands +behind his back, as though demonstrating to all the world that he refused +the gift. + +'Bumstead!' roared the voice. '2713 Bumstead J.! Let fall that piece of +bread!' + +The chinless man dropped the piece of bread on the floor. + +'Remain standing where you are,' said the voice. 'Face the door. Make no +movement.' + +The chinless man obeyed. His large pouchy cheeks were quivering +uncontrollably. The door clanged open. As the young officer entered and +stepped aside, there emerged from behind him a short stumpy guard with +enormous arms and shoulders. He took his stand opposite the chinless man, +and then, at a signal from the officer, let free a frightful blow, with +all the weight of his body behind it, full in the chinless man's mouth. +The force of it seemed almost to knock him clear of the floor. His body +was flung across the cell and fetched up against the base of the lavatory +seat. For a moment he lay as though stunned, with dark blood oozing from +his mouth and nose. A very faint whimpering or squeaking, which seemed +unconscious, came out of him. Then he rolled over and raised himself +unsteadily on hands and knees. Amid a stream of blood and saliva, the two +halves of a dental plate fell out of his mouth. + +The prisoners sat very still, their hands crossed on their knees. The +chinless man climbed back into his place. Down one side of his face the +flesh was darkening. His mouth had swollen into a shapeless cherry-coloured +mass with a black hole in the middle of it. + +From time to time a little blood dripped on to the breast of his overalls. +His grey eyes still flitted from face to face, more guiltily than ever, +as though he were trying to discover how much the others despised him for +his humiliation. + +The door opened. With a small gesture the officer indicated the +skull-faced man. + +'Room 101,' he said. + +There was a gasp and a flurry at Winston's side. The man had actually +flung himself on his knees on the floor, with his hand clasped together. + +'Comrade! Officer!' he cried. 'You don't have to take me to that place! +Haven't I told you everything already? What else is it you want to know? +There's nothing I wouldn't confess, nothing! Just tell me what it is and +I'll confess straight off. Write it down and I'll sign it--anything! +Not room 101!' + +'Room 101,' said the officer. + +The man's face, already very pale, turned a colour Winston would not have +believed possible. It was definitely, unmistakably, a shade of green. + +'Do anything to me!' he yelled. 'You've been starving me for weeks. Finish +it off and let me die. Shoot me. Hang me. Sentence me to twenty-five +years. Is there somebody else you want me to give away? Just say who it is +and I'll tell you anything you want. I don't care who it is or what you do +to them. I've got a wife and three children. The biggest of them isn't six +years old. You can take the whole lot of them and cut their throats in +front of my eyes, and I'll stand by and watch it. But not Room 101!' + +'Room 101,' said the officer. + +The man looked frantically round at the other prisoners, as though with +some idea that he could put another victim in his own place. His eyes +settled on the smashed face of the chinless man. He flung out a lean arm. + +'That's the one you ought to be taking, not me!' he shouted. 'You didn't +hear what he was saying after they bashed his face. Give me a chance and +I'll tell you every word of it. HE'S the one that's against the Party, not +me.' The guards stepped forward. The man's voice rose to a shriek. 'You +didn't hear him!' he repeated. 'Something went wrong with the telescreen. +HE'S the one you want. Take him, not me!' + +The two sturdy guards had stooped to take him by the arms. But just at +this moment he flung himself across the floor of the cell and grabbed one +of the iron legs that supported the bench. He had set up a wordless +howling, like an animal. The guards took hold of him to wrench him loose, +but he clung on with astonishing strength. For perhaps twenty seconds +they were hauling at him. The prisoners sat quiet, their hands crossed on +their knees, looking straight in front of them. The howling stopped; the +man had no breath left for anything except hanging on. Then there was a +different kind of cry. A kick from a guard's boot had broken the fingers +of one of his hands. They dragged him to his feet. + +'Room 101,' said the officer. + +The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head sunken, nursing his +crushed hand, all the fight had gone out of him. + +A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the skull-faced man was +taken away, it was morning: if morning, it was afternoon. Winston was +alone, and had been alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow +bench was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved by the +telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chinless man had +dropped it. At the beginning it needed a hard effort not to look at it, +but presently hunger gave way to thirst. His mouth was sticky and +evil-tasting. The humming sound and the unvarying white light induced a +sort of faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would get up +because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable, and then would sit +down again almost at once because he was too dizzy to make sure of +staying on his feet. Whenever his physical sensations were a little under +control the terror returned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought of +O'Brien and the razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor blade might +arrive concealed in his food, if he were ever fed. More dimly he thought +of Julia. Somewhere or other she was suffering perhaps far worse than he. +She might be screaming with pain at this moment. He thought: 'If I could +save Julia by doubling my own pain, would I do it? Yes, I would.' But that +was merely an intellectual decision, taken because he knew that he ought +to take it. He did not feel it. In this place you could not feel anything, +except pain and foreknowledge of pain. Besides, was it possible, when you +were actually suffering it, to wish for any reason that your own pain +should increase? But that question was not answerable yet. + +The boots were approaching again. The door opened. O'Brien came in. + +Winston started to his feet. The shock of the sight had driven all +caution out of him. For the first time in many years he forgot the +presence of the telescreen. + +'They've got you too!' he cried. + +'They got me a long time ago,' said O'Brien with a mild, almost regretful +irony. He stepped aside. From behind him there emerged a broad-chested +guard with a long black truncheon in his hand. + +'You know this, Winston,' said O'Brien. 'Don't deceive yourself. You did +know it--you have always known it.' + +Yes, he saw now, he had always known it. But there was no time to think of +that. All he had eyes for was the truncheon in the guard's hand. It might +fall anywhere; on the crown, on the tip of the ear, on the upper arm, on +the elbow---- + +The elbow! He had slumped to his knees, almost paralysed, clasping the +stricken elbow with his other hand. Everything had exploded into yellow +light. Inconceivable, inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain! +The light cleared and he could see the other two looking down at him. The +guard was laughing at his contortions. One question at any rate was +answered. Never, for any reason on earth, could you wish for an increase +of pain. Of pain you could wish only one thing: that it should stop. +Nothing in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain +there are no heroes, no heroes, he thought over and over as he writhed +on the floor, clutching uselessly at his disabled left arm. + + + + +Chapter 2 + + + +He was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it was +higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he +could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his +face. O'Brien was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At +the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic +syringe. + +Even after his eyes were open he took in his surroundings only gradually. +He had the impression of swimming up into this room from some quite +different world, a sort of underwater world far beneath it. How long he +had been down there he did not know. Since the moment when they arrested +him he had not seen darkness or daylight. Besides, his memories were not +continuous. There had been times when consciousness, even the sort of +consciousness that one has in sleep, had stopped dead and started again +after a blank interval. But whether the intervals were of days or weeks +or only seconds, there was no way of knowing. + +With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had started. Later he was +to realize that all that then happened was merely a preliminary, a routine +interrogation to which nearly all prisoners were subjected. There was a +long range of crimes--espionage, sabotage, and the like--to which everyone +had to confess as a matter of course. The confession was a formality, +though the torture was real. How many times he had been beaten, how long +the beatings had continued, he could not remember. Always there were five +or six men in black uniforms at him simultaneously. Sometimes it was +fists, sometimes it was truncheons, sometimes it was steel rods, sometimes +it was boots. There were times when he rolled about the floor, as shameless +as an animal, writhing his body this way and that in an endless, hopeless +effort to dodge the kicks, and simply inviting more and yet more kicks, +in his ribs, in his belly, on his elbows, on his shins, in his groin, +in his testicles, on the bone at the base of his spine. There were times +when it went on and on until the cruel, wicked, unforgivable thing seemed +to him not that the guards continued to beat him but that he could not +force himself into losing consciousness. There were times when his nerve +so forsook him that he began shouting for mercy even before the beating +began, when the mere sight of a fist drawn back for a blow was enough +to make him pour forth a confession of real and imaginary crimes. There +were other times when he started out with the resolve of confessing +nothing, when every word had to be forced out of him between gasps of +pain, and there were times when he feebly tried to compromise, when he +said to himself: 'I will confess, but not yet. I must hold out till the +pain becomes unbearable. Three more kicks, two more kicks, and then I will +tell them what they want.' Sometimes he was beaten till he could hardly +stand, then flung like a sack of potatoes on to the stone floor of a cell, +left to recuperate for a few hours, and then taken out and beaten again. +There were also longer periods of recovery. He remembered them dimly, +because they were spent chiefly in sleep or stupor. He remembered a cell +with a plank bed, a sort of shelf sticking out from the wall, and a tin +wash-basin, and meals of hot soup and bread and sometimes coffee. He +remembered a surly barber arriving to scrape his chin and crop his hair, +and businesslike, unsympathetic men in white coats feeling his pulse, +tapping his reflexes, turning up his eyelids, running harsh fingers over +him in search for broken bones, and shooting needles into his arm to make +him sleep. + +The beatings grew less frequent, and became mainly a threat, a horror +to which he could be sent back at any moment when his answers were +unsatisfactory. His questioners now were not ruffians in black uniforms +but Party intellectuals, little rotund men with quick movements and +flashing spectacles, who worked on him in relays over periods which +lasted--he thought, he could not be sure--ten or twelve hours at a stretch. +These other questioners saw to it that he was in constant slight pain, but +it was not chiefly pain that they relied on. They slapped his face, wrung +his ears, pulled his hair, made him stand on one leg, refused him leave to +urinate, shone glaring lights in his face until his eyes ran with water; +but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of +arguing and reasoning. Their real weapon was the merciless questioning +that went on and on, hour after hour, tripping him up, laying traps for +him, twisting everything that he said, convicting him at every step of +lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much from shame as +from nervous fatigue. Sometimes he would weep half a dozen times in a +single session. Most of the time they screamed abuse at him and threatened +at every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes +they would suddenly change their tune, call him comrade, appeal to him in +the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother, and ask him sorrowfully whether even +now he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to +undo the evil he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of +questioning, even this appeal could reduce him to snivelling tears. In the +end the nagging voices broke him down more completely than the boots and +fists of the guards. He became simply a mouth that uttered, a hand that +signed, whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to find out +what they wanted him to confess, and then confess it quickly, before the +bullying started anew. He confessed to the assassination of eminent Party +members, the distribution of seditious pamphlets, embezzlement of public +funds, sale of military secrets, sabotage of every kind. He confessed that +he had been a spy in the pay of the Eastasian government as far back as +1968. He confessed that he was a religious believer, an admirer of +capitalism, and a sexual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his +wife, although he knew, and his questioners must have known, that his wife +was still alive. He confessed that for years he had been in personal touch +with Goldstein and had been a member of an underground organization which +had included almost every human being he had ever known. It was easier to +confess everything and implicate everybody. Besides, in a sense it was all +true. It was true that he had been the enemy of the Party, and in the eyes +of the Party there was no distinction between the thought and the deed. + +There were also memories of another kind. They stood out in his mind +disconnectedly, like pictures with blackness all round them. + +He was in a cell which might have been either dark or light, because he +could see nothing except a pair of eyes. Near at hand some kind of +instrument was ticking slowly and regularly. The eyes grew larger and more +luminous. Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and +was swallowed up. + +He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under dazzling lights. +A man in a white coat was reading the dials. There was a tramp of heavy +boots outside. The door clanged open. The waxed-faced officer marched in, +followed by two guards. + +'Room 101,' said the officer. + +The man in the white coat did not turn round. He did not look at Winston +either; he was looking only at the dials. + +He was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometre wide, full of glorious, +golden light, roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions at the +top of his voice. He was confessing everything, even the things he had +succeeded in holding back under the torture. He was relating the entire +history of his life to an audience who knew it already. With him were the +guards, the other questioners, the men in white coats, O'Brien, Julia, +Mr Charrington, all rolling down the corridor together and shouting with +laughter. Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the future had +somehow been skipped over and had not happened. Everything was all right, +there was no more pain, the last detail of his life was laid bare, +understood, forgiven. + +He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he had +heard O'Brien's voice. All through his interrogation, although he had +never seen him, he had had the feeling that O'Brien was at his elbow, just +out of sight. It was O'Brien who was directing everything. It was he who +set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from killing him. It +was he who decided when Winston should scream with pain, when he should +have a respite, when he should be fed, when he should sleep, when the +drugs should be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and +suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was +the inquisitor, he was the friend. And once--Winston could not remember +whether it was in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment +of wakefulness--a voice murmured in his ear: 'Don't worry, Winston; you +are in my keeping. For seven years I have watched over you. Now the +turning-point has come. I shall save you, I shall make you perfect.' He +was not sure whether it was O'Brien's voice; but it was the same voice +that had said to him, 'We shall meet in the place where there is no +darkness,' in that other dream, seven years ago. + +He did not remember any ending to his interrogation. There was a period of +blackness and then the cell, or room, in which he now was had gradually +materialized round him. He was almost flat on his back, and unable to move. +His body was held down at every essential point. Even the back of his head +was gripped in some manner. O'Brien was looking down at him gravely and +rather sadly. His face, seen from below, looked coarse and worn, with +pouches under the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin. He was older +than Winston had thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty. Under +his hand there was a dial with a lever on top and figures running round +the face. + +'I told you,' said O'Brien, 'that if we met again it would be here.' + +'Yes,' said Winston. + +Without any warning except a slight movement of O'Brien's hand, a wave of +pain flooded his body. It was a frightening pain, because he could not see +what was happening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was +being done to him. He did not know whether the thing was really happening, +or whether the effect was electrically produced; but his body was being +wrenched out of shape, the joints were being slowly torn apart. Although +the pain had brought the sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was +the fear that his backbone was about to snap. He set his teeth and +breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep silent as long as possible. + +'You are afraid,' said O'Brien, watching his face, 'that in another moment +something is going to break. Your especial fear is that it will be your +backbone. You have a vivid mental picture of the vertebrae snapping apart +and the spinal fluid dripping out of them. That is what you are thinking, +is it not, Winston?' + +Winston did not answer. O'Brien drew back the lever on the dial. The wave +of pain receded almost as quickly as it had come. + +'That was forty,' said O'Brien. 'You can see that the numbers on this dial +run up to a hundred. Will you please remember, throughout our conversation, +that I have it in my power to inflict pain on you at any moment and to +whatever degree I choose? If you tell me any lies, or attempt to +prevaricate in any way, or even fall below your usual level of +intelligence, you will cry out with pain, instantly. Do you understand +that?' + +'Yes,' said Winston. + +O'Brien's manner became less severe. He resettled his spectacles +thoughtfully, and took a pace or two up and down. When he spoke his voice +was gentle and patient. He had the air of a doctor, a teacher, even a +priest, anxious to explain and persuade rather than to punish. + +'I am taking trouble with you, Winston,' he said, 'because you are worth +trouble. You know perfectly well what is the matter with you. You have +known it for years, though you have fought against the knowledge. You are +mentally deranged. You suffer from a defective memory. You are unable to +remember real events and you persuade yourself that you remember other +events which never happened. Fortunately it is curable. You have never +cured yourself of it, because you did not choose to. There was a small +effort of the will that you were not ready to make. Even now, I am well +aware, you are clinging to your disease under the impression that it is +a virtue. Now we will take an example. At this moment, which power is +Oceania at war with?' + +'When I was arrested, Oceania was at war with Eastasia.' + +'With Eastasia. Good. And Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia, +has it not?' + +Winston drew in his breath. He opened his mouth to speak and then did not +speak. He could not take his eyes away from the dial. + +'The truth, please, Winston. YOUR truth. Tell me what you think you +remember.' + +'I remember that until only a week before I was arrested, we were not at +war with Eastasia at all. We were in alliance with them. The war was +against Eurasia. That had lasted for four years. Before that----' + +O'Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand. + +'Another example,' he said. 'Some years ago you had a very serious delusion +indeed. You believed that three men, three one-time Party members named +Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford--men who were executed for treachery and +sabotage after making the fullest possible confession--were not guilty of +the crimes they were charged with. You believed that you had seen +unmistakable documentary evidence proving that their confessions were +false. There was a certain photograph about which you had a hallucination. +You believed that you had actually held it in your hands. It was a +photograph something like this.' + +An oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between O'Brien's fingers. For +perhaps five seconds it was within the angle of Winston's vision. It was +a photograph, and there was no question of its identity. It was THE +photograph. It was another copy of the photograph of Jones, Aaronson, and +Rutherford at the party function in New York, which he had chanced upon +eleven years ago and promptly destroyed. For only an instant it was before +his eyes, then it was out of sight again. But he had seen it, +unquestionably he had seen it! He made a desperate, agonizing effort to +wrench the top half of his body free. It was impossible to move so much as +a centimetre in any direction. For the moment he had even forgotten the +dial. All he wanted was to hold the photograph in his fingers again, or at +least to see it. + +'It exists!' he cried. + +'No,' said O'Brien. + +He stepped across the room. There was a memory hole in the opposite wall. +O'Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the frail slip of paper was whirling +away on the current of warm air; it was vanishing in a flash of flame. +O'Brien turned away from the wall. + +'Ashes,' he said. 'Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does not exist. +It never existed.' + +'But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I remember it. +You remember it.' + +'I do not remember it,' said O'Brien. + +Winston's heart sank. That was doublethink. He had a feeling of deadly +helplessness. If he could have been certain that O'Brien was lying, it +would not have seemed to matter. But it was perfectly possible that O'Brien +had really forgotten the photograph. And if so, then already he would have +forgotten his denial of remembering it, and forgotten the act of +forgetting. How could one be sure that it was simple trickery? Perhaps +that lunatic dislocation in the mind could really happen: that was the +thought that defeated him. + +O'Brien was looking down at him speculatively. More than ever he had the +air of a teacher taking pains with a wayward but promising child. + +'There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the past,' he said. +'Repeat it, if you please.' + +'"Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present +controls the past,"' repeated Winston obediently. + +'"Who controls the present controls the past,"' said O'Brien, nodding his +head with slow approval. 'Is it your opinion, Winston, that the past has +real existence?' + +Again the feeling of helplessness descended upon Winston. His eyes flitted +towards the dial. He not only did not know whether 'yes' or 'no' was the +answer that would save him from pain; he did not even know which answer he +believed to be the true one. + +O'Brien smiled faintly. 'You are no metaphysician, Winston,' he said. +'Until this moment you had never considered what is meant by existence. I +will put it more precisely. Does the past exist concretely, in space? Is +there somewhere or other a place, a world of solid objects, where the past +is still happening?' + +'No.' + +'Then where does the past exist, if at all?' + +'In records. It is written down.' + +'In records. And----?' + +'In the mind. In human memories.' + +'In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all records, and we +control all memories. Then we control the past, do we not?' + +'But how can you stop people remembering things?' cried Winston again +momentarily forgetting the dial. 'It is involuntary. It is outside oneself. +How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!' + +O'Brien's manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial. + +'On the contrary,' he said, 'YOU have not controlled it. That is what has +brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in +self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the +price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the +disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is +something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe +that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into +thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the +same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. +Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual +mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the +mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party +holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by +looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got +to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the +will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.' + +He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying to +sink in. + +'Do you remember,' he went on, 'writing in your diary, "Freedom is the +freedom to say that two plus two make four"?' + +'Yes,' said Winston. + +O'Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb +hidden and the four fingers extended. + +'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?' + +'Four.' + +'And if the party says that it is not four but five--then how many?' + +'Four.' + +The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to +fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body. The air tore +into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his +teeth he could not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers still +extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly +eased. + +'How many fingers, Winston?' + +'Four.' + +The needle went up to sixty. + +'How many fingers, Winston?' + +'Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!' + +The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, +stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood up +before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, +but unmistakably four. + +'How many fingers, Winston?' + +'Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!' + +'How many fingers, Winston?' + +'Five! Five! Five!' + +'No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are +four. How many fingers, please?' + +'Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!' + +Abruptly he was sitting up with O'Brien's arm round his shoulders. He had +perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his +body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, +his teeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For a +moment he clung to O'Brien like a baby, curiously comforted by the heavy +arm round his shoulders. He had the feeling that O'Brien was his protector, +that the pain was something that came from outside, from some other source, +and that it was O'Brien who would save him from it. + +'You are a slow learner, Winston,' said O'Brien gently. + +'How can I help it?' he blubbered. 'How can I help seeing what is in front +of my eyes? Two and two are four.' + +'Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three. +Sometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is not +easy to become sane.' + +He laid Winston down on the bed. The grip of his limbs tightened again, +but the pain had ebbed away and the trembling had stopped, leaving him +merely weak and cold. O'Brien motioned with his head to the man in the +white coat, who had stood immobile throughout the proceedings. The man in +the white coat bent down and looked closely into Winston's eyes, felt his +pulse, laid an ear against his chest, tapped here and there, then he +nodded to O'Brien. + +'Again,' said O'Brien. + +The pain flowed into Winston's body. The needle must be at seventy, +seventy-five. He had shut his eyes this time. He knew that the fingers +were still there, and still four. All that mattered was somehow to stay +alive until the spasm was over. He had ceased to notice whether he was +crying out or not. The pain lessened again. He opened his eyes. O'Brien +had drawn back the lever. + +'How many fingers, Winston?' + +'Four. I suppose there are four. I would see five if I could. I am trying +to see five.' + +'Which do you wish: to persuade me that you see five, or really to see +them?' + +'Really to see them.' + +'Again,' said O'Brien. + +Perhaps the needle was eighty--ninety. Winston could not intermittently +remember why the pain was happening. Behind his screwed-up eyelids a +forest of fingers seemed to be moving in a sort of dance, weaving in and +out, disappearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was trying +to count them, he could not remember why. He knew only that it was +impossible to count them, and that this was somehow due to the mysterious +identity between five and four. The pain died down again. When he opened +his eyes it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing. +Innumerable fingers, like moving trees, were still streaming past in +either direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut his eyes again. + +'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?' + +'I don't know. I don't know. You will kill me if you do that again. Four, +five, six--in all honesty I don't know.' + +'Better,' said O'Brien. + +A needle slid into Winston's arm. Almost in the same instant a blissful, +healing warmth spread all through his body. The pain was already +half-forgotten. He opened his eyes and looked up gratefully at O'Brien. +At sight of the heavy, lined face, so ugly and so intelligent, his heart +seemed to turn over. If he could have moved he would have stretched out +a hand and laid it on O'Brien's arm. He had never loved him so deeply as +at this moment, and not merely because he had stopped the pain. The old +feeling, that at bottom it did not matter whether O'Brien was a friend +or an enemy, had come back. O'Brien was a person who could be talked to. +Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood. O'Brien +had tortured him to the edge of lunacy, and in a little while, it was +certain, he would send him to his death. It made no difference. In some +sense that went deeper than friendship, they were intimates: somewhere or +other, although the actual words might never be spoken, there was a place +where they could meet and talk. O'Brien was looking down at him with an +expression which suggested that the same thought might be in his own mind. +When he spoke it was in an easy, conversational tone. + +'Do you know where you are, Winston?' he said. + +'I don't know. I can guess. In the Ministry of Love.' + +'Do you know how long you have been here?' + +'I don't know. Days, weeks, months--I think it is months.' + +'And why do you imagine that we bring people to this place?' + +'To make them confess.' + +'No, that is not the reason. Try again.' + +'To punish them.' + +'No!' exclaimed O'Brien. His voice had changed extraordinarily, and his +face had suddenly become both stern and animated. 'No! Not merely to +extract your confession, not to punish you. Shall I tell you why we have +brought you here? To cure you! To make you sane! Will you understand, +Winston, that no one whom we bring to this place ever leaves our hands +uncured? We are not interested in those stupid crimes that you have +committed. The Party is not interested in the overt act: the thought is +all we care about. We do not merely destroy our enemies, we change them. +Do you understand what I mean by that?' + +He was bending over Winston. His face looked enormous because of its +nearness, and hideously ugly because it was seen from below. Moreover it +was filled with a sort of exaltation, a lunatic intensity. Again Winston's +heart shrank. If it had been possible he would have cowered deeper into +the bed. He felt certain that O'Brien was about to twist the dial out of +sheer wantonness. At this moment, however, O'Brien turned away. He took a +pace or two up and down. Then he continued less vehemently: + +'The first thing for you to understand is that in this place there are no +martyrdoms. You have read of the religious persecutions of the past. In +the Middle Ages there was the Inquisition. It was a failure. It set out +to eradicate heresy, and ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it +burned at the stake, thousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because +the Inquisition killed its enemies in the open, and killed them while +they were still unrepentant: in fact, it killed them because they were +unrepentant. Men were dying because they would not abandon their true +beliefs. Naturally all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame +to the Inquisitor who burned him. Later, in the twentieth century, there +were the totalitarians, as they were called. There were the German Nazis +and the Russian Communists. The Russians persecuted heresy more cruelly +than the Inquisition had done. And they imagined that they had learned +from the mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that one must not +make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims to public trial, they +deliberately set themselves to destroy their dignity. They wore them down +by torture and solitude until they were despicable, cringing wretches, +confessing whatever was put into their mouths, covering themselves with +abuse, accusing and sheltering behind one another, whimpering for mercy. +And yet after only a few years the same thing had happened over again. +The dead men had become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once +again, why was it? In the first place, because the confessions that they +had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We do not make mistakes of +that kind. All the confessions that are uttered here are true. We make +them true. And above all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. +You must stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you, Winston. +Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out from the +stream of history. We shall turn you into gas and pour you into the +stratosphere. Nothing will remain of you, not a name in a register, not +a memory in a living brain. You will be annihilated in the past as well +as in the future. You will never have existed.' + +Then why bother to torture me? thought Winston, with a momentary +bitterness. O'Brien checked his step as though Winston had uttered the +thought aloud. His large ugly face came nearer, with the eyes a little +narrowed. + +'You are thinking,' he said, 'that since we intend to destroy you utterly, +so that nothing that you say or do can make the smallest difference--in +that case, why do we go to the trouble of interrogating you first? That is +what you were thinking, was it not?' + +'Yes,' said Winston. + +O'Brien smiled slightly. 'You are a flaw in the pattern, Winston. You are +a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that we are +different from the persecutors of the past? We are not content with +negative obedience, nor even with the most abject submission. When finally +you surrender to us, it must be of your own free will. We do not destroy +the heretic because he resists us: so long as he resists us we never +destroy him. We convert him, we capture his inner mind, we reshape him. +We burn all evil and all illusion out of him; we bring him over to our +side, not in appearance, but genuinely, heart and soul. We make him one of +ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable to us that an erroneous +thought should exist anywhere in the world, however secret and powerless +it may be. Even in the instant of death we cannot permit any deviation. In +the old days the heretic walked to the stake still a heretic, proclaiming +his heresy, exulting in it. Even the victim of the Russian purges could +carry rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked down the passage +waiting for the bullet. But we make the brain perfect before we blow it +out. The command of the old despotisms was "Thou shalt not". The command +of the totalitarians was "Thou shalt". Our command is "THOU ART". No one +whom we bring to this place ever stands out against us. Everyone is washed +clean. Even those three miserable traitors in whose innocence you once +believed--Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford--in the end we broke them down. +I took part in their interrogation myself. I saw them gradually worn down, +whimpering, grovelling, weeping--and in the end it was not with pain or +fear, only with penitence. By the time we had finished with them they were +only the shells of men. There was nothing left in them except sorrow for +what they had done, and love of Big Brother. It was touching to see +how they loved him. They begged to be shot quickly, so that they could die +while their minds were still clean.' + +His voice had grown almost dreamy. The exaltation, the lunatic enthusiasm, +was still in his face. He is not pretending, thought Winston, he is not a +hypocrite, he believes every word he says. What most oppressed him was the +consciousness of his own intellectual inferiority. He watched the heavy +yet graceful form strolling to and fro, in and out of the range of his +vision. O'Brien was a being in all ways larger than himself. There was no +idea that he had ever had, or could have, that O'Brien had not long ago +known, examined, and rejected. His mind CONTAINED Winston's mind. But +in that case how could it be true that O'Brien was mad? It must be he, +Winston, who was mad. O'Brien halted and looked down at him. His voice had +grown stern again. + +'Do not imagine that you will save yourself, Winston, however completely +you surrender to us. No one who has once gone astray is ever spared. And +even if we chose to let you live out the natural term of your life, still +you would never escape from us. What happens to you here is for ever. +Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to the point from +which there is no coming back. Things will happen to you from which you +could not recover, if you lived a thousand years. Never again will you be +capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. +Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, +or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. +We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves.' + +He paused and signed to the man in the white coat. Winston was aware of +some heavy piece of apparatus being pushed into place behind his head. +O'Brien had sat down beside the bed, so that his face was almost on a +level with Winston's. + +'Three thousand,' he said, speaking over Winston's head to the man in the +white coat. + +Two soft pads, which felt slightly moist, clamped themselves against +Winston's temples. He quailed. There was pain coming, a new kind of pain. +O'Brien laid a hand reassuringly, almost kindly, on his. + +'This time it will not hurt,' he said. 'Keep your eyes fixed on mine.' + +At this moment there was a devastating explosion, or what seemed like an +explosion, though it was not certain whether there was any noise. There +was undoubtedly a blinding flash of light. Winston was not hurt, only +prostrated. Although he had already been lying on his back when the thing +happened, he had a curious feeling that he had been knocked into that +position. A terrific painless blow had flattened him out. Also something +had happened inside his head. As his eyes regained their focus he +remembered who he was, and where he was, and recognized the face that was +gazing into his own; but somewhere or other there was a large patch of +emptiness, as though a piece had been taken out of his brain. + +'It will not last,' said O'Brien. 'Look me in the eyes. What country is +Oceania at war with?' + +Winston thought. He knew what was meant by Oceania and that he himself was +a citizen of Oceania. He also remembered Eurasia and Eastasia; but who was +at war with whom he did not know. In fact he had not been aware that there +was any war. + +'I don't remember.' + +'Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Do you remember that now?' + +'Yes.' + +'Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. Since the beginning of your +life, since the beginning of the Party, since the beginning of history, +the war has continued without a break, always the same war. Do you +remember that?' + +'Yes.' + +'Eleven years ago you created a legend about three men who had been +condemned to death for treachery. You pretended that you had seen a piece +of paper which proved them innocent. No such piece of paper ever existed. +You invented it, and later you grew to believe in it. You remember now the +very moment at which you first invented it. Do you remember that?' + +'Yes.' + +'Just now I held up the fingers of my hand to you. You saw five fingers. +Do you remember that?' + +'Yes.' + +O'Brien held up the fingers of his left hand, with the thumb concealed. + +'There are five fingers there. Do you see five fingers?' + +'Yes.' + +And he did see them, for a fleeting instant, before the scenery of his +mind changed. He saw five fingers, and there was no deformity. Then +everything was normal again, and the old fear, the hatred, and the +bewilderment came crowding back again. But there had been a moment--he did +not know how long, thirty seconds, perhaps--of luminous certainty, when +each new suggestion of O'Brien's had filled up a patch of emptiness and +become absolute truth, and when two and two could have been three as +easily as five, if that were what was needed. It had faded but before +O'Brien had dropped his hand; but though he could not recapture it, he +could remember it, as one remembers a vivid experience at some period of +one's life when one was in effect a different person. + +'You see now,' said O'Brien, 'that it is at any rate possible.' + +'Yes,' said Winston. + +O'Brien stood up with a satisfied air. Over to his left Winston saw the +man in the white coat break an ampoule and draw back the plunger of a +syringe. O'Brien turned to Winston with a smile. In almost the old manner +he resettled his spectacles on his nose. + +'Do you remember writing in your diary,' he said, 'that it did not matter +whether I was a friend or an enemy, since I was at least a person who +understood you and could be talked to? You were right. I enjoy talking to +you. Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you +happen to be insane. Before we bring the session to an end you can ask me +a few questions, if you choose.' + +'Any question I like?' + +'Anything.' He saw that Winston's eyes were upon the dial. 'It is switched +off. What is your first question?' + +'What have you done with Julia?' said Winston. + +O'Brien smiled again. 'She betrayed you, Winston. Immediately--unreservedly. +I have seldom seen anyone come over to us so promptly. You would hardly +recognize her if you saw her. All her rebelliousness, her deceit, her +folly, her dirty-mindedness--everything has been burned out of her. It was +a perfect conversion, a textbook case.' + +'You tortured her?' + +O'Brien left this unanswered. 'Next question,' he said. + +'Does Big Brother exist?' + +'Of course he exists. The Party exists. Big Brother is the embodiment of +the Party.' + +'Does he exist in the same way as I exist?' + +'You do not exist,' said O'Brien. + +Once again the sense of helplessness assailed him. He knew, or he could +imagine, the arguments which proved his own nonexistence; but they were +nonsense, they were only a play on words. Did not the statement, 'You do +not exist', contain a logical absurdity? But what use was it to say so? +His mind shrivelled as he thought of the unanswerable, mad arguments with +which O'Brien would demolish him. + +'I think I exist,' he said wearily. 'I am conscious of my own identity. +I was born and I shall die. I have arms and legs. I occupy a particular +point in space. No other solid object can occupy the same point +simultaneously. In that sense, does Big Brother exist?' + +'It is of no importance. He exists.' + +'Will Big Brother ever die?' + +'Of course not. How could he die? Next question.' + +'Does the Brotherhood exist?' + +'That, Winston, you will never know. If we choose to set you free when we +have finished with you, and if you live to be ninety years old, still you +will never learn whether the answer to that question is Yes or No. As long +as you live it will be an unsolved riddle in your mind.' + +Winston lay silent. His breast rose and fell a little faster. He still had +not asked the question that had come into his mind the first. He had got +to ask it, and yet it was as though his tongue would not utter it. There +was a trace of amusement in O'Brien's face. Even his spectacles seemed to +wear an ironical gleam. He knows, thought Winston suddenly, he knows what +I am going to ask! At the thought the words burst out of him: + +'What is in Room 101?' + +The expression on O'Brien's face did not change. He answered drily: + +'You know what is in Room 101, Winston. Everyone knows what is in +Room 101.' + +He raised a finger to the man in the white coat. Evidently the session was +at an end. A needle jerked into Winston's arm. He sank almost instantly +into deep sleep. + + + + +Chapter 3 + + + +'There are three stages in your reintegration,' said O'Brien. 'There is +learning, there is understanding, and there is acceptance. It is time for +you to enter upon the second stage.' + +As always, Winston was lying flat on his back. But of late his bonds were +looser. They still held him to the bed, but he could move his knees a +little and could turn his head from side to side and raise his arms from +the elbow. The dial, also, had grown to be less of a terror. He could +evade its pangs if he was quick-witted enough: it was chiefly when he +showed stupidity that O'Brien pulled the lever. Sometimes they got through +a whole session without use of the dial. He could not remember how many +sessions there had been. The whole process seemed to stretch out over a +long, indefinite time--weeks, possibly--and the intervals between the +sessions might sometimes have been days, sometimes only an hour or two. + +'As you lie there,' said O'Brien, 'you have often wondered--you have even +asked me--why the Ministry of Love should expend so much time and trouble +on you. And when you were free you were puzzled by what was essentially +the same question. You could grasp the mechanics of the Society you lived +in, but not its underlying motives. Do you remember writing in your diary, +"I understand HOW: I do not understand WHY"? It was when you thought about +"why" that you doubted your own sanity. You have read THE BOOK, +Goldstein's book, or parts of it, at least. Did it tell you anything that +you did not know already?' + +'You have read it?' said Winston. + +'I wrote it. That is to say, I collaborated in writing it. No book is +produced individually, as you know.' + +'Is it true, what it says?' + +'As description, yes. The programme it sets forth is nonsense. The secret +accumulation of knowledge--a gradual spread of enlightenment--ultimately +a proletarian rebellion--the overthrow of the Party. You foresaw yourself +that that was what it would say. It is all nonsense. The proletarians will +never revolt, not in a thousand years or a million. They cannot. I do +not have to tell you the reason: you know it already. If you have ever +cherished any dreams of violent insurrection, you must abandon them. There +is no way in which the Party can be overthrown. The rule of the Party is +for ever. Make that the starting-point of your thoughts.' + +He came closer to the bed. 'For ever!' he repeated. 'And now let us get +back to the question of "how" and "why". You understand well enough HOW +the Party maintains itself in power. Now tell me WHY we cling to power. +What is our motive? Why should we want power? Go on, speak,' he added as +Winston remained silent. + +Nevertheless Winston did not speak for another moment or two. A feeling of +weariness had overwhelmed him. The faint, mad gleam of enthusiasm had come +back into O'Brien's face. He knew in advance what O'Brien would say. That +the Party did not seek power for its own ends, but only for the good of +the majority. That it sought power because men in the mass were frail, +cowardly creatures who could not endure liberty or face the truth, and +must be ruled over and systematically deceived by others who were stronger +than themselves. That the choice for mankind lay between freedom and +happiness, and that, for the great bulk of mankind, happiness was better. +That the party was the eternal guardian of the weak, a dedicated sect +doing evil that good might come, sacrificing its own happiness to that of +others. The terrible thing, thought Winston, the terrible thing was that +when O'Brien said this he would believe it. You could see it in his face. +O'Brien knew everything. A thousand times better than Winston he knew what +the world was really like, in what degradation the mass of human beings +lived and by what lies and barbarities the Party kept them there. He had +understood it all, weighed it all, and it made no difference: all was +justified by the ultimate purpose. What can you do, thought Winston, +against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your +arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy? + +'You are ruling over us for our own good,' he said feebly. 'You believe +that human beings are not fit to govern themselves, and therefore----' + +He started and almost cried out. A pang of pain had shot through his body. +O'Brien had pushed the lever of the dial up to thirty-five. + +'That was stupid, Winston, stupid!' he said. 'You should know better than +to say a thing like that.' + +He pulled the lever back and continued: + +'Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party +seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good +of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long +life or happiness: only power, pure power. What pure power means you will +understand presently. We are different from all the oligarchies of the +past, in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who +resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the +Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never +had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps +they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a +limited time, and that just round the corner there lay a paradise where +human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know that +no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is +not a means, it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order +to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish +the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of +torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to +understand me?' + +Winston was struck, as he had been struck before, by the tiredness of +O'Brien's face. It was strong and fleshy and brutal, it was full of +intelligence and a sort of controlled passion before which he felt himself +helpless; but it was tired. There were pouches under the eyes, the skin +sagged from the cheekbones. O'Brien leaned over him, deliberately bringing +the worn face nearer. + +'You are thinking,' he said, 'that my face is old and tired. You are +thinking that I talk of power, and yet I am not even able to prevent the +decay of my own body. Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual +is only a cell? The weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. +Do you die when you cut your fingernails?' + +He turned away from the bed and began strolling up and down again, one hand +in his pocket. + +'We are the priests of power,' he said. 'God is power. But at present +power is only a word so far as you are concerned. It is time for you to +gather some idea of what power means. The first thing you must realize +is that power is collective. The individual only has power in so far as +he ceases to be an individual. You know the Party slogan: "Freedom is +Slavery". Has it ever occurred to you that it is reversible? Slavery is +freedom. Alone--free--the human being is always defeated. It must be so, +because every human being is doomed to die, which is the greatest of all +failures. But if he can make complete, utter submission, if he can escape +from his identity, if he can merge himself in the Party so that he IS the +Party, then he is all-powerful and immortal. The second thing for you to +realize is that power is power over human beings. Over the body--but, above +all, over the mind. Power over matter--external reality, as you would call +it--is not important. Already our control over matter is absolute.' + +For a moment Winston ignored the dial. He made a violent effort to raise +himself into a sitting position, and merely succeeded in wrenching his +body painfully. + +'But how can you control matter?' he burst out. 'You don't even control +the climate or the law of gravity. And there are disease, pain, death----' + +O'Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. 'We control matter because +we control the mind. Reality is inside the skull. You will learn by +degrees, Winston. There is nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, +levitation--anything. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if +I wish to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it. You must +get rid of those nineteenth-century ideas about the laws of Nature. We +make the laws of Nature.' + +'But you do not! You are not even masters of this planet. What about +Eurasia and Eastasia? You have not conquered them yet.' + +'Unimportant. We shall conquer them when it suits us. And if we did not, +what difference would it make? We can shut them out of existence. Oceania +is the world.' + +'But the world itself is only a speck of dust. And man is tiny--helpless! +How long has he been in existence? For millions of years the earth was +uninhabited.' + +'Nonsense. The earth is as old as we are, no older. How could it be older? +Nothing exists except through human consciousness.' + +'But the rocks are full of the bones of extinct animals--mammoths and +mastodons and enormous reptiles which lived here long before man was ever +heard of.' + +'Have you ever seen those bones, Winston? Of course not. Nineteenth-century +biologists invented them. Before man there was nothing. After man, if he +could come to an end, there would be nothing. Outside man there is +nothing.' + +'But the whole universe is outside us. Look at the stars! Some of them are +a million light-years away. They are out of our reach for ever.' + +'What are the stars?' said O'Brien indifferently. 'They are bits of fire +a few kilometres away. We could reach them if we wanted to. Or we could +blot them out. The earth is the centre of the universe. The sun and the +stars go round it.' + +Winston made another convulsive movement. This time he did not say +anything. O'Brien continued as though answering a spoken objection: + +'For certain purposes, of course, that is not true. When we navigate the +ocean, or when we predict an eclipse, we often find it convenient to +assume that the earth goes round the sun and that the stars are millions +upon millions of kilometres away. But what of it? Do you suppose it is +beyond us to produce a dual system of astronomy? The stars can be near +or distant, according as we need them. Do you suppose our mathematicians +are unequal to that? Have you forgotten doublethink?' + +Winston shrank back upon the bed. Whatever he said, the swift answer +crushed him like a bludgeon. And yet he knew, he KNEW, that he was in the +right. The belief that nothing exists outside your own mind--surely there +must be some way of demonstrating that it was false? Had it not been +exposed long ago as a fallacy? There was even a name for it, which he +had forgotten. A faint smile twitched the corners of O'Brien's mouth as +he looked down at him. + +'I told you, Winston,' he said, 'that metaphysics is not your strong +point. The word you are trying to think of is solipsism. But you are +mistaken. This is not solipsism. Collective solipsism, if you like. But +that is a different thing: in fact, the opposite thing. All this is a +digression,' he added in a different tone. 'The real power, the power we +have to fight for night and day, is not power over things, but over men.' +He paused, and for a moment assumed again his air of a schoolmaster +questioning a promising pupil: 'How does one man assert his power over +another, Winston?' + +Winston thought. 'By making him suffer,' he said. + +'Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is +suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his +own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing +human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of +your own choosing. Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are +creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that +the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery and torment, a +world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not +less but MORE merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will +be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they +were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world +there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. +Everything else we shall destroy--everything. Already we are breaking down +the habits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We +have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and +between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend +any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. +Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from +a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual +formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. +Our neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loyalty, except +loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of +Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over +a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. When +we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There will be +no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, +no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be +destroyed. But always--do not forget this, Winston--always there will be +the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing +subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, +the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a +picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face--for ever.' + +He paused as though he expected Winston to speak. Winston had tried to +shrink back into the surface of the bed again. He could not say anything. +His heart seemed to be frozen. O'Brien went on: + +'And remember that it is for ever. The face will always be there to be +stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always be there, so +that he can be defeated and humiliated over again. Everything that you +have undergone since you have been in our hands--all that will continue, +and worse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tortures, the +executions, the disappearances will never cease. It will be a world of +terror as much as a world of triumph. The more the Party is powerful, the +less it will be tolerant: the weaker the opposition, the tighter the +despotism. Goldstein and his heresies will live for ever. Every day, at +every moment, they will be defeated, discredited, ridiculed, spat upon and +yet they will always survive. This drama that I have played out with you +during seven years will be played out over and over again generation after +generation, always in subtler forms. Always we shall have the heretic here +at our mercy, screaming with pain, broken up, contemptible--and in the end +utterly penitent, saved from himself, crawling to our feet of his own +accord. That is the world that we are preparing, Winston. A world of +victory after victory, triumph after triumph after triumph: an endless +pressing, pressing, pressing upon the nerve of power. You are beginning, +I can see, to realize what that world will be like. But in the end you +will do more than understand it. You will accept it, welcome it, become +part of it.' + +Winston had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. 'You can't!' he said +weakly. + +'What do you mean by that remark, Winston?' + +'You could not create such a world as you have just described. It is a +dream. It is impossible.' + +'Why?' + +'It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred and cruelty. +It would never endure.' + +'Why not?' + +'It would have no vitality. It would disintegrate. It would commit +suicide.' + +'Nonsense. You are under the impression that hatred is more exhausting +than love. Why should it be? And if it were, what difference would that +make? Suppose that we choose to wear ourselves out faster. Suppose that we +quicken the tempo of human life till men are senile at thirty. Still what +difference would it make? Can you not understand that the death of the +individual is not death? The party is immortal.' + +As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helplessness. Moreover he +was in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O'Brien would twist +the dial again. And yet he could not keep silent. Feebly, without +arguments, with nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of +what O'Brien had said, he returned to the attack. + +'I don't know--I don't care. Somehow you will fail. Something will defeat +you. Life will defeat you.' + +'We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imagining that there +is something called human nature which will be outraged by what we do and +will turn against us. But we create human nature. Men are infinitely +malleable. Or perhaps you have returned to your old idea that the +proletarians or the slaves will arise and overthrow us. Put it out of your +mind. They are helpless, like the animals. Humanity is the Party. The +others are outside--irrelevant.' + +'I don't care. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later they will +see you for what you are, and then they will tear you to pieces.' + +'Do you see any evidence that that is happening? Or any reason why it +should?' + +'No. I believe it. I KNOW that you will fail. There is something in the +universe--I don't know, some spirit, some principle--that you will never +overcome.' + +'Do you believe in God, Winston?' + +'No.' + +'Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?' + +'I don't know. The spirit of Man.' + +'And do you consider yourself a man?' + +'Yes.' + +'If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your kind is extinct; we +are the inheritors. Do you understand that you are ALONE? You are outside +history, you are non-existent.' His manner changed and he said more +harshly: 'And you consider yourself morally superior to us, with our lies +and our cruelty?' + +'Yes, I consider myself superior.' + +O'Brien did not speak. Two other voices were speaking. After a moment +Winston recognized one of them as his own. It was a sound-track of the +conversation he had had with O'Brien, on the night when he had enrolled +himself in the Brotherhood. He heard himself promising to lie, to steal, +to forge, to murder, to encourage drug-taking and prostitution, to +disseminate venereal diseases, to throw vitriol in a child's face. O'Brien +made a small impatient gesture, as though to say that the demonstration +was hardly worth making. Then he turned a switch and the voices stopped. + +'Get up from that bed,' he said. + +The bonds had loosened themselves. Winston lowered himself to the floor +and stood up unsteadily. + +'You are the last man,' said O'Brien. 'You are the guardian of the human +spirit. You shall see yourself as you are. Take off your clothes.' + +Winston undid the bit of string that held his overalls together. The zip +fastener had long since been wrenched out of them. He could not remember +whether at any time since his arrest he had taken off all his clothes at +one time. Beneath the overalls his body was looped with filthy yellowish +rags, just recognizable as the remnants of underclothes. As he slid +them to the ground he saw that there was a three-sided mirror at the far +end of the room. He approached it, then stopped short. An involuntary cry +had broken out of him. + +'Go on,' said O'Brien. 'Stand between the wings of the mirror. You shall +see the side view as well.' + +He had stopped because he was frightened. A bowed, grey-coloured, +skeleton-like thing was coming towards him. Its actual appearance was +frightening, and not merely the fact that he knew it to be himself. He +moved closer to the glass. The creature's face seemed to be protruded, +because of its bent carriage. A forlorn, jailbird's face with a nobby +forehead running back into a bald scalp, a crooked nose, and +battered-looking cheekbones above which his eyes were fierce and watchful. +The cheeks were seamed, the mouth had a drawn-in look. Certainly it was +his own face, but it seemed to him that it had changed more than he had +changed inside. The emotions it registered would be different from the +ones he felt. He had gone partially bald. For the first moment he had +thought that he had gone grey as well, but it was only the scalp that was +grey. Except for his hands and a circle of his face, his body was grey all +over with ancient, ingrained dirt. Here and there under the dirt there +were the red scars of wounds, and near the ankle the varicose ulcer was an +inflamed mass with flakes of skin peeling off it. But the truly frightening +thing was the emaciation of his body. The barrel of the ribs was as narrow +as that of a skeleton: the legs had shrunk so that the knees were thicker +than the thighs. He saw now what O'Brien had meant about seeing the side +view. The curvature of the spine was astonishing. The thin shoulders were +hunched forward so as to make a cavity of the chest, the scraggy neck +seemed to be bending double under the weight of the skull. At a guess he +would have said that it was the body of a man of sixty, suffering from +some malignant disease. + +'You have thought sometimes,' said O'Brien, 'that my face--the face of a +member of the Inner Party--looks old and worn. What do you think of your +own face?' + +He seized Winston's shoulder and spun him round so that he was facing him. + +'Look at the condition you are in!' he said. 'Look at this filthy grime +all over your body. Look at the dirt between your toes. Look at that +disgusting running sore on your leg. Do you know that you stink like a +goat? Probably you have ceased to notice it. Look at your emaciation. Do +you see? I can make my thumb and forefinger meet round your bicep. I could +snap your neck like a carrot. Do you know that you have lost twenty-five +kilograms since you have been in our hands? Even your hair is coming out +in handfuls. Look!' He plucked at Winston's head and brought away a tuft +of hair. 'Open your mouth. Nine, ten, eleven teeth left. How many had you +when you came to us? And the few you have left are dropping out of your +head. Look here!' + +He seized one of Winston's remaining front teeth between his powerful +thumb and forefinger. A twinge of pain shot through Winston's jaw. O'Brien +had wrenched the loose tooth out by the roots. He tossed it across the +cell. + +'You are rotting away,' he said; 'you are falling to pieces. What are you? +A bag of filth. Now turn around and look into that mirror again. Do you +see that thing facing you? That is the last man. If you are human, that is +humanity. Now put your clothes on again.' + +Winston began to dress himself with slow stiff movements. Until now he had +not seemed to notice how thin and weak he was. Only one thought stirred in +his mind: that he must have been in this place longer than he had imagined. +Then suddenly as he fixed the miserable rags round himself a feeling of +pity for his ruined body overcame him. Before he knew what he was doing +he had collapsed on to a small stool that stood beside the bed and burst +into tears. He was aware of his ugliness, his gracelessness, a bundle of +bones in filthy underclothes sitting weeping in the harsh white light: but +he could not stop himself. O'Brien laid a hand on his shoulder, almost +kindly. + +'It will not last for ever,' he said. 'You can escape from it whenever you +choose. Everything depends on yourself.' + +'You did it!' sobbed Winston. 'You reduced me to this state.' + +'No, Winston, you reduced yourself to it. This is what you accepted when +you set yourself up against the Party. It was all contained in that first +act. Nothing has happened that you did not foresee.' + +He paused, and then went on: + +'We have beaten you, Winston. We have broken you up. You have seen what +your body is like. Your mind is in the same state. I do not think there +can be much pride left in you. You have been kicked and flogged and +insulted, you have screamed with pain, you have rolled on the floor in +your own blood and vomit. You have whimpered for mercy, you have betrayed +everybody and everything. Can you think of a single degradation that has +not happened to you?' + +Winston had stopped weeping, though the tears were still oozing out of his +eyes. He looked up at O'Brien. + +'I have not betrayed Julia,' he said. + +O'Brien looked down at him thoughtfully. 'No,' he said; 'no; that is +perfectly true. You have not betrayed Julia.' + +The peculiar reverence for O'Brien, which nothing seemed able to destroy, +flooded Winston's heart again. How intelligent, he thought, how +intelligent! Never did O'Brien fail to understand what was said to him. +Anyone else on earth would have answered promptly that he HAD betrayed +Julia. For what was there that they had not screwed out of him under the +torture? He had told them everything he knew about her, her habits, her +character, her past life; he had confessed in the most trivial detail +everything that had happened at their meetings, all that he had said to +her and she to him, their black-market meals, their adulteries, their +vague plottings against the Party--everything. And yet, in the sense in +which he intended the word, he had not betrayed her. He had not stopped +loving her; his feelings towards her had remained the same. O'Brien had +seen what he meant without the need for explanation. + +'Tell me,' he said, 'how soon will they shoot me?' + +'It might be a long time,' said O'Brien. 'You are a difficult case. But +don't give up hope. Everyone is cured sooner or later. In the end we shall +shoot you.' + + + + +Chapter 4 + + + +He was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger every day, if it +was proper to speak of days. + +The white light and the humming sound were the same as ever, but the cell +was a little more comfortable than the others he had been in. There was a +pillow and a mattress on the plank bed, and a stool to sit on. They had +given him a bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequently +in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash with. They had given +him new underclothes and a clean suit of overalls. They had dressed his +varicose ulcer with soothing ointment. They had pulled out the remnants +of his teeth and given him a new set of dentures. + +Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been possible now to keep +count of the passage of time, if he had felt any interest in doing so, +since he was being fed at what appeared to be regular intervals. He was +getting, he judged, three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he +wondered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. The food +was surprisingly good, with meat at every third meal. Once there was even +a packet of cigarettes. He had no matches, but the never-speaking guard +who brought his food would give him a light. The first time he tried to +smoke it made him sick, but he persevered, and spun the packet out for +a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal. + +They had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil tied to the +corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was +completely torpid. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost +without stirring, sometimes asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries +in which it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown +used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no +difference, except that one's dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a +great deal all through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He +was in the Golden Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, +sunlit ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with O'Brien--not doing +anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such +thoughts as he had when he was awake were mostly about his dreams. He +seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort, now that the +stimulus of pain had been removed. He was not bored, he had no desire +for conversation or distraction. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten +or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all over, was +completely satisfying. + +By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no +impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the +strength gathering in his body. He would finger himself here and there, +trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were +growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a +doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now definitely thicker +than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising +himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres, +measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing +straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and +humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a +walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm's length, he could not stand +on one leg without falling over. He squatted down on his heels, and found +that with agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself to +a standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to lift his weight +by his hands. It was hopeless, he could not raise himself a centimetre. +But after a few more days--a few more mealtimes--even that feat was +accomplished. A time came when he could do it six times running. He began +to grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an intermittent belief +that his face also was growing back to normal. Only when he chanced to put +his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the seamed, ruined face that +had looked back at him out of the mirror. + +His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back against +the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately at the +task of re-educating himself. + +He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw now, he had +been ready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the +moment when he was inside the Ministry of Love--and yes, even during those +minutes when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice from the +telescreen told them what to do--he had grasped the frivolity, the +shallowness of his attempt to set himself up against the power of the +Party. He knew now that for seven years the Thought Police had watched him +like a beetle under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no word +spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of thought that they had +not been able to infer. Even the speck of whitish dust on the cover of his +diary they had carefully replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him, +shown him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia and himself. +Yes, even... He could not fight against the Party any longer. Besides, +the Party was in the right. It must be so; how could the immortal, +collective brain be mistaken? By what external standard could you check +its judgements? Sanity was statistical. It was merely a question of +learning to think as they thought. Only----! + +The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He began to write down +the thoughts that came into his head. He wrote first in large clumsy +capitals: + + +FREEDOM IS SLAVERY + + +Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it: + + +TWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE + + +But then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though shying away from +something, seemed unable to concentrate. He knew that he knew what came +next, but for the moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it, +it was only by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not come +of its own accord. He wrote: + + +GOD IS POWER + + +He accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past never had been +altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at war +with Eastasia. Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford were guilty of the crimes +they were charged with. He had never seen the photograph that disproved +their guilt. It had never existed, he had invented it. He remembered +remembering contrary things, but those were false memories, products of +self-deception. How easy it all was! Only surrender, and everything else +followed. It was like swimming against a current that swept you backwards +however hard you struggled, and then suddenly deciding to turn round and +go with the current instead of opposing it. Nothing had changed except +your own attitude: the predestined thing happened in any case. He hardly +knew why he had ever rebelled. Everything was easy, except----! + +Anything could be true. The so-called laws of Nature were nonsense. The +law of gravity was nonsense. 'If I wished,' O'Brien had said, 'I could +float off this floor like a soap bubble.' Winston worked it out. 'If he +THINKS he floats off the floor, and if I simultaneously THINK I see him +do it, then the thing happens.' Suddenly, like a lump of submerged wreckage +breaking the surface of water, the thought burst into his mind: 'It doesn't +really happen. We imagine it. It is hallucination.' He pushed the thought +under instantly. The fallacy was obvious. It presupposed that somewhere +or other, outside oneself, there was a 'real' world where 'real' things +happened. But how could there be such a world? What knowledge have we of +anything, save through our own minds? All happenings are in the mind. +Whatever happens in all minds, truly happens. + +He had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he was in no danger +of succumbing to it. He realized, nevertheless, that it ought never to +have occurred to him. The mind should develop a blind spot whenever a +dangerous thought presented itself. The process should be automatic, +instinctive. CRIMESTOP, they called it in Newspeak. + +He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He presented himself with +propositions--'the Party says the earth is flat', 'the party says that +ice is heavier than water'--and trained himself in not seeing or not +understanding the arguments that contradicted them. It was not easy. +It needed great powers of reasoning and improvisation. The arithmetical +problems raised, for instance, by such a statement as 'two and two make +five' were beyond his intellectual grasp. It needed also a sort of +athleticism of mind, an ability at one moment to make the most delicate +use of logic and at the next to be unconscious of the crudest logical +errors. Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult to +attain. + +All the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered how soon they would +shoot him. 'Everything depends on yourself,' O'Brien had said; but he knew +that there was no conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It +might be ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him for years in +solitary confinement, they might send him to a labour-camp, they might +release him for a while, as they sometimes did. It was perfectly possible +that before he was shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation +would be enacted all over again. The one certain thing was that death +never came at an expected moment. The tradition--the unspoken tradition: +somehow you knew it, though you never heard it said--was that they shot +you from behind; always in the back of the head, without warning, as you +walked down a corridor from cell to cell. + +One day--but 'one day' was not the right expression; just as probably it +was in the middle of the night: once--he fell into a strange, blissful +reverie. He was walking down the corridor, waiting for the bullet. He knew +that it was coming in another moment. Everything was settled, smoothed +out, reconciled. There were no more doubts, no more arguments, no more +pain, no more fear. His body was healthy and strong. He walked easily, +with a joy of movement and with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was +not any longer in the narrow white corridors in the Ministry of Love, he +was in the enormous sunlit passage, a kilometre wide, down which he had +seemed to walk in the delirium induced by drugs. He was in the Golden +Country, following the foot-track across the old rabbit-cropped pasture. +He could feel the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sunshine +on his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees, faintly stirring, +and somewhere beyond that was the stream where the dace lay in the green +pools under the willows. + +Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The sweat broke out on his +backbone. He had heard himself cry aloud: + +'Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!' + +For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence. She +had seemed to be not merely with him, but inside him. It was as though she +had got into the texture of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far +more than he had ever done when they were together and free. Also he knew +that somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help. + +He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. What had he done? How +many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness? + +In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could not +let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had not +known before, that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. +He obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old days he had +hidden a heretical mind beneath an appearance of conformity. Now he had +retreated a step further: in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped +to keep the inner heart inviolate. He knew that he was in the wrong, but +he preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand that--O'Brien would +understand it. It was all confessed in that single foolish cry. + +He would have to start all over again. It might take years. He ran a hand +over his face, trying to familiarize himself with the new shape. There +were deep furrows in the cheeks, the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose +flattened. Besides, since last seeing himself in the glass he had been +given a complete new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve +inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like. In any +case, mere control of the features was not enough. For the first time he +perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from +yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is +needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape +that could be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think right; +he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred +locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and +yet unconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst. + +One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not tell when it would +happen, but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess. It +was always from behind, walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be +enough. In that time the world inside him could turn over. And then +suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his step, without the +changing of a line in his face--suddenly the camouflage would be down and +bang! would go the batteries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an +enormous roaring flame. And almost in the same instant bang! would go the +bullet, too late, or too early. They would have blown his brain to pieces +before they could reclaim it. The heretical thought would be unpunished, +unrepented, out of their reach for ever. They would have blown a hole in +their own perfection. To die hating them, that was freedom. + +He shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting an intellectual +discipline. It was a question of degrading himself, mutilating himself. He +had got to plunge into the filthiest of filth. What was the most horrible, +sickening thing of all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face +(because of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought of it as +being a metre wide), with its heavy black moustache and the eyes that +followed you to and fro, seemed to float into his mind of its own accord. +What were his true feelings towards Big Brother? + +There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The steel door swung open +with a clang. O'Brien walked into the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced +officer and the black-uniformed guards. + +'Get up,' said O'Brien. 'Come here.' + +Winston stood opposite him. O'Brien took Winston's shoulders between his +strong hands and looked at him closely. + +'You have had thoughts of deceiving me,' he said. 'That was stupid. +Stand up straighter. Look me in the face.' + +He paused, and went on in a gentler tone: + +'You are improving. Intellectually there is very little wrong with you. +It is only emotionally that you have failed to make progress. Tell me, +Winston--and remember, no lies: you know that I am always able to detect +a lie--tell me, what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?' + +'I hate him.' + +'You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you to take the last step. +You must love Big Brother. It is not enough to obey him: you must love +him.' + +He released Winston with a little push towards the guards. + +'Room 101,' he said. + + + + +Chapter 5 + + + +At each stage of his imprisonment he had known, or seemed to know, +whereabouts he was in the windowless building. Possibly there were slight +differences in the air pressure. The cells where the guards had beaten him +were below ground level. The room where he had been interrogated by +O'Brien was high up near the roof. This place was many metres underground, +as deep down as it was possible to go. + +It was bigger than most of the cells he had been in. But he hardly noticed +his surroundings. All he noticed was that there were two small tables +straight in front of him, each covered with green baize. One was only a +metre or two from him, the other was further away, near the door. He was +strapped upright in a chair, so tightly that he could move nothing, not +even his head. A sort of pad gripped his head from behind, forcing him to +look straight in front of him. + +For a moment he was alone, then the door opened and O'Brien came in. + +'You asked me once,' said O'Brien, 'what was in Room 101. I told you that +you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in +Room 101 is the worst thing in the world.' + +The door opened again. A guard came in, carrying something made of wire, +a box or basket of some kind. He set it down on the further table. Because +of the position in which O'Brien was standing. Winston could not see what +the thing was. + +'The worst thing in the world,' said O'Brien, 'varies from individual to +individual. It may be burial alive, or death by fire, or by drowning, or +by impalement, or fifty other deaths. There are cases where it is some +quite trivial thing, not even fatal.' + +He had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a better view of +the thing on the table. It was an oblong wire cage with a handle on top +for carrying it by. Fixed to the front of it was something that looked +like a fencing mask, with the concave side outwards. Although it was three +or four metres away from him, he could see that the cage was divided +lengthways into two compartments, and that there was some kind of creature +in each. They were rats. + +'In your case,' said O'Brien, 'the worst thing in the world happens to be +rats.' + +A sort of premonitory tremor, a fear of he was not certain what, had +passed through Winston as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the cage. +But at this moment the meaning of the mask-like attachment in front of it +suddenly sank into him. His bowels seemed to turn to water. + +'You can't do that!' he cried out in a high cracked voice. 'You couldn't, +you couldn't! It's impossible.' + +'Do you remember,' said O'Brien, 'the moment of panic that used to occur +in your dreams? There was a wall of blackness in front of you, and a +roaring sound in your ears. There was something terrible on the other side +of the wall. You knew that you knew what it was, but you dared not drag it +into the open. It was the rats that were on the other side of the wall.' + +'O'Brien!' said Winston, making an effort to control his voice. 'You know +this is not necessary. What is it that you want me to do?' + +O'Brien made no direct answer. When he spoke it was in the schoolmasterish +manner that he sometimes affected. He looked thoughtfully into the +distance, as though he were addressing an audience somewhere behind +Winston's back. + +'By itself,' he said, 'pain is not always enough. There are occasions when +a human being will stand out against pain, even to the point of death. +But for everyone there is something unendurable--something that cannot be +contemplated. Courage and cowardice are not involved. If you are falling +from a height it is not cowardly to clutch at a rope. If you have come up +from deep water it is not cowardly to fill your lungs with air. It is +merely an instinct which cannot be destroyed. It is the same with the +rats. For you, they are unendurable. They are a form of pressure that you +cannot withstand, even if you wished to. You will do what is required of +you.' + +'But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don't know what it is?' + +O'Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the nearer table. +He set it down carefully on the baize cloth. Winston could hear the blood +singing in his ears. He had the feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. +He was in the middle of a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with +sunlight, across which all sounds came to him out of immense distances. +Yet the cage with the rats was not two metres away from him. They were +enormous rats. They were at the age when a rat's muzzle grows blunt and +fierce and his fur brown instead of grey. + +'The rat,' said O'Brien, still addressing his invisible audience, +'although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of that. You will have +heard of the things that happen in the poor quarters of this town. In some +streets a woman dare not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five +minutes. The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time they +will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dying people. They +show astonishing intelligence in knowing when a human being is helpless.' + +There was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed to reach Winston +from far away. The rats were fighting; they were trying to get at each +other through the partition. He heard also a deep groan of despair. +That, too, seemed to come from outside himself. + +O'Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed something in it. +There was a sharp click. Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself +loose from the chair. It was hopeless; every part of him, even his head, +was held immovably. O'Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a +metre from Winston's face. + +'I have pressed the first lever,' said O'Brien. 'You understand the +construction of this cage. The mask will fit over your head, leaving no +exit. When I press this other lever, the door of the cage will slide up. +These starving brutes will shoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever +seen a rat leap through the air? They will leap on to your face and bore +straight into it. Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Sometimes they +burrow through the cheeks and devour the tongue.' + +The cage was nearer; it was closing in. Winston heard a succession of +shrill cries which appeared to be occurring in the air above his head. But +he fought furiously against his panic. To think, to think, even with a +split second left--to think was the only hope. Suddenly the foul musty +odour of the brutes struck his nostrils. There was a violent convulsion of +nausea inside him, and he almost lost consciousness. Everything had gone +black. For an instant he was insane, a screaming animal. Yet he came out +of the blackness clutching an idea. There was one and only one way to save +himself. He must interpose another human being, the BODY of another human +being, between himself and the rats. + +The circle of the mask was large enough now to shut out the vision of +anything else. The wire door was a couple of hand-spans from his face. The +rats knew what was coming now. One of them was leaping up and down, the +other, an old scaly grandfather of the sewers, stood up, with his pink +hands against the bars, and fiercely sniffed the air. Winston could see +the whiskers and the yellow teeth. Again the black panic took hold of him. +He was blind, helpless, mindless. + +'It was a common punishment in Imperial China,' said O'Brien as +didactically as ever. + +The mask was closing on his face. The wire brushed his cheek. And then--no, +it was not relief, only hope, a tiny fragment of hope. Too late, perhaps +too late. But he had suddenly understood that in the whole world there was +just ONE person to whom he could transfer his punishment--ONE body that he +could thrust between himself and the rats. And he was shouting frantically, +over and over. + +'Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia! I don't care what you do +to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not me!' + +He was falling backwards, into enormous depths, away from the rats. He was +still strapped in the chair, but he had fallen through the floor, through +the walls of the building, through the earth, through the oceans, through +the atmosphere, into outer space, into the gulfs between the stars--always +away, away, away from the rats. He was light years distant, but O'Brien +was still standing at his side. There was still the cold touch of wire +against his cheek. But through the darkness that enveloped him he heard +another metallic click, and knew that the cage door had clicked shut and +not open. + + + + +Chapter 6 + + + +The Chestnut Tree was almost empty. A ray of sunlight slanting through a +window fell on dusty table-tops. It was the lonely hour of fifteen. A +tinny music trickled from the telescreens. + +Winston sat in his usual corner, gazing into an empty glass. Now and again +he glanced up at a vast face which eyed him from the opposite wall. +BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said. Unbidden, a waiter came and +filled his glass up with Victory Gin, shaking into it a few drops from +another bottle with a quill through the cork. It was saccharine flavoured +with cloves, the speciality of the cafe. + +Winston was listening to the telescreen. At present only music was coming +out of it, but there was a possibility that at any moment there might be +a special bulletin from the Ministry of Peace. The news from the African +front was disquieting in the extreme. On and off he had been worrying +about it all day. A Eurasian army (Oceania was at war with Eurasia: +Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia) was moving southward at +terrifying speed. The mid-day bulletin had not mentioned any definite +area, but it was probable that already the mouth of the Congo was a +battlefield. Brazzaville and Leopoldville were in danger. One did not have +to look at the map to see what it meant. It was not merely a question of +losing Central Africa: for the first time in the whole war, the territory +of Oceania itself was menaced. + +A violent emotion, not fear exactly but a sort of undifferentiated +excitement, flared up in him, then faded again. He stopped thinking about +the war. In these days he could never fix his mind on any one subject for +more than a few moments at a time. He picked up his glass and drained it +at a gulp. As always, the gin made him shudder and even retch slightly. +The stuff was horrible. The cloves and saccharine, themselves disgusting +enough in their sickly way, could not disguise the flat oily smell; and +what was worst of all was that the smell of gin, which dwelt with him +night and day, was inextricably mixed up in his mind with the smell of +those---- + +He never named them, even in his thoughts, and so far as it was possible +he never visualized them. They were something that he was half-aware of, +hovering close to his face, a smell that clung to his nostrils. As the gin +rose in him he belched through purple lips. He had grown fatter since they +released him, and had regained his old colour--indeed, more than regained +it. His features had thickened, the skin on nose and cheekbones was +coarsely red, even the bald scalp was too deep a pink. A waiter, again +unbidden, brought the chessboard and the current issue of 'The Times', +with the page turned down at the chess problem. Then, seeing that Winston's +glass was empty, he brought the gin bottle and filled it. There was no +need to give orders. They knew his habits. The chessboard was always +waiting for him, his corner table was always reserved; even when the place +was full he had it to himself, since nobody cared to be seen sitting too +close to him. He never even bothered to count his drinks. At irregular +intervals they presented him with a dirty slip of paper which they said +was the bill, but he had the impression that they always undercharged him. +It would have made no difference if it had been the other way about. He +had always plenty of money nowadays. He even had a job, a sinecure, more +highly-paid than his old job had been. + +The music from the telescreen stopped and a voice took over. Winston raised +his head to listen. No bulletins from the front, however. It was merely a +brief announcement from the Ministry of Plenty. In the preceding quarter, +it appeared, the Tenth Three-Year Plan's quota for bootlaces had been +overfulfilled by 98 per cent. + +He examined the chess problem and set out the pieces. It was a tricky +ending, involving a couple of knights. 'White to play and mate in two +moves.' Winston looked up at the portrait of Big Brother. White always +mates, he thought with a sort of cloudy mysticism. Always, without +exception, it is so arranged. In no chess problem since the beginning of +the world has black ever won. Did it not symbolize the eternal, unvarying +triumph of Good over Evil? The huge face gazed back at him, full of calm +power. White always mates. + +The voice from the telescreen paused and added in a different and much +graver tone: 'You are warned to stand by for an important announcement at +fifteen-thirty. Fifteen-thirty! This is news of the highest importance. +Take care not to miss it. Fifteen-thirty!' The tinkling music struck up +again. + +Winston's heart stirred. That was the bulletin from the front; instinct +told him that it was bad news that was coming. All day, with little spurts +of excitement, the thought of a smashing defeat in Africa had been in and +out of his mind. He seemed actually to see the Eurasian army swarming +across the never-broken frontier and pouring down into the tip of Africa +like a column of ants. Why had it not been possible to outflank them in +some way? The outline of the West African coast stood out vividly in his +mind. He picked up the white knight and moved it across the board. THERE +was the proper spot. Even while he saw the black horde racing southward he +saw another force, mysteriously assembled, suddenly planted in their rear, +cutting their communications by land and sea. He felt that by willing it he +was bringing that other force into existence. But it was necessary to act +quickly. If they could get control of the whole of Africa, if they had +airfields and submarine bases at the Cape, it would cut Oceania in two. It +might mean anything: defeat, breakdown, the redivision of the world, the +destruction of the Party! He drew a deep breath. An extraordinary medley +of feeling--but it was not a medley, exactly; rather it was successive +layers of feeling, in which one could not say which layer was +undermost--struggled inside him. + +The spasm passed. He put the white knight back in its place, but for the +moment he could not settle down to serious study of the chess problem. +His thoughts wandered again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his +finger in the dust on the table: + +2+2=5 + +'They can't get inside you,' she had said. But they could get inside you. +'What happens to you here is FOR EVER,' O'Brien had said. That was a true +word. There were things, your own acts, from which you could never recover. +Something was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out. + +He had seen her; he had even spoken to her. There was no danger in it. He +knew as though instinctively that they now took almost no interest in his +doings. He could have arranged to meet her a second time if either of them +had wanted to. Actually it was by chance that they had met. It was in the +Park, on a vile, biting day in March, when the earth was like iron and +all the grass seemed dead and there was not a bud anywhere except a few +crocuses which had pushed themselves up to be dismembered by the wind. He +was hurrying along with frozen hands and watering eyes when he saw her not +ten metres away from him. It struck him at once that she had changed in +some ill-defined way. They almost passed one another without a sign, then +he turned and followed her, not very eagerly. He knew that there was no +danger, nobody would take any interest in him. She did not speak. She +walked obliquely away across the grass as though trying to get rid of him, +then seemed to resign herself to having him at her side. Presently they +were in among a clump of ragged leafless shrubs, useless either for +concealment or as protection from the wind. They halted. It was vilely +cold. The wind whistled through the twigs and fretted the occasional, +dirty-looking crocuses. He put his arm round her waist. + +There was no telescreen, but there must be hidden microphones: besides, +they could be seen. It did not matter, nothing mattered. They could have +lain down on the ground and done THAT if they had wanted to. His flesh +froze with horror at the thought of it. She made no response whatever to +the clasp of his arm; she did not even try to disengage herself. He knew +now what had changed in her. Her face was sallower, and there was a long +scar, partly hidden by the hair, across her forehead and temple; but that +was not the change. It was that her waist had grown thicker, and, in a +surprising way, had stiffened. He remembered how once, after the explosion +of a rocket bomb, he had helped to drag a corpse out of some ruins, and +had been astonished not only by the incredible weight of the thing, but by +its rigidity and awkwardness to handle, which made it seem more like stone +than flesh. Her body felt like that. It occurred to him that the texture +of her skin would be quite different from what it had once been. + +He did not attempt to kiss her, nor did they speak. As they walked back +across the grass, she looked directly at him for the first time. It +was only a momentary glance, full of contempt and dislike. He wondered +whether it was a dislike that came purely out of the past or whether it +was inspired also by his bloated face and the water that the wind kept +squeezing from his eyes. They sat down on two iron chairs, side by side +but not too close together. He saw that she was about to speak. She moved +her clumsy shoe a few centimetres and deliberately crushed a twig. Her +feet seemed to have grown broader, he noticed. + +'I betrayed you,' she said baldly. + +'I betrayed you,' he said. + +She gave him another quick look of dislike. + +'Sometimes,' she said, 'they threaten you with something something you +can't stand up to, can't even think about. And then you say, "Don't do it +to me, do it to somebody else, do it to so-and-so." And perhaps you might +pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to +make them stop and didn't really mean it. But that isn't true. At the time +when it happens you do mean it. You think there's no other way of saving +yourself, and you're quite ready to save yourself that way. You WANT it to +happen to the other person. You don't give a damn what they suffer. All +you care about is yourself.' + +'All you care about is yourself,' he echoed. + +'And after that, you don't feel the same towards the other person any +longer.' + +'No,' he said, 'you don't feel the same.' + +There did not seem to be anything more to say. The wind plastered their +thin overalls against their bodies. Almost at once it became embarrassing +to sit there in silence: besides, it was too cold to keep still. She said +something about catching her Tube and stood up to go. + +'We must meet again,' he said. + +'Yes,' she said, 'we must meet again.' + +He followed irresolutely for a little distance, half a pace behind her. +They did not speak again. She did not actually try to shake him off, but +walked at just such a speed as to prevent his keeping abreast of her. +He had made up his mind that he would accompany her as far as the Tube +station, but suddenly this process of trailing along in the cold seemed +pointless and unbearable. He was overwhelmed by a desire not so much to +get away from Julia as to get back to the Chestnut Tree Cafe, which had +never seemed so attractive as at this moment. He had a nostalgic vision +of his corner table, with the newspaper and the chessboard and the +ever-flowing gin. Above all, it would be warm in there. The next moment, +not altogether by accident, he allowed himself to become separated from +her by a small knot of people. He made a half-hearted attempt to catch up, +then slowed down, turned, and made off in the opposite direction. When he +had gone fifty metres he looked back. The street was not crowded, but +already he could not distinguish her. Any one of a dozen hurrying figures +might have been hers. Perhaps her thickened, stiffened body was no longer +recognizable from behind. + +'At the time when it happens,' she had said, 'you do mean it.' He had +meant it. He had not merely said it, he had wished it. He had wished that +she and not he should be delivered over to the---- + +Something changed in the music that trickled from the telescreen. A +cracked and jeering note, a yellow note, came into it. And then--perhaps +it was not happening, perhaps it was only a memory taking on the semblance +of sound--a voice was singing: + + + 'Under the spreading chestnut tree + I sold you and you sold me----' + + +The tears welled up in his eyes. A passing waiter noticed that his glass +was empty and came back with the gin bottle. + +He took up his glass and sniffed at it. The stuff grew not less but more +horrible with every mouthful he drank. But it had become the element he +swam in. It was his life, his death, and his resurrection. It was gin that +sank him into stupor every night, and gin that revived him every morning. +When he woke, seldom before eleven hundred, with gummed-up eyelids and +fiery mouth and a back that seemed to be broken, it would have been +impossible even to rise from the horizontal if it had not been for the +bottle and teacup placed beside the bed overnight. Through the midday +hours he sat with glazed face, the bottle handy, listening to the +telescreen. From fifteen to closing-time he was a fixture in the Chestnut +Tree. No one cared what he did any longer, no whistle woke him, no +telescreen admonished him. Occasionally, perhaps twice a week, he went +to a dusty, forgotten-looking office in the Ministry of Truth and did +a little work, or what was called work. He had been appointed to a +sub-committee of a sub-committee which had sprouted from one of the +innumerable committees dealing with minor difficulties that arose in the +compilation of the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. They were +engaged in producing something called an Interim Report, but what it was +that they were reporting on he had never definitely found out. It was +something to do with the question of whether commas should be placed +inside brackets, or outside. There were four others on the committee, all +of them persons similar to himself. There were days when they assembled +and then promptly dispersed again, frankly admitting to one another that +there was not really anything to be done. But there were other days when +they settled down to their work almost eagerly, making a tremendous show +of entering up their minutes and drafting long memoranda which were never +finished--when the argument as to what they were supposedly arguing about +grew extraordinarily involved and abstruse, with subtle haggling over +definitions, enormous digressions, quarrels--threats, even, to appeal to +higher authority. And then suddenly the life would go out of them and +they would sit round the table looking at one another with extinct eyes, +like ghosts fading at cock-crow. + +The telescreen was silent for a moment. Winston raised his head again. The +bulletin! But no, they were merely changing the music. He had the map of +Africa behind his eyelids. The movement of the armies was a diagram: a +black arrow tearing vertically southward, and a white arrow horizontally +eastward, across the tail of the first. As though for reassurance he +looked up at the imperturbable face in the portrait. Was it conceivable +that the second arrow did not even exist? + +His interest flagged again. He drank another mouthful of gin, picked up +the white knight and made a tentative move. Check. But it was evidently +not the right move, because---- + +Uncalled, a memory floated into his mind. He saw a candle-lit room with a +vast white-counterpaned bed, and himself, a boy of nine or ten, sitting on +the floor, shaking a dice-box, and laughing excitedly. His mother was +sitting opposite him and also laughing. + +It must have been about a month before she disappeared. It was a moment of +reconciliation, when the nagging hunger in his belly was forgotten and his +earlier affection for her had temporarily revived. He remembered the day +well, a pelting, drenching day when the water streamed down the window-pane +and the light indoors was too dull to read by. The boredom of the two +children in the dark, cramped bedroom became unbearable. Winston whined +and grizzled, made futile demands for food, fretted about the room pulling +everything out of place and kicking the wainscoting until the neighbours +banged on the wall, while the younger child wailed intermittently. In the +end his mother said, 'Now be good, and I'll buy you a toy. A lovely +toy--you'll love it'; and then she had gone out in the rain, to a little +general shop which was still sporadically open nearby, and came back with +a cardboard box containing an outfit of Snakes and Ladders. He could still +remember the smell of the damp cardboard. It was a miserable outfit. The +board was cracked and the tiny wooden dice were so ill-cut that they +would hardly lie on their sides. Winston looked at the thing sulkily and +without interest. But then his mother lit a piece of candle and they sat +down on the floor to play. Soon he was wildly excited and shouting with +laughter as the tiddly-winks climbed hopefully up the ladders and then +came slithering down the snakes again, almost to the starting-point. They +played eight games, winning four each. His tiny sister, too young to +understand what the game was about, had sat propped up against a bolster, +laughing because the others were laughing. For a whole afternoon they had +all been happy together, as in his earlier childhood. + +He pushed the picture out of his mind. It was a false memory. He was +troubled by false memories occasionally. They did not matter so long as +one knew them for what they were. Some things had happened, others had not +happened. He turned back to the chessboard and picked up the white knight +again. Almost in the same instant it dropped on to the board with a +clatter. He had started as though a pin had run into him. + +A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin! Victory! +It always meant victory when a trumpet-call preceded the news. A sort of +electric drill ran through the cafe. Even the waiters had started and +pricked up their ears. + +The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an +excited voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started +it was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had +run round the streets like magic. He could hear just enough of what was +issuing from the telescreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had +foreseen; a vast seaborne armada had secretly assembled a sudden blow in +the enemy's rear, the white arrow tearing across the tail of the black. +Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: 'Vast +strategic manoeuvre--perfect co-ordination--utter rout--half a million +prisoners--complete demoralization--control of the whole of Africa--bring +the war within measurable distance of its end--victory--greatest victory +in human history--victory, victory, victory!' + +Under the table Winston's feet made convulsive movements. He had not +stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, +he was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again +at the portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the world! +The rock against which the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain! He +thought how ten minutes ago--yes, only ten minutes--there had still been +equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front +would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than a Eurasian army that +had perished! Much had changed in him since that first day in the Ministry +of Love, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened, +until this moment. + +The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners +and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. +The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with +the gin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention +as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He +was back in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his soul white +as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything, implicating +everybody. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling +of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The long-hoped-for +bullet was entering his brain. + +He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn +what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless +misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! +Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all +right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won +the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother. + + + +THE END + + + +APPENDIX. + +The Principles of Newspeak + + + +Newspeak was the official language of Oceania and had been devised to meet +the ideological needs of Ingsoc, or English Socialism. In the year 1984 +there was not as yet anyone who used Newspeak as his sole means of +communication, either in speech or writing. The leading articles in +'The Times' were written in it, but this was a TOUR DE FORCE which could +only be carried out by a specialist. It was expected that Newspeak would +have finally superseded Oldspeak (or Standard English, as we should +call it) by about the year 2050. Meanwhile it gained ground steadily, all +Party members tending to use Newspeak words and grammatical constructions +more and more in their everyday speech. The version in use in 1984, and +embodied in the Ninth and Tenth Editions of the Newspeak Dictionary, was +a provisional one, and contained many superfluous words and archaic +formations which were due to be suppressed later. It is with the final, +perfected version, as embodied in the Eleventh Edition of the Dictionary, +that we are concerned here. + +The purpose of Newspeak was not only to provide a medium of expression +for the world-view and mental habits proper to the devotees of Ingsoc, +but to make all other modes of thought impossible. It was intended that +when Newspeak had been adopted once and for all and Oldspeak forgotten, +a heretical thought--that is, a thought diverging from the principles of +Ingsoc--should be literally unthinkable, at least so far as thought is +dependent on words. Its vocabulary was so constructed as to give exact and +often very subtle expression to every meaning that a Party member could +properly wish to express, while excluding all other meanings and also the +possibility of arriving at them by indirect methods. This was done partly +by the invention of new words, but chiefly by eliminating undesirable +words and by stripping such words as remained of unorthodox meanings, and +so far as possible of all secondary meanings whatever. To give a single +example. The word FREE still existed in Newspeak, but it could only be +used in such statements as 'This dog is free from lice' or 'This field is +free from weeds'. It could not be used in its old sense of 'politically +free' or 'intellectually free' since political and intellectual freedom no +longer existed even as concepts, and were therefore of necessity nameless. +Quite apart from the suppression of definitely heretical words, reduction +of vocabulary was regarded as an end in itself, and no word that could be +dispensed with was allowed to survive. Newspeak was designed not to extend +but to DIMINISH the range of thought, and this purpose was indirectly +assisted by cutting the choice of words down to a minimum. + +Newspeak was founded on the English language as we now know it, though +many Newspeak sentences, even when not containing newly-created words, +would be barely intelligible to an English-speaker of our own day. Newspeak +words were divided into three distinct classes, known as the A vocabulary, +the B vocabulary (also called compound words), and the C vocabulary. +It will be simpler to discuss each class separately, but the grammatical +peculiarities of the language can be dealt with in the section devoted to +the A vocabulary, since the same rules held good for all three categories. + + +THE A VOCABULARY. The A vocabulary consisted of the words needed for the +business of everyday life--for such things as eating, drinking, working, +putting on one's clothes, going up and down stairs, riding in vehicles, +gardening, cooking, and the like. It was composed almost entirely of words +that we already possess words like HIT, RUN, DOG, TREE, SUGAR, HOUSE, +FIELD--but in comparison with the present-day English vocabulary their +number was extremely small, while their meanings were far more rigidly +defined. All ambiguities and shades of meaning had been purged out of +them. So far as it could be achieved, a Newspeak word of this class was +simply a staccato sound expressing ONE clearly understood concept. It +would have been quite impossible to use the A vocabulary for literary +purposes or for political or philosophical discussion. It was intended +only to express simple, purposive thoughts, usually involving concrete +objects or physical actions. + +The grammar of Newspeak had two outstanding peculiarities. The first of +these was an almost complete interchangeability between different parts of +speech. Any word in the language (in principle this applied even to very +abstract words such as IF or WHEN) could be used either as verb, noun, +adjective, or adverb. Between the verb and the noun form, when they were +of the same root, there was never any variation, this rule of itself +involving the destruction of many archaic forms. The word THOUGHT, for +example, did not exist in Newspeak. Its place was taken by THINK, which +did duty for both noun and verb. No etymological principle was followed +here: in some cases it was the original noun that was chosen for retention, +in other cases the verb. Even where a noun and verb of kindred meaning +were not etymologically connected, one or other of them was frequently +suppressed. There was, for example, no such word as CUT, its meaning being +sufficiently covered by the noun-verb KNIFE. Adjectives were formed by +adding the suffix -FUL to the noun-verb, and adverbs by adding -WISE. Thus +for example, SPEEDFUL meant 'rapid' and SPEEDWISE meant 'quickly'. Certain +of our present-day adjectives, such as GOOD, STRONG, BIG, BLACK, SOFT, +were retained, but their total number was very small. There was little +need for them, since almost any adjectival meaning could be arrived at by +adding -FUL to a noun-verb. None of the now-existing adverbs was retained, +except for a very few already ending in -WISE: the -WISE termination was +invariable. The word WELL, for example, was replaced by GOODWISE. + +In addition, any word--this again applied in principle to every word in +the language--could be negatived by adding the affix UN-, or could be +strengthened by the affix PLUS-, or, for still greater emphasis, +DOUBLEPLUS-. Thus, for example, UNCOLD meant 'warm', while PLUSCOLD and +DOUBLEPLUSCOLD meant, respectively, 'very cold' and 'superlatively cold'. +It was also possible, as in present-day English, to modify the meaning of +almost any word by prepositional affixes such as ANTE-, POST-, UP-, DOWN-, +etc. By such methods it was found possible to bring about an enormous +diminution of vocabulary. Given, for instance, the word GOOD, there was no +need for such a word as BAD, since the required meaning was equally +well--indeed, better--expressed by UNGOOD. All that was necessary, in any +case where two words formed a natural pair of opposites, was to decide +which of them to suppress. DARK, for example, could be replaced by UNLIGHT, +or LIGHT by UNDARK, according to preference. + +The second distinguishing mark of Newspeak grammar was its regularity. +Subject to a few exceptions which are mentioned below all inflexions +followed the same rules. Thus, in all verbs the preterite and the past +participle were the same and ended in -ED. The preterite of STEAL was +STEALED, the preterite of THINK was THINKED, and so on throughout the +language, all such forms as SWAM, GAVE, BROUGHT, SPOKE, TAKEN, etc., being +abolished. All plurals were made by adding -S or -ES as the case might be. +The plurals OF MAN, OX, LIFE, were MANS, OXES, LIFES. Comparison of +adjectives was invariably made by adding -ER, -EST (GOOD, GOODER, GOODEST), +irregular forms and the MORE, MOST formation being suppressed. + +The only classes of words that were still allowed to inflect irregularly +were the pronouns, the relatives, the demonstrative adjectives, and the +auxiliary verbs. All of these followed their ancient usage, except that +WHOM had been scrapped as unnecessary, and the SHALL, SHOULD tenses had +been dropped, all their uses being covered by WILL and WOULD. There were +also certain irregularities in word-formation arising out of the need for +rapid and easy speech. A word which was difficult to utter, or was liable +to be incorrectly heard, was held to be ipso facto a bad word; occasionally +therefore, for the sake of euphony, extra letters were inserted into a word +or an archaic formation was retained. But this need made itself felt +chiefly in connexion with the B vocabulary. WHY so great an importance was +attached to ease of pronunciation will be made clear later in this essay. + + +THE B VOCABULARY. The B vocabulary consisted of words which had been +deliberately constructed for political purposes: words, that is to say, +which not only had in every case a political implication, but were intended +to impose a desirable mental attitude upon the person using them. Without +a full understanding of the principles of Ingsoc it was difficult to use +these words correctly. In some cases they could be translated into +Oldspeak, or even into words taken from the A vocabulary, but this usually +demanded a long paraphrase and always involved the loss of certain +overtones. The B words were a sort of verbal shorthand, often packing +whole ranges of ideas into a few syllables, and at the same time more +accurate and forcible than ordinary language. + +The B words were in all cases compound words. [Compound words such as +SPEAKWRITE, were of course to be found in the A vocabulary, but these were +merely convenient abbreviations and had no special ideological colour.] +They consisted of two or more words, or portions of words, welded together +in an easily pronounceable form. The resulting amalgam was always a +noun-verb, and inflected according to the ordinary rules. To take a single +example: the word GOODTHINK, meaning, very roughly, 'orthodoxy', or, if +one chose to regard it as a verb, 'to think in an orthodox manner'. This +inflected as follows: noun-verb, GOODTHINK; past tense and past participle, +GOODTHINKED; present participle, GOOD-THINKING; adjective, GOODTHINKFUL; +adverb, GOODTHINKWISE; verbal noun, GOODTHINKER. + +The B words were not constructed on any etymological plan. The words of +which they were made up could be any parts of speech, and could be placed +in any order and mutilated in any way which made them easy to pronounce +while indicating their derivation. In the word CRIMETHINK (thoughtcrime), +for instance, the THINK came second, whereas in THINKPOL (Thought Police) +it came first, and in the latter word POLICE had lost its second syllable. +Because of the great difficulty in securing euphony, irregular formations +were commoner in the B vocabulary than in the A vocabulary. For example, +the adjective forms of MINITRUE, MINIPAX, and MINILUV were, respectively, +MINITRUTHFUL, MINIPEACEFUL, and MINILOVELY, simply because -TRUEFUL, +-PAXFUL, and -LOVEFUL were slightly awkward to pronounce. In principle, +however, all B words could inflect, and all inflected in exactly the +same way. + +Some of the B words had highly subtilized meanings, barely intelligible to +anyone who had not mastered the language as a whole. Consider, for example, +such a typical sentence from a 'Times' leading article as OLDTHINKERS +UNBELLYFEEL INGSOC. The shortest rendering that one could make of this +in Oldspeak would be: 'Those whose ideas were formed before the Revolution +cannot have a full emotional understanding of the principles of English +Socialism.' But this is not an adequate translation. To begin with, in +order to grasp the full meaning of the Newspeak sentence quoted above, +one would have to have a clear idea of what is meant by INGSOC. And in +addition, only a person thoroughly grounded in Ingsoc could appreciate +the full force of the word BELLYFEEL, which implied a blind, enthusiastic +acceptance difficult to imagine today; or of the word OLDTHINK, which was +inextricably mixed up with the idea of wickedness and decadence. But the +special function of certain Newspeak words, of which OLDTHINK was one, +was not so much to express meanings as to destroy them. These words, +necessarily few in number, had had their meanings extended until they +contained within themselves whole batteries of words which, as they were +sufficiently covered by a single comprehensive term, could now be scrapped +and forgotten. The greatest difficulty facing the compilers of the Newspeak +Dictionary was not to invent new words, but, having invented them, to make +sure what they meant: to make sure, that is to say, what ranges of words +they cancelled by their existence. + +As we have already seen in the case of the word FREE, words which had +once borne a heretical meaning were sometimes retained for the sake of +convenience, but only with the undesirable meanings purged out of them. +Countless other words such as HONOUR, JUSTICE, MORALITY, INTERNATIONALISM, +DEMOCRACY, SCIENCE, and RELIGION had simply ceased to exist. A few blanket +words covered them, and, in covering them, abolished them. All words +grouping themselves round the concepts of liberty and equality, for +instance, were contained in the single word CRIMETHINK, while all words +grouping themselves round the concepts of objectivity and rationalism +were contained in the single word OLDTHINK. Greater precision would have +been dangerous. What was required in a Party member was an outlook similar +to that of the ancient Hebrew who knew, without knowing much else, that +all nations other than his own worshipped 'false gods'. He did not need to +know that these gods were called Baal, Osiris, Moloch, Ashtaroth, and the +like: probably the less he knew about them the better for his orthodoxy. +He knew Jehovah and the commandments of Jehovah: he knew, therefore, that +all gods with other names or other attributes were false gods. In somewhat +the same way, the party member knew what constituted right conduct, and in +exceedingly vague, generalized terms he knew what kinds of departure from +it were possible. His sexual life, for example, was entirely regulated by +the two Newspeak words SEXCRIME (sexual immorality) and GOODSEX (chastity). +SEXCRIME covered all sexual misdeeds whatever. It covered fornication, +adultery, homosexuality, and other perversions, and, in addition, normal +intercourse practised for its own sake. There was no need to enumerate +them separately, since they were all equally culpable, and, in principle, +all punishable by death. In the C vocabulary, which consisted of scientific +and technical words, it might be necessary to give specialized names to +certain sexual aberrations, but the ordinary citizen had no need of them. +He knew what was meant by GOODSEX--that is to say, normal intercourse +between man and wife, for the sole purpose of begetting children, and +without physical pleasure on the part of the woman: all else was SEXCRIME. +In Newspeak it was seldom possible to follow a heretical thought further +than the perception that it WAS heretical: beyond that point the necessary +words were nonexistent. + +No word in the B vocabulary was ideologically neutral. A great many were +euphemisms. Such words, for instance, as JOYCAMP (forced-labour camp) or +MINIPAX (Ministry of Peace, i.e. Ministry of War) meant almost the exact +opposite of what they appeared to mean. Some words, on the other hand, +displayed a frank and contemptuous understanding of the real nature of +Oceanic society. An example was PROLEFEED, meaning the rubbishy +entertainment and spurious news which the Party handed out to the masses. +Other words, again, were ambivalent, having the connotation 'good' when +applied to the Party and 'bad' when applied to its enemies. But in +addition there were great numbers of words which at first sight appeared +to be mere abbreviations and which derived their ideological colour not +from their meaning, but from their structure. + +So far as it could be contrived, everything that had or might have +political significance of any kind was fitted into the B vocabulary. The +name of every organization, or body of people, or doctrine, or country, or +institution, or public building, was invariably cut down into the familiar +shape; that is, a single easily pronounced word with the smallest number +of syllables that would preserve the original derivation. In the Ministry +of Truth, for example, the Records Department, in which Winston Smith +worked, was called RECDEP, the Fiction Department was called FICDEP, the +Teleprogrammes Department was called TELEDEP, and so on. This was not +done solely with the object of saving time. Even in the early decades of +the twentieth century, telescoped words and phrases had been one of the +characteristic features of political language; and it had been noticed +that the tendency to use abbreviations of this kind was most marked in +totalitarian countries and totalitarian organizations. Examples were such +words as NAZI, GESTAPO, COMINTERN, INPRECORR, AGITPROP. In the beginning +the practice had been adopted as it were instinctively, but in Newspeak +it was used with a conscious purpose. It was perceived that in thus +abbreviating a name one narrowed and subtly altered its meaning, by +cutting out most of the associations that would otherwise cling to it. +The words COMMUNIST INTERNATIONAL, for instance, call up a composite +picture of universal human brotherhood, red flags, barricades, Karl Marx, +and the Paris Commune. The word COMINTERN, on the other hand, suggests +merely a tightly-knit organization and a well-defined body of doctrine. +It refers to something almost as easily recognized, and as limited in +purpose, as a chair or a table. COMINTERN is a word that can be uttered +almost without taking thought, whereas COMMUNIST INTERNATIONAL is a phrase +over which one is obliged to linger at least momentarily. In the same way, +the associations called up by a word like MINITRUE are fewer and more +controllable than those called up by MINISTRY OF TRUTH. This accounted not +only for the habit of abbreviating whenever possible, but also for the +almost exaggerated care that was taken to make every word easily +pronounceable. + +In Newspeak, euphony outweighed every consideration other than exactitude +of meaning. Regularity of grammar was always sacrificed to it when it +seemed necessary. And rightly so, since what was required, above all for +political purposes, was short clipped words of unmistakable meaning which +could be uttered rapidly and which roused the minimum of echoes in the +speaker's mind. The words of the B vocabulary even gained in force from +the fact that nearly all of them were very much alike. Almost invariably +these words--GOODTHINK, MINIPAX, PROLEFEED, SEXCRIME, JOYCAMP, INGSOC, +BELLYFEEL, THINKPOL, and countless others--were words of two or three +syllables, with the stress distributed equally between the first syllable +and the last. The use of them encouraged a gabbling style of speech, at +once staccato and monotonous. And this was exactly what was aimed at. The +intention was to make speech, and especially speech on any subject not +ideologically neutral, as nearly as possible independent of consciousness. +For the purposes of everyday life it was no doubt necessary, or sometimes +necessary, to reflect before speaking, but a Party member called upon to +make a political or ethical judgement should be able to spray forth the +correct opinions as automatically as a machine gun spraying forth bullets. +His training fitted him to do this, the language gave him an almost +foolproof instrument, and the texture of the words, with their harsh sound +and a certain wilful ugliness which was in accord with the spirit of +Ingsoc, assisted the process still further. + +So did the fact of having very few words to choose from. Relative to our +own, the Newspeak vocabulary was tiny, and new ways of reducing it were +constantly being devised. Newspeak, indeed, differed from most all other +languages in that its vocabulary grew smaller instead of larger every +year. Each reduction was a gain, since the smaller the area of choice, +the smaller the temptation to take thought. Ultimately it was hoped to +make articulate speech issue from the larynx without involving the higher +brain centres at all. This aim was frankly admitted in the Newspeak word +DUCKSPEAK, meaning 'to quack like a duck'. Like various other words in +the B vocabulary, DUCKSPEAK was ambivalent in meaning. Provided that the +opinions which were quacked out were orthodox ones, it implied nothing but +praise, and when 'The Times' referred to one of the orators of the Party +as a DOUBLEPLUSGOOD DUCKSPEAKER it was paying a warm and valued compliment. + + +THE C VOCABULARY. The C vocabulary was supplementary to the others and +consisted entirely of scientific and technical terms. These resembled the +scientific terms in use today, and were constructed from the same roots, +but the usual care was taken to define them rigidly and strip them of +undesirable meanings. They followed the same grammatical rules as the +words in the other two vocabularies. Very few of the C words had any +currency either in everyday speech or in political speech. Any scientific +worker or technician could find all the words he needed in the list devoted +to his own speciality, but he seldom had more than a smattering of the +words occurring in the other lists. Only a very few words were common to +all lists, and there was no vocabulary expressing the function of Science +as a habit of mind, or a method of thought, irrespective of its particular +branches. There was, indeed, no word for 'Science', any meaning that it +could possibly bear being already sufficiently covered by the word INGSOC. + +From the foregoing account it will be seen that in Newspeak the expression +of unorthodox opinions, above a very low level, was well-nigh impossible. +It was of course possible to utter heresies of a very crude kind, a +species of blasphemy. It would have been possible, for example, to say +BIG BROTHER IS UNGOOD. But this statement, which to an orthodox ear merely +conveyed a self-evident absurdity, could not have been sustained by +reasoned argument, because the necessary words were not available. Ideas +inimical to Ingsoc could only be entertained in a vague wordless form, +and could only be named in very broad terms which lumped together and +condemned whole groups of heresies without defining them in doing so. +One could, in fact, only use Newspeak for unorthodox purposes by +illegitimately translating some of the words back into Oldspeak. For +example, ALL MANS ARE EQUAL was a possible Newspeak sentence, but only +in the same sense in which ALL MEN ARE REDHAIRED is a possible Oldspeak +sentence. It did not contain a grammatical error, but it expressed +a palpable untruth--i.e. that all men are of equal size, weight, or +strength. The concept of political equality no longer existed, and this +secondary meaning had accordingly been purged out of the word EQUAL. +In 1984, when Oldspeak was still the normal means of communication, +the danger theoretically existed that in using Newspeak words one might +remember their original meanings. In practice it was not difficult for +any person well grounded in DOUBLETHINK to avoid doing this, but within +a couple of generations even the possibility of such a lapse would have +vanished. A person growing up with Newspeak as his sole language would no +more know that EQUAL had once had the secondary meaning of 'politically +equal', or that FREE had once meant 'intellectually free', than for +instance, a person who had never heard of chess would be aware of the +secondary meanings attaching to QUEEN and ROOK. There would be many +crimes and errors which it would be beyond his power to commit, simply +because they were nameless and therefore unimaginable. And it was to be +foreseen that with the passage of time the distinguishing characteristics +of Newspeak would become more and more pronounced--its words growing +fewer and fewer, their meanings more and more rigid, and the chance of +putting them to improper uses always diminishing. + +When Oldspeak had been once and for all superseded, the last link with +the past would have been severed. History had already been rewritten, +but fragments of the literature of the past survived here and there, +imperfectly censored, and so long as one retained one's knowledge of +Oldspeak it was possible to read them. In the future such fragments, even +if they chanced to survive, would be unintelligible and untranslatable. +It was impossible to translate any passage of Oldspeak into Newspeak unless +it either referred to some technical process or some very simple everyday +action, or was already orthodox (GOODTHINKFUL would be the Newspeak +expression) in tendency. In practice this meant that no book written before +approximately 1960 could be translated as a whole. Pre-revolutionary +literature could only be subjected to ideological translation--that is, +alteration in sense as well as language. Take for example the well-known +passage from the Declaration of Independence: + + +WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT, THAT ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL, +THAT THEY ARE ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR WITH CERTAIN INALIENABLE RIGHTS, +THAT AMONG THESE ARE LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. +THAT TO SECURE THESE RIGHTS, GOVERNMENTS ARE INSTITUTED AMONG MEN, +DERIVING THEIR POWERS FROM THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED. THAT WHENEVER +ANY FORM OF GOVERNMENT BECOMES DESTRUCTIVE OF THOSE ENDS, IT IS THE RIGHT +OF THE PEOPLE TO ALTER OR ABOLISH IT, AND TO INSTITUTE NEW GOVERNMENT... + + +It would have been quite impossible to render this into Newspeak while +keeping to the sense of the original. The nearest one could come to doing +so would be to swallow the whole passage up in the single word CRIMETHINK. +A full translation could only be an ideological translation, whereby +Jefferson's words would be changed into a panegyric on absolute government. + +A good deal of the literature of the past was, indeed, already being +transformed in this way. Considerations of prestige made it desirable to +preserve the memory of certain historical figures, while at the same time +bringing their achievements into line with the philosophy of Ingsoc. +Various writers, such as Shakespeare, Milton, Swift, Byron, Dickens, and +some others were therefore in process of translation: when the task had +been completed, their original writings, with all else that survived of +the literature of the past, would be destroyed. These translations were +a slow and difficult business, and it was not expected that they would +be finished before the first or second decade of the twenty-first +century. There were also large quantities of merely utilitarian +literature--indispensable technical manuals, and the like--that had to +be treated in the same way. It was chiefly in order to allow time for +the preliminary work of translation that the final adoption of Newspeak +had been fixed for so late a date as 2050. + + + +THE END \ No newline at end of file diff --git a/library/index.html b/library/index.html index 54abd30..a6ff429 100644 --- a/library/index.html +++ b/library/index.html @@ -5,57 +5,7 @@ MilkNet | Library - - + - - - - - - - - - - - -

Click me ;)

- - - diff --git a/tools/index.html b/tools/index.html index 8d3f7cb..54b6feb 100644 --- a/tools/index.html +++ b/tools/index.html @@ -3,69 +3,8 @@ MilkNet | Settings & tools - - - - - + + @@ -75,8 +14,13 @@
-

. - Cloak key (Odd bug I can't figure out, might need to spam it as soon as you open some games)

•

, - Panic key (Opens link of your choice)

+

. - Cloak key (Odd bug on some pages I can't figure out, might need to spam it as soon as you open)

•

, - Panic key (Opens link of your choice)

+ + diff --git a/webamp.txt b/webamp.txt index 15c14a4..c85b2d7 100644 --- a/webamp.txt +++ b/webamp.txt @@ -17,4 +17,4 @@ winampheritage.com/skins winampskins.info winaero.com/category/file-archive/download-winamp-skins pling.com/browse?cat=129 -github.com/milk-net/music/blob/main/skins +github.com/milk-net/music/blob/main/skins \ No newline at end of file