{"train": "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston\nSmith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped\nquickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough\nto prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.\nThe hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a\ncoloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It\ndepicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of\nabout forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.\nWinston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best\nof times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off\nduring daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate\nWeek. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had\na varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the\nway. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face\ngazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that\nthe eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING\nYOU, the caption beneath it ran.\nInside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had\nsomething to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an\noblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the\nright-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though\nthe words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was\ncalled) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He\nmoved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body\nmerely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party.\nHis hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse\nsoap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.\nOutside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down\nin the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals,\nand though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be\nno colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The\nblack-moustachio\u2019d face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was\none on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING\nYOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston\u2019s own.\nDown at streetlevel another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the\nwind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far\ndistance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant\n\n\n\nlike a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police\npatrol, snooping into people\u2019s windows. The patrols did not matter, however.\nOnly the Thought Police mattered.\nBehind Winston\u2019s back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away\n\nabout pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The tele-\nscreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made,\n\nabove the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long\nas he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he\ncould be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether\nyou were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system,\nthe Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was\neven conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate\nthey could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live \u2014 did\nlive, from habit that became instinct \u2014 in the assumption that every sound you\nmade was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.\nWinston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as\nhe well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of\nTruth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape.\nThis, he thought with a sort of vague distaste \u2014 this was London, chief city\nof Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania.\nHe tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether\nLondon had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of\nrotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber,\ntheir windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron,\ntheir crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where\nthe plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of\nrubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had\nsprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no\nuse, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series\nof bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.\nThe Ministry of Truth \u2014 Minitrue, in Newspeak* \u2014 was startlingly different\nfrom any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of\nglittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace,  metres into the\nair. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its\nwhite face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:\nWAR IS PEACE\nFREEDOM IS SLAVERY\nIGNORANCE IS STRENGTH\nThe Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above\nground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London\n\nthere were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So com-\npletely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory\n\nMansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes\nof the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was\n\ndivided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertain-\nment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned\n\nitself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And\nthe Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names,\nin Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.\nThe Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows\n\n\n\nin it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half\na kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business,\nand then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements,\nsteel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its\nouter barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed\nwith jointed truncheons.\nWinston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression\nof quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen.\nHe crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this time\nof day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there\nwas no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got\nto be saved for tomorrow\u2019s breakfast. He took down from the shelf a bottle\nof colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave\noff a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a\nteacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.\nInstantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff\nwas like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the sensation of being\nhit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however,\nthe burning in his belly died down and the world began to look more cheerful.\nHe took a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES\nand incautiously held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the floor.\nWith the next he was more successful. He went back to the living-room and sat\ndown at a small table that stood to the left of the telescreen. From the table\ndrawer he took out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized blank\nbook with a red back and a marbled cover.\nFor some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual position.\nInstead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it could command\nthe whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side\nof it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting, and which,\nwhen the flats were built, had probably been intended to hold bookshelves. By\nsitting in the alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside\nthe range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could be heard, of course,\nbut so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was\npartly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing\nthat he was now about to do.\nBut it had also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out of the\ndrawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little\nyellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least forty\nyears past. He could guess, however, that the book was much older than that.\nHe had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy\nquarter of the town (just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been\nstricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess it. Party members\nwere supposed not to go into ordinary shops (\u2019dealing on the free market\u2019, it was\ncalled), but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things,\nsuch as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any\nother way. He had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had\nslipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not\nconscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily\nhome in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising\npossession.\n\n\n\nThe thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal\n(nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was\n\nreasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-\nfive years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder\n\nand sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom\nused even for signatures, and he had procured one, furtively and with some\ndifficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved\nto be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil.\nActually he was not used to writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was\nusual to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of course impossible\nfor his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for\njust a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was\nthe decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote:\nApril th, .\nHe sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To\nbegin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was . It must be\nround about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and\nhe believed that he had been born in  or ; but it was never possible\nnowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.\n\nFor whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this di-\nary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round\n\nthe doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the\nNewspeak word doublethink. For the first time the magnitude of what he had\nundertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future?\nIt was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present,\nin which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and\nhis predicament would be meaningless.\nFor some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had\nchanged over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not\nmerely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten\nwhat it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past he had been\nmaking ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything\nwould be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had\nto do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had\nbeen running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, even\nthe monologue had dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching\nunbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it always became\ninflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the\nblankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle,\nthe blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin.\nSuddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what\nhe was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down\nthe page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:\nApril th, . Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very good\none of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean.\nAudience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away\nwith a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a\nporpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters gunsights, then he was full\nof holes and the sea round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though\nthe holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter when he sank.\n\n\n\nthen you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter hovering over it. there\nwas a middle-aged woman might have been a jewess sitting up in the bow with\na little boy about three years old in her arms. little boy screaming with fright\nand hiding his head between her breasts as if he was trying to burrow right into\nher and the woman putting her arms round him and comforting him although\nshe was blue with fright herself, all the time covering him up as much as possible\nas if she thought her arms could keep the bullets off him. then the helicopter\nplanted a  kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to\nmatchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child\u2019s arm going up up up\nright up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed\nit up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in\nthe prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they\ndidnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front\nof kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything\nhappened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they\nnever\nWinston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp. He\ndid not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish. But the\ncurious thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had\nclarified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt equal to writing\nit down. It was, he now realized, because of this other incident that he had\nsuddenly decided to come home and begin the diary today.\nIt had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous could\nbe said to happen.\n\nIt was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Win-\nston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping\n\nthem in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for\nthe Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place in one of the middle\nrows when two people whom he knew by sight, but had never spoken to, came\nunexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed\nin the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in\nthe Fiction Department. Presumably \u2014 since he had sometimes seen her with\noily hands and carrying a spanner she had some mechanical job on one of the\nnovel-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven,\nwith thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet\nsash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round\nthe waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her\nhips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He\nknew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold\nbaths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed\nto carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young\nand pretty ones. It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who\nwere the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the\namateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy. But this particular girl gave him\nthe impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in\nthe corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right\ninto him and for a moment had filled him with black terror. The idea had even\ncrossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it\nwas true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a peculiar uneasiness,\nwhich had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever she was anywhere\n\n\n\nnear him.\nThe other person was a man named O\u2019Brien, a member of the Inner Party\nand holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a\ndim idea of its nature. A momentary hush passed over the group of people\n\nround the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member ap-\nproaching. O\u2019Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse,\n\nhumorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a certain\ncharm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which\nwas curiously disarming \u2014 in some indefinable way, curiously civilized. It was a\ngesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an\neighteenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston had seen O\u2019Brien\nperhaps a dozen times in almost as many years. He felt deeply drawn to him,\n\nand not solely because he was intrigued by the contrast between O\u2019Brien\u2019s ur-\nbane manner and his prize-fighter\u2019s physique. Much more it was because of\n\na secretly held belief \u2014 or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope \u2014 that\nO\u2019Brien\u2019s political orthodoxy was not perfect. Something in his face suggested\nit irresistibly. And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was written\nin his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate he had the appearance of\nbeing a person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen\nand get him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this\nguess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At this moment O\u2019Brien glanced\nat his wrist-watch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided\nto stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was over. He\ntook a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple of places away. A small,\nsandy-haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was between\nthem. The girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.\nThe next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous machine\nrunning without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It\nwas a noise that set one\u2019s teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of\none\u2019s neck. The Hate had started.\nAs usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had\n\nflashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audi-\nence. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust.\n\nGoldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago,\nnobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party,\n\nalmost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-\nrevolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously\n\nescaped and disappeared. The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied\nfrom day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal\nfigure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party\u2019s purity. All\nsubsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies,\ndeviations, sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still\nalive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under\nthe protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even \u2014 so it was occasionally\nrumoured \u2014 in some hiding-place in Oceania itself.\n\nWinston\u2019s diaphragm was constricted. He could never see the face of Gold-\nstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a\n\ngreat fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard \u2014 a clever face, and\nyet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin\nnose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched. It resembled the\n\n\n\nface of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was de-\nlivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party \u2014 an attack\n\nso exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through\nit, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other\npeople, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing\n\nBig Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demand-\ning the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom\n\nof speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he\nwas crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed \u2014 and all this\nin rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the habitual style of\nthe orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak\nwords, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life. And all\nthe while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein\u2019s\nspecious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the\nendless columns of the Eurasian army \u2014 row after row of solid-looking men\nwith expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and\nvanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of\nthe soldiers\u2019 boots formed the background to Goldstein\u2019s bleating voice.\n\nBefore the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclama-\ntions of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room. The self-\nsatisfied sheep-like face on the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian\n\narmy behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or even the\nthought of Goldstein produced fear and anger automatically. He was an object\nof hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania\nwas at war with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the other.\nBut what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised\nby everybody, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms,\non the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed,\nridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were in\nspite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were\nfresh dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and\n\nsaboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Po-\nlice. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network\n\nof conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its\nname was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a terrible book,\na compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which\ncirculated clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title. People\nreferred to it, if at all, simply as the book. But one knew of such things only\nthrough vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject\nthat any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding\nit.\nIn its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up\nand down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort\nto drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The little\nsandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and\nshutting like that of a landed fish. Even O\u2019Brien\u2019s heavy face was flushed. He\nwas sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and quivering\nas though he were standing up to the assault of a wave. The dark-haired girl\nbehind Winston had begun crying out \u2019Swine! Swine! Swine!\u2019 and suddenly\nshe picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen. It struck\n\n\n\nGoldstein\u2019s nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably. In a lucid\nmoment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his\nheel violently against the rung of his chair. The horrible thing about the Two\nMinutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary,\nthat it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence\nwas always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire\nto kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow\nthrough the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even\nagainst one\u2019s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that\none felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one\nobject to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston\u2019s\nhatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against\nBig Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his heart\nwent out to the lonely, derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and\nsanity in a world of lies. And yet the very next instant he was at one with the\npeople about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true.\nAt those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration,\nand Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing\nlike a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation,\nhis helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like\nsome sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the\nstructure of civilization.\nIt was even possible, at moments, to switch one\u2019s hatred this way or that\nby a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one\nwrenches one\u2019s head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in\ntransferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind\nhim. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog\nher to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and\nshoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her\nthroat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized why\nit was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and\nsexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because\nround her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your\narm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.\nThe Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had become an actual\nsheep\u2019s bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep. Then\n\nthe sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be ad-\nvancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seeming to spring\n\nout of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row\nactually flinched backwards in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a\ndeep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big\nBrother, black-haired, black-moustachio\u2019d, full of power and mysterious calm,\nand so vast that it almost filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother\nwas saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that\nare uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring\nconfidence by the fact of being spoken. Then the face of Big Brother faded away\nagain, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out in bold capitals:\nWAR IS PEACE\nFREEDOM IS SLAVERY\nIGNORANCE IS STRENGTH\n\n\nBut the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for several seconds on the\nscreen, as though the impact that it had made on everyone\u2019s eyeballs was too\nvivid to wear off immediately. The little sandy-haired woman had flung herself\nforward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a tremulous murmur\nthat sounded like \u2019My Saviour!\u2019 she extended her arms towards the screen.\nThen she buried her face in her hands. It was apparent that she was uttering a\nprayer.\n\nAt this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhyth-\nmical chant of \u2019B-B! ... B-B!\u2019 \u2014 over and over again, very slowly, with a long\n\npause between the first \u2019B\u2019 and the second-a heavy, murmurous sound, some-\nhow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp\n\nof naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms. For perhaps as much as thirty\nseconds they kept it up. It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of\noverwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty\n\nof Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drown-\ning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston\u2019s entrails seemed to\n\ngrow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general\ndelirium, but this sub-human chanting of \u2019B-B! ... B-B!\u2019 always filled him with\nhorror. Of course he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise.\nTo dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was\ndoing, was an instinctive reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds\nduring which the expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him.\nAnd it was exactly at this moment that the significant thing happened \u2014 if,\nindeed, it did happen.\nMomentarily he caught O\u2019Brien\u2019s eye. O\u2019Brien had stood up. He had taken\noff his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose with his\ncharacteristic gesture. But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes\nmet, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew \u2014 yes, he knew! \u2014\nthat O\u2019Brien was thinking the same thing as himself. An unmistakable message\nhad passed. It was as though their two minds had opened and the thoughts were\nflowing from one into the other through their eyes. \u2019I am with you,\u2019 O\u2019Brien\nseemed to be saying to him. \u2019I know precisely what you are feeling. I know all\nabout your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don\u2019t worry, I am on your\nside!\u2019 And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O\u2019Brien\u2019s face was as\ninscrutable as everybody else\u2019s.\nThat was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened. Such\nincidents never had any sequel. All that they did was to keep alive in him\nthe belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of the Party.\nPerhaps the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true after all \u2014\nperhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was impossible, in spite of the endless\narrests and confessions and executions, to be sure that the Brotherhood was\nnot simply a myth. Some days he believed in it, some days not. There was no\nevidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches\nof overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory walls \u2014 once, even, when\ntwo strangers met, a small movement of the hand which had looked as though\nit might be a signal of recognition. It was all guesswork: very likely he had\nimagined everything. He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at O\u2019Brien\nagain. The idea of following up their momentary contact hardly crossed his\nmind. It would have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to\nset about doing it. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal\n\n\n\nglance, and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable event,\nin the locked loneliness in which one had to live.\nWinston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a belch. The gin\nwas rising from his stomach.\nHis eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that while he sat helplessly\nmusing he had also been writing, as though by automatic action. And it was\nno longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid\nvoluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals\nDOWN WITH BIG BROTHER\nDOWN WITH BIG BROTHER\nDOWN WITH BIG BROTHER\nDOWN WITH BIG BROTHER\nDOWN WITH BIG BROTHER\nover and over again, filling half a page.\nHe could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was absurd, since the writing\nof those particular words was not more dangerous than the initial act of opening\nthe diary, but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled pages and\nabandon the enterprise altogether.\nHe did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless. Whether\nhe wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing\nit, made no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did\nnot go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just\nthe same. He had committed \u2014 would still have committed, even if he had\nnever set pen to paper \u2014 the essential crime that contained all others in itself.\nThoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be\nconcealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but\nsooner or later they were bound to get you.\nIt was always at night \u2014 the arrests invariably happened at night. The\nsudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shaking your shoulder, the lights glaring\nin your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed. In the vast majority of cases\nthere was no trial, no report of the arrest. People simply disappeared, always\nduring the night. Your name was removed from the registers, every record of\neverything you had ever done was wiped out, your one-time existence was denied\nand then forgotten. You were abolished, annihilated: vaporized was the usual\nword.\nFor a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He began writing in a\nhurried untidy scrawl:\ntheyll shoot me i don\u2019t care theyll shoot me in the back of the neck i dont\ncare down with big brother they always shoot you in the back of the neck i dont\ncare down with big brother\nHe sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down the pen.\nThe next moment he started violently. There was a knocking at the door.\nAlready! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that whoever it was\nmight go away after a single attempt. But no, the knocking was repeated. The\nworst thing of all would be to delay. His heart was thumping like a drum, but\nhis face, from long habit, was probably expressionless. He got up and moved\nheavily towards the door.\n\n\n\n \n\nAs he put his hand to the door-knob Winston saw that he had left the diary\nopen on the table. DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in\nletters almost big enough to be legible across the room. It was an inconceivably\nstupid thing to have done. But, he realized, even in his panic he had not wanted\nto smudge the creamy paper by shutting the book while the ink was wet.\nHe drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly a warm wave of relief\nflowed through him. A colourless, crushed-looking woman, with wispy hair and\na lined face, was standing outside.\n\u2019Oh, comrade,\u2019 she began in a dreary, whining sort of voice, \u2019I thought I\nheard you come in. Do you think you could come across and have a look at our\nkitchen sink? It\u2019s got blocked up and-\u2019\nIt was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same floor. (\u2019Mrs\u2019 was\na word somewhat discountenanced by the Party \u2014 you were supposed to call\neveryone \u2019comrade\u2019 \u2014 but with some women one used it instinctively.) She\nwas a woman of about thirty, but looking much older. One had the impression\nthat there was dust in the creases of her face. Winston followed her down the\npassage. These amateur repair jobs were an almost daily irritation. Victory\nMansions were old flats, built in  or thereabouts, and were falling to pieces.\nThe plaster flaked constantly from ceilings and walls, the pipes burst in every\nhard frost, the roof leaked whenever there was snow, the heating system was\nusually running at half steam when it was not closed down altogether from\nmotives of economy. Repairs, except what you could do for yourself, had to be\nsanctioned by remote committees which were liable to hold up even the mending\nof a window-pane for two years.\n\u2019Of course it\u2019s only because Tom isn\u2019t home,\u2019 said Mrs Parsons vaguely.\nThe Parsons\u2019 flat was bigger than Winston\u2019s, and dingy in a different way.\nEverything had a battered, trampled-on look, as though the place had just been\nvisited by some large violent animal. Games impedimenta \u2014 hockey-sticks,\nboxing-gloves. a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts turned inside out \u2014 lay\n\nall over the floor, and on the table there was a litter of dirty dishes and dog-\neared exercise-books. On the walls were scarlet banners of the Youth League\n\nand the Spies, and a full-sized poster of Big Brother. There was the usual\nboiled-cabbage smell, common to the whole building, but it was shot through\nby a sharper reek of sweat, which-one knew this at the first sniff, though it was\nhard to say how was the sweat of some person not present at the moment. In\nanother room someone with a comb and a piece of toilet paper was trying to\nkeep tune with the military music which was still issuing from the telescreen.\n\n\n\n\u2019It\u2019s the children,\u2019 said Mrs Parsons, casting a half-apprehensive glance at\nthe door. \u2019They haven\u2019t been out today. And of course-\u2019\nShe had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the middle. The kitchen\nsink was full nearly to the brim with filthy greenish water which smelt worse\nthan ever of cabbage. Winston knelt down and examined the angle-joint of the\npipe. He hated using his hands, and he hated bending down, which was always\nliable to start him coughing. Mrs Parsons looked on helplessly.\n\u2019Of course if Tom was home he\u2019d put it right in a moment,\u2019 she said. \u2019He\nloves anything like that. He\u2019s ever so good with his hands, Tom is.\u2019\nParsons was Winston\u2019s fellow-employee at the Ministry of Truth. He was a\nfattish but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasms \u2014\none of those completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on whom, more even\n\nthan on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party depended. At thirty-\nfive he had just been unwillingly evicted from the Youth League, and before\n\ngraduating into the Youth League he had managed to stay on in the Spies for\na year beyond the statutory age. At the Ministry he was employed in some\nsubordinate post for which intelligence was not required, but on the other hand\nhe was a leading figure on the Sports Committee and all the other committees\nengaged in organizing community hikes, spontaneous demonstrations, savings\ncampaigns, and voluntary activities generally. He would inform you with quiet\npride, between whiffs of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance at the\nCommunity Centre every evening for the past four years. An overpowering\nsmell of sweat, a sort of unconscious testimony to the strenuousness of his life,\nfollowed him about wherever he went, and even remained behind him after he\nhad gone.\n\n\u2018Have you got a spanner?\u2019 said Winston, fiddling with the nut on the angle-\njoint.\n\n\u2018A spanner,\u2019 said Mrs Parsons, immediately becoming invertebrate. \u2018I don\u2019t\nknow, I\u2019m sure. Perhaps the children -\u2019\nThere was a trampling of boots and another blast on the comb as the children\ncharged into the living-room. Mrs Parsons brought the spanner. Winston let\nout the water and disgustedly removed the clot of human hair that had blocked\nup the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could in the cold water from the\ntap and went back into the other room.\n\u2019Up with your hands!\u2019 yelled a savage voice.\nA handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the\ntable and was menacing him with a toy automatic pistol, while his small sister,\nabout two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood. Both\nof them were dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirts, and red neckerchiefs which\nwere the uniform of the Spies. Winston raised his hands above his head, but\nwith an uneasy feeling, so vicious was the boy\u2019s demeanour, that it was not\naltogether a game.\n\u2018You\u2019re a traitor!\u2019 yelled the boy. \u2018You\u2019re a thought-criminal! You\u2019re a\nEurasian spy! I\u2019ll shoot you, I\u2019ll vaporize you, I\u2019ll send you to the salt mines!\u2019\n\nSuddenly they were both leaping round him, shouting \u2019Traitor!\u2019 and \u2019Thought-\ncriminal!\u2019 the little girl imitating her brother in every movement. It was some-\nhow slightly frightening, like the gambolling of tiger cubs which will soon grow\n\nup into man-eaters. There was a sort of calculating ferocity in the boy\u2019s eye,\na quite evident desire to hit or kick Winston and a consciousness of being very\nnearly big enough to do so. It was a good job it was not a real pistol he was\n\n\n\nholding, Winston thought.\nMrs Parsons\u2019 eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the children, and back\nagain. In the better light of the living-room he noticed with interest that there\nactually was dust in the creases of her face.\n\u2019They do get so noisy,\u2019 she said. \u2019They\u2019re disappointed because they couldn\u2019t\ngo to see the hanging, that\u2019s what it is. I\u2019m too busy to take them. and Tom\nwon\u2019t be back from work in time.\u2019\n\u2019Why can\u2019t we go and see the hanging?\u2019 roared the boy in his huge voice.\n\u2019Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!\u2019 chanted the little girl,\nstill capering round.\nSome Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to be hanged in the\nPark that evening, Winston remembered. This happened about once a month,\nand was a popular spectacle. Children always clamoured to be taken to see\nit. He took his leave of Mrs Parsons and made for the door. But he had not\ngone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his neck an\nagonizingly painful blow. It was as though a red-hot wire had been jabbed into\nhim. He spun round just in time to see Mrs Parsons dragging her son back into\nthe doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult.\n\u2019Goldstein!\u2019 bellowed the boy as the door closed on him. But what most\nstruck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the woman\u2019s greyish face.\nBack in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen and sat down at the\ntable again, still rubbing his neck. The music from the telescreen had stopped.\nInstead, a clipped military voice was reading out, with a sort of brutal relish, a\ndescription of the armaments of the new Floating Fortress which had just been\nanchored between lceland and the Faroe lslands.\nWith those children, he thought, that wretched woman must lead a life of\nterror. Another year, two years, and they would be watching her night and\nday for symptoms of unorthodoxy. Nearly all children nowadays were horrible.\nWhat was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as the Spies\nthey were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages, and yet this\nproduced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the\nParty. On the contrary, they adored the Party and everything connected with\nit. The songs, the processions, the banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy\nrifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother \u2014 it was all a sort of\nglorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned outwards, against the\nenemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought-criminals.\nIt was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children.\nAnd with good reason, for hardly a week passed in which The Times did not\ncarry a paragraph describing how some eavesdropping little sneak \u2014 \u2019child hero\u2019\nwas the phrase generally used \u2014 had overheard some compromising remark and\ndenounced its parents to the Thought Police.\n\nThe sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked up his pen half-\nheartedly, wondering whether he could find something more to write in the\n\ndiary. Suddenly he began thinking of O\u2019Brien again.\nYears ago \u2014 how long was it? Seven years it must be \u2014 he had dreamed\nthat he was walking through a pitch-dark room. And someone sitting to one\nside of him had said as he passed: \u2019We shall meet in the place where there is\nno darkness.\u2019 It was said very quietly, almost casually \u2014 a statement, not a\ncommand. He had walked on without pausing. What was curious was that at\nthe time, in the dream, the words had not made much impression on him. It\n\n\n\nwas only later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on significance. He\ncould not now remember whether it was before or after having the dream that\nhe had seen O\u2019Brien for the first time, nor could he remember when he had first\nidentified the voice as O\u2019Brien\u2019s. But at any rate the identification existed. It\nwas O\u2019Brien who had spoken to him out of the dark.\nWinston had never been able to feel sure \u2014 even after this morning\u2019s flash\nof the eyes it was still impossible to be sure whether O\u2019Brien was a friend\nor an enemy. Nor did it even seem to matter greatly. There was a link of\nunderstanding between them, more important than affection or partisanship.\n\u2019We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,\u2019 he had said. Winston\ndid not know what it meant, only that in some way or another it would come\ntrue.\nThe voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call, clear and beautiful,\nfloated into the stagnant air. The voice continued raspingly:\n\u2019Attention! Your attention, please! A newsflash has this moment arrived\nfrom the Malabar front. Our forces in South India have won a glorious victory.\nI am authorized to say that the action we are now reporting may well bring the\nwar within measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash -\u2019\nBad news coming, thought Winston. And sure enough, following on a gory\ndescription of the annihilation of a Eurasian army, with stupendous figures\nof killed and prisoners, came the announcement that, as from next week, the\nchocolate ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty.\nWinston belched again. The gin was wearing off, leaving a deflated feeling.\nThe telescreen \u2014 perhaps to celebrate the victory, perhaps to drown the memory\nof the lost chocolate \u2014 crashed into \u2019Oceania, \u2019tis for thee\u2019. You were supposed\nto stand to attention. However, in his present position he was invisible.\n\u2019Oceania, \u2019tis for thee\u2019 gave way to lighter music. Winston walked over to\nthe window, keeping his back to the telescreen. The day was still cold and clear.\nSomewhere far away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull, reverberating roar.\nAbout twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London at present.\nDown in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and fro, and the\nword INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished. Ingsoc. The sacred principles of\nIngsoc. Newspeak, doublethink, the mutability of the past. He felt as though\nhe were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world\nwhere he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was dead, the future\nwas unimaginable. What certainty had he that a single human creature now\nliving was on his side? And what way of knowing that the dominion of the Party\nwould not endure for ever? Like an answer, the three slogans on the white face\nof the Ministry of Truth came back to him:\nWAR IS PEACE\nFREEDOM IS SLAVERY\nIGNORANCE IS STRENGTH\nHe took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There, too, in tiny clear\nlettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other face of the coin the\nhead of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes pursued you. On coins, on\nstamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and on the wrappings of\na cigarette Packet \u2014 everywhere. Always the eyes watching you and the voice\nenveloping you. Asleep or awake, working or eating, indoors or out of doors, in\nthe bath or in bed \u2014 no escape. Nothing was your own except the few cubic\ncentimetres inside your skull.\n\n\n\nThe sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of the Ministry of\nTruth, with the light no longer shining on them, looked grim as the loopholes of\na fortress. His heart quailed before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too\nstrong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs would not batter it\ndown. He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary. For the future,\nfor the past \u2014 for an age that might be imaginary. And in front of him there lay\nnot death but annihilation. The diary would be reduced to ashes and himself\nto vapour. Only the Thought Police would read what he had written, before\nthey wiped it out of existence and out of memory. How could you make appeal\nto the future when not a trace of you, not even an anonymous word scribbled\non a piece of paper, could physically survive?\nThe telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten minutes. He had to be\nback at work by fourteen-thirty.\nCuriously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into him.\nHe was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear. But so\nlong as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken. It\nwas not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the\nhuman heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote:\nTo the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are\ndifferent from one another and do not live alone \u2014 to a time when truth exists\nand what is done cannot be undone:\nFrom the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big\nBrother, from the age of doublethink \u2014 greetings!\nHe was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that it was only now,\nwhen he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had taken the\ndecisive step. The consequences of every act are included in the act itself. He\nwrote:\nThoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.\nNow he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay\nalive as long as possible. Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained. It was\nexactly the kind of detail that might betray you. Some nosing zealot in the\nMinistry (a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired woman or\nthe dark-haired girl from the Fiction Department) might start wondering why he\nhad been writing during the lunch interval, why he had used an old-fashioned\npen, what he had been writing \u2014 and then drop a hint in the appropriate\nquarter. He went to the bathroom and carefully scrubbed the ink away with\nthe gritty dark-brown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was\ntherefore well adapted for this purpose.\nHe put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless to think of hiding it,\nbut he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had been discovered.\nA hair laid across the page-ends was too obvious. With the tip of his finger he\npicked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of\nthe cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved.\n\n\n\n \n\nWinston was dreaming of his mother.\nHe must, he thought, have been ten or eleven years old when his mother\nhad disappeared. She was a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow\nmovements and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered more vaguely\nas dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark clothes (Winston remembered\nespecially the very thin soles of his father\u2019s shoes) and wearing spectacles. The\ntwo of them must evidently have been swallowed up in one of the first great\npurges of the fifties.\nAt this moment his mother was sitting in some place deep down beneath\nhim, with his young sister in her arms. He did not remember his sister at all,\nexcept as a tiny, feeble baby, always silent, with large, watchful eyes. Both of\nthem were looking up at him. They were down in some subterranean place \u2014\nthe bottom of a well, for instance, or a very deep grave \u2014 but it was a place\nwhich, already far below him, was itself moving downwards. They were in the\nsaloon of a sinking ship, looking up at him through the darkening water. There\nwas still air in the saloon, they could still see him and he them, but all the while\nthey were sinking down, down into the green waters which in another moment\nmust hide them from sight for ever. He was out in the light and air while they\nwere being sucked down to death, and they were down there because he was\nup here. He knew it and they knew it, and he could see the knowledge in their\nfaces. There was no reproach either in their faces or in their hearts, only the\nknowledge that they must die in order that he might remain alive, and that this\nwas part of the unavoidable order of things.\nHe could not remember what had happened, but he knew in his dream that in\nsome way the lives of his mother and his sister had been sacrificed to his own. It\nwas one of those dreams which, while retaining the characteristic dream scenery,\nare a continuation of one\u2019s intellectual life, and in which one becomes aware of\nfacts and ideas which still seem new and valuable after one is awake. The thing\nthat now suddenly struck Winston was that his mother\u2019s death, nearly thirty\nyears ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a way that was no longer possible.\nTragedy, he perceived, belonged to the ancient time, to a time when there was\nstill privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of a family stood by\none another without needing to know the reason. His mother\u2019s memory tore at\nhis heart because she had died loving him, when he was too young and selfish\nto love her in return, and because somehow, he did not remember how, she had\nsacrificed herself to a conception of loyalty that was private and unalterable.\nSuch things, he saw, could not happen today. Today there were fear, hatred,\n\n\n\nand pain, but no dignity of emotion, no deep or complex sorrows. All this he\nseemed to see in the large eyes of his mother and his sister, looking up at him\nthrough the green water, hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking.\nSuddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a summer evening when\nthe slanting rays of the sun gilded the ground. The landscape that he was looking\nat recurred so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain whether or not\nhe had seen it in the real world. In his waking thoughts he called it the Golden\nCountry. It was an old, rabbit-bitten pasture, with a foot-track wandering\nacross it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on the opposite\nside of the field the boughs of the elm trees were swaying very faintly in the\nbreeze, their leaves just stirring in dense masses like women\u2019s hair. Somewhere\nnear at hand, though out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream where\ndace were swimming in the pools under the willow trees.\nThe girl with dark hair was coming towards them across the field. With what\nseemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them disdainfully\naside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, indeed\nhe barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant was admiration\nfor the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside. With its grace\nand carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system of\nthought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the Thought Police could all\nbe swept into nothingness by a single splendid movement of the arm. That too\nwas a gesture belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the word\n\u2019Shakespeare\u2019 on his lips.\nThe telescreen was giving forth an ear-splitting whistle which continued on\nthe same note for thirty seconds. It was nought seven fifteen, getting-up time for\noffice workers. Winston wrenched his body out of bed \u2014 naked, for a member\nof the Outer Party received only , clothing coupons annually, and a suit of\npyjamas was  \u2014 and seized a dingy singlet and a pair of shorts that were\nlying across a chair. The Physical Jerks would begin in three minutes. The\nnext moment he was doubled up by a violent coughing fit which nearly always\nattacked him soon after waking up. It emptied his lungs so completely that he\ncould only begin breathing again by lying on his back and taking a series of\ndeep gasps. His veins had swelled with the effort of the cough, and the varicose\nulcer had started itching.\n\u2019Thirty to forty group!\u2019 yapped a piercing female voice. \u2019 Thirty to forty\ngroup! Take your places, please. Thirties to forties!\u2019\nWinston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the image\nof a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-shoes,\nhad already appeared.\n\u2019Arms bending and stretching!\u2019 she rapped out. \u2019Take your time by me.\nOne, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of\nlife into it! One, two, three four! One two, three, four! . . .\u2019\nThe pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of Winston\u2019s mind\nthe impression made by his dream, and the rhythmic movements of the exercise\nrestored it somewhat. As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, wearing\non his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered proper during the\nPhysical Jerks, he was struggling to think his way backward into the dim period\nof his early childhood. It was extraordinarily difficult. Beyond the late fifties\neverything faded. When there were no external records that you could refer\nto, even the outline of your own life lost its sharpness. You remembered huge\n\n\n\nevents which had quite probably not happened, you remembered the detail of\nincidents without being able to recapture their atmosphere, and there were long\nblank periods to which you could assign nothing. Everything had been different\nthen. Even the names of countries, and their shapes on the map, had been\ndifferent. Airstrip One, for instance, had not been so called in those days: it\nhad been called England or Britain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had\nalways been called London.\nWinston could not definitely remember a time when his country had not\nbeen at war, but it was evident that there had been a fairly long interval of\npeace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an air raid\nwhich appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was the time when\nthe atomic bomb had fallen on Colchester. He did not remember the raid itself,\nbut he did remember his father\u2019s hand clutching his own as they hurried down,\ndown, down into some place deep in the earth, round and round a spiral staircase\nwhich rang under his feet and which finally so wearied his legs that he began\nwhimpering and they had to stop and rest. His mother, in her slow, dreamy\nway, was following a long way behind them. She was carrying his baby sister \u2014\nor perhaps it was only a bundle of blankets that she was carrying: he was not\ncertain whether his sister had been born then. Finally they had emerged into a\nnoisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube station.\nThere were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, and other people,\n\npacked tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above the other. Win-\nston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near\n\nthem an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side on a bunk. The\nold man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap pushed back from\nvery white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were blue and full of tears.\nHe reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his skin in place of sweat, and\none could have fancied that the tears welling from his eyes were pure gin. But\nthough slightly drunk he was also suffering under some grief that was genuine\nand unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some terrible thing,\nsomething that was beyond forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just\nhappened. It also seemed to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the\nold man loved \u2014 a little granddaughter, perhaps had been killed. Every few\nminutes the old man kept repeating:\n\u2019We didn\u2019t ought to \u2019ave trusted \u2019em. I said so, Ma, didn\u2019t I? That\u2019s what\ncomes of trusting \u2019em. I said so all along. We didn\u2019t ought to \u2019ave trusted the\nbuggers.\nBut which buggers they didn\u2019t ought to have trusted Winston could not now\nremember.\nSince about that time, war had been literally continuous, though strictly\nspeaking it had not always been the same war. For several months during\nhis childhood there had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of\nwhich he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history of the whole period,\nto say who was fighting whom at any given moment, would have been utterly\nimpossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention\nof any other alignment than the existing one. At this moment, for example,\nin  (if it was ), Oceania was at war with Eurasia and in alliance with\nEastasia. In no public or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three\npowers had at any time been grouped along different lines. Actually, as Winston\nwell knew, it was only four years since Oceania had been at war with Eastasia\n\n\n\nand in alliance with Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge\nwhich he happened to possess because his memory was not satisfactorily under\ncontrol. Officially the change of partners had never happened. Oceania was at\nwar with Eurasia: therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The\nenemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that any\npast or future agreement with him was impossible.\nThe frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he forced\nhis shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were gyrating their\nbodies from the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be good for the back\nmuscles) \u2014 the frightening thing was that it might all be true. If the Party could\nthrust its hand into the past and say of this or that event, it never happened\n\u2014 that, surely, was more terrifying than mere torture and death?\nThe Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia. He,\nWinston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as short\na time as four years ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own\nconsciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all others\naccepted the lie which the Party imposed -if all records told the same tale \u2014\nthen the lie passed into history and became truth. \u2019Who controls the past,\u2019 ran\nthe Party slogan, \u2019controls the future: who controls the present controls the\npast.\u2019 And yet the past, though of its nature alterable, never had been altered.\nWhatever was true now was true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite\nsimple. All that was needed was an unending series of victories over your own\nmemory. \u2019Reality control\u2019, they called it: in Newspeak, \u2019doublethink\u2019\n\u2019Stand easy!\u2019 barked the instructress, a little more genially.\nWinston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled his lungs with air. His\nmind slid away into the labyrinthine world of doublethink. To know and not\n\nto know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully con-\nstructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing\n\nthem to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against\nlogic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy\nwas impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy, to forget\nwhatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again\nat the moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget it again: and\n\nabove all, to apply the same process to the process itself. That was the ulti-\nmate subtlety: consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to\n\nbecome unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to\nunderstand the word \u2019doublethink\u2019 involved the use of doublethink.\nThe instructress had called them to attention again. \u2019And now let\u2019s see\nwhich of us can touch our toes!\u2019 she said enthusiastically. \u2019Right over from the\nhips, please, comrades. One-two! One-two! ...\u2019\nWinston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains all the way from\nhis heels to his buttocks and often ended by bringing on another coughing fit.\nThe half-pleasant quality went out of his meditations. The past, he reflected,\nhad not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For how could\nyou establish even the most obvious fact when there existed no record outside\nyour own memory? He tried to remember in what year he had first heard\nmention of Big Brother. He thought it must have been at some time in the\nsixties, but it was impossible to be certain. In the Party histories, of course,\nBig Brother figured as the leader and guardian of the Revolution since its very\nearliest days. His exploits had been gradually pushed backwards in time until\n\n\n\nalready they extended into the fabulous world of the forties and the thirties,\nwhen the capitalists in their strange cylindrical hats still rode through the streets\nof London in great gleaming motor-cars or horse carriages with glass sides.\nThere was no knowing how much of this legend was true and how much invented.\nWinston could not even remember at what date the Party itself had come into\nexistence. He did not believe he had ever heard the word Ingsoc before ,\nbut it was possible that in its Oldspeak form-\u2019English Socialism\u2019, that is to say\n\u2014 it had been current earlier. Everything melted into mist. Sometimes, indeed,\nyou could put your finger on a definite lie. It was not true, for example, as was\nclaimed in the Party history books, that the Party had invented aeroplanes.\nHe remembered aeroplanes since his earliest childhood. But you could prove\nnothing. There was never any evidence. Just once in his whole life he had held\nin his hands unmistakable documentary proof of the falsification of an historical\nfact. And on that occasion\n\u2019Smith!\u2019 screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen. \u2019 Smith W.!\nYes, you! Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. You\u2019re not trying.\nLower, please! That\u2019s better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole squad,\nand watch me.\u2019\n\nA sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston\u2019s body. His face re-\nmained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment!\n\nA single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the\ninstructress raised her arms above her head and \u2014 one could not say gracefully,\nbut with remarkable neatness and efficiency \u2014 bent over and tucked the first\njoint of her fingers under her toes.\n\u2019There, comrades! That\u2019s how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again.\nI\u2019m thirty-nine and I\u2019ve had four children. Now look.\u2019 She bent over again.\n\u2019You see my knees aren\u2019t bent. You can all do it if you want to,\u2019 she added\nas she straightened herself up. \u2019Anyone under forty-five is perfectly capable of\ntouching his toes. We don\u2019t all have the privilege of fighting in the front line,\nbut at least we can all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And\nthe sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what they have to put up\nwith. Now try again. That\u2019s better, comrade, that\u2019s much better,\u2019 she added\nencouragingly as Winston, with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes\nwith knees unbent, for the first time in several years.\n\n\n\n \n\nWith the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen\ncould prevent him from uttering when his day\u2019s work started, Winston pulled\nthe speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his\nspectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper\nwhich had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of\nhis desk.\nIn the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the\nspeakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger\none for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston\u2019s arm, a\nlarge oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of\nwaste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout\nthe building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor.\nFor some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any\ndocument was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper\nlying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory\nhole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm\nair to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of\nthe building.\nWinston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each\ncontained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon \u2014 not\nactually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words \u2014 which was used\nin the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran:\ntimes .. bb speech malreported africa rectify\ntimes .. forecasts  yp th quarter  misprints verify current issue\ntimes .. miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify\ntimes .. reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite\nfullwise upsub antefiling\nWith a faint feeling of satisfaction Winston laid the fourth message aside.\nIt was an intricate and responsible job and had better be dealt with last. The\nother three were routine matters, though the second one would probably mean\nsome tedious wading through lists of figures.\n\nWinston dialled \u2019back numbers\u2019 on the telescreen and called for the appro-\npriate issues of The Times, which slid out of the pneumatic tube after only a\n\nfew minutes\u2019 delay. The messages he had received referred to articles or news\nitems which for one reason or another it was thought necessary to alter, or, as\nthe official phrase had it, to rectify. For example, it appeared from The Times\nof the seventeenth of March that Big Brother, in his speech of the previous\n\n\n\nday, had predicted that the South Indian front would remain quiet but that a\nEurasian offensive would shortly be launched in North Africa. As it happened,\nthe Eurasian Higher Command had launched its offensive in South India and\nleft North Africa alone. It was therefore necessary to rewrite a paragraph of\nBig Brother\u2019s speech, in such a way as to make him predict the thing that had\nactually happened. Or again, The Times of the nineteenth of December had\npublished the official forecasts of the output of various classes of consumption\ngoods in the fourth quarter of , which was also the sixth quarter of the\n\nNinth Three-Year Plan. Today\u2019s issue contained a statement of the actual out-\nput, from which it appeared that the forecasts were in every instance grossly\n\nwrong. Winston\u2019s job was to rectify the original figures by making them agree\n\nwith the later ones. As for the third message, it referred to a very simple er-\nror which could be set right in a couple of minutes. As short a time ago as\n\nFebruary, the Ministry of Plenty had issued a promise (a \u2019categorical pledge\u2019\nwere the official words) that there would be no reduction of the chocolate ration\nduring . Actually, as Winston was aware, the chocolate ration was to be\nreduced from thirty grammes to twenty at the end of the present week. All that\nwas needed was to substitute for the original promise a warning that it would\nprobably be necessary to reduce the ration at some time in April.\nAs soon as Winston had dealt with each of the messages, he clipped his\nspeakwritten corrections to the appropriate copy of The Times and pushed\nthem into the pneumatic tube. Then, with a movement which was as nearly as\npossible unconscious, he crumpled up the original message and any notes that\nhe himself had made, and dropped them into the memory hole to be devoured\nby the flames.\nWhat happened in the unseen labyrinth to which the pneumatic tubes led,\nhe did not know in detail, but he did know in general terms. As soon as all the\ncorrections which happened to be necessary in any particular number of The\nTimes had been assembled and collated, that number would be reprinted, the\noriginal copy destroyed, and the corrected copy placed on the files in its stead.\nThis process of continuous alteration was applied not only to newspapers, but\nto books, periodicals, pamphlets, posters, leaflets, films, sound-tracks, cartoons,\n\nphotographs \u2014 to every kind of literature or documentation which might con-\nceivably hold any political or ideological significance. Day by day and almost\n\nminute by minute the past was brought up to date. In this way every prediction\n\nmade by the Party could be shown by documentary evidence to have been cor-\nrect, nor was any item of news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted\n\nwith the needs of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record. All history was\na palimpsest, scraped clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was necessary. In\nno case would it have been possible, once the deed was done, to prove that any\nfalsification had taken place. The largest section of the Records Department,\nfar larger than the one on which Winston worked, consisted simply of persons\nwhose duty it was to track down and collect all copies of books, newspapers,\nand other documents which had been superseded and were due for destruction.\nA number of The Times which might, because of changes in political alignment,\nor mistaken prophecies uttered by Big Brother, have been rewritten a dozen\ntimes still stood on the files bearing its original date, and no other copy existed\nto contradict it. Books, also, were recalled and rewritten again and again, and\nwere invariably reissued without any admission that any alteration had been\nmade. Even the written instructions which Winston received, and which he\n\n\n\ninvariably got rid of as soon as he had dealt with them, never stated or implied\nthat an act of forgery was to be committed: always the reference was to slips,\nerrors, misprints, or misquotations which it was necessary to put right in the\ninterests of accuracy.\nBut actually, he thought as he re-adjusted the Ministry of Plenty\u2019s figures,\nit was not even forgery. It was merely the substitution of one piece of nonsense\nfor another. Most of the material that you were dealing with had no connexion\nwith anything in the real world, not even the kind of connexion that is contained\nin a direct lie. Statistics were just as much a fantasy in their original version\nas in their rectified version. A great deal of the time you were expected to\nmake them up out of your head. For example, the Ministry of Plenty\u2019s forecast\nhad estimated the output of boots for the quarter at  million pairs. The\nactual output was given as sixty-two millions. Winston, however, in rewriting\nthe forecast, marked the figure down to fifty-seven millions, so as to allow for\nthe usual claim that the quota had been overfulfilled. In any case, sixty-two\nmillions was no nearer the truth than fifty-seven millions, or than  millions.\nVery likely no boots had been produced at all. Likelier still, nobody knew\nhow many had been produced, much less cared. All one knew was that every\nquarter astronomical numbers of boots were produced on paper, while perhaps\nhalf the population of Oceania went barefoot. And so it was with every class\nof recorded fact, great or small. Everything faded away into a shadow-world in\nwhich, finally, even the date of the year had become uncertain.\nWinston glanced across the hall. In the corresponding cubicle on the other\nside a small, precise-looking, dark-chinned man named Tillotson was working\nsteadily away, with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth very close\nto the mouthpiece of the speakwrite. He had the air of trying to keep what he\nwas saying a secret between himself and the telescreen. He looked up, and his\nspectacles darted a hostile flash in Winston\u2019s direction.\nWinston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what work he was employed\non. People in the Records Department did not readily talk about their jobs.\nIn the long, windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles and its endless\nrustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into speakwrites, there were\nquite a dozen people whom Winston did not even know by name, though he\ndaily saw them hurrying to and fro in the corridors or gesticulating in the\nTwo Minutes Hate. He knew that in the cubicle next to him the little woman\nwith sandy hair toiled day in day out, simply at tracking down and deleting\nfrom the Press the names of people who had been vaporized and were therefore\nconsidered never to have existed. There was a certain fitness in this, since\nher own husband had been vaporized a couple of years earlier. And a few\ncubicles away a mild, ineffectual, dreamy creature named Ampleforth, with\nvery hairy ears and a surprising talent for juggling with rhymes and metres,\nwas engaged in producing garbled versions \u2014 definitive texts, they were called\n\u2014 of poems which had become ideologically offensive, but which for one reason\nor another were to be retained in the anthologies. And this hall, with its fifty\nworkers or thereabouts, was only one sub-section, a single cell, as it were, in\nthe huge complexity of the Records Department. Beyond, above, below, were\nother swarms of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude of jobs. There\nwere the huge printing-shops with their sub-editors, their typography experts,\nand their elaborately equipped studios for the faking of photographs. There was\nthe tele-programmes section with its engineers, its producers, and its teams of\n\n\n\nactors specially chosen for their skill in imitating voices. There were the armies\nof reference clerks whose job was simply to draw up lists of books and periodicals\nwhich were due for recall. There were the vast repositories where the corrected\ndocuments were stored, and the hidden furnaces where the original copies were\ndestroyed. And somewhere or other, quite anonymous, there were the directing\nbrains who co-ordinated the whole effort and laid down the lines of policy which\nmade it necessary that this fragment of the past should be preserved, that one\nfalsified, and the other rubbed out of existence.\nAnd the Records Department, after all, was itself only a single branch of\nthe Ministry of Truth, whose primary job was not to reconstruct the past but\nto supply the citizens of Oceania with newspapers, films, textbooks, telescreen\n\nprogrammes, plays, novels \u2014 with every conceivable kind of information, in-\nstruction, or entertainment, from a statue to a slogan, from a lyric poem to a\n\nbiological treatise, and from a child\u2019s spelling-book to a Newspeak dictionary.\nAnd the Ministry had not only to supply the multifarious needs of the party,\nbut also to repeat the whole operation at a lower level for the benefit of the\n\nproletariat. There was a whole chain of separate departments dealing with pro-\nletarian literature, music, drama, and entertainment generally. Here were pro-\nduced rubbishy newspapers containing almost nothing except sport, crime and\n\nastrology, sensational five-cent novelettes, films oozing with sex, and sentimen-\ntal songs which were composed entirely by mechanical means on a special kind\n\nof kaleidoscope known as a versificator. There was even a whole sub-section \u2014\nPornosec, it was called in Newspeak \u2014 engaged in producing the lowest kind of\npornography, which was sent out in sealed packets and which no Party member,\nother than those who worked on it, was permitted to look at.\n\nThree messages had slid out of the pneumatic tube while Winston was work-\ning, but they were simple matters, and he had disposed of them before the Two\n\nMinutes Hate interrupted him. When the Hate was over he returned to his cubi-\ncle, took the Newspeak dictionary from the shelf, pushed the speakwrite to one\n\nside, cleaned his spectacles, and settled down to his main job of the morning.\nWinston\u2019s greatest pleasure in life was in his work. Most of it was a tedious\nroutine, but included in it there were also jobs so difficult and intricate that\nyou could lose yourself in them as in the depths of a mathematical problem\n\u2014 delicate pieces of forgery in which you had nothing to guide you except\nyour knowledge of the principles of Ingsoc and your estimate of what the Party\nwanted you to say. Winston was good at this kind of thing. On occasion he had\neven been entrusted with the rectification of The Times leading articles, which\nwere written entirely in Newspeak. He unrolled the message that he had set\naside earlier. It ran:\ntimes .. reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite\nfullwise upsub antefiling\nIn Oldspeak (or standard English) this might be rendered: The reporting of\nBig Brother\u2019s Order for the Day in The Times of December rd  is extremely\nunsatisfactory and makes references to non-existent persons. Rewrite it in full\nand submit your draft to higher authority before filing.\nWinston read through the offending article. Big Brother\u2019s Order for the Day,\nit seemed, had been chiefly devoted to praising the work of an organization\nknown as FFCC, which supplied cigarettes and other comforts to the sailors\nin the Floating Fortresses. A certain Comrade Withers, a prominent member\nof the Inner Party, had been singled out for special mention and awarded a\n\n\n\ndecoration, the Order of Conspicuous Merit, Second Class.\nThree months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved with no reasons\ngiven. One could assume that Withers and his associates were now in disgrace,\nbut there had been no report of the matter in the Press or on the telescreen.\nThat was to be expected, since it was unusual for political offenders to be put\non trial or even publicly denounced. The great purges involving thousands of\npeople, with public trials of traitors and thought-criminals who made abject\n\nconfession of their crimes and were afterwards executed, were special show-\npieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of years. More commonly,\n\npeople who had incurred the displeasure of the Party simply disappeared and\nwere never heard of again. One never had the smallest clue as to what had\nhappened to them. In some cases they might not even be dead. Perhaps thirty\npeople personally known to Winston, not counting his parents, had disappeared\nat one time or another.\nWinston stroked his nose gently with a paper-clip. In the cubicle across\nthe way Comrade Tillotson was still crouching secretively over his speakwrite.\nHe raised his head for a moment: again the hostile spectacle-flash. Winston\nwondered whether Comrade Tillotson was engaged on the same job as himself.\nIt was perfectly possible. So tricky a piece of work would never be entrusted\nto a single person: on the other hand, to turn it over to a committee would\nbe to admit openly that an act of fabrication was taking place. Very likely as\nmany as a dozen people were now working away on rival versions of what Big\nBrother had actually said. And presently some master brain in the Inner Party\nwould select this version or that, would re-edit it and set in motion the complex\nprocesses of cross-referencing that would be required, and then the chosen lie\nwould pass into the permanent records and become truth.\nWinston did not know why Withers had been disgraced. Perhaps it was for\ncorruption or incompetence. Perhaps Big Brother was merely getting rid of a\ntoo-popular subordinate. Perhaps Withers or someone close to him had been\nsuspected of heretical tendencies. Or perhaps \u2014 what was likeliest of all \u2014 the\nthing had simply happened because purges and vaporizations were a necessary\npart of the mechanics of government. The only real clue lay in the words \u2019refs\nunpersons\u2019, which indicated that Withers was already dead. You could not\ninvariably assume this to be the case when people were arrested. Sometimes\nthey were released and allowed to remain at liberty for as much as a year or\ntwo years before being executed. Very occasionally some person whom you had\nbelieved dead long since would make a ghostly reappearance at some public trial\nwhere he would implicate hundreds of others by his testimony before vanishing,\nthis time for ever. Withers, however, was already an unperson. He did not exist:\nhe had never existed. Winston decided that it would not be enough simply to\nreverse the tendency of Big Brother\u2019s speech. It was better to make it deal with\nsomething totally unconnected with its original subject.\n\nHe might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of traitors and thought-\ncriminals, but that was a little too obvious, while to invent a victory at the front,\n\nor some triumph of over-production in the Ninth Three-Year Plan, might com-\nplicate the records too much. What was needed was a piece of pure fantasy.\n\nSuddenly there sprang into his mind, ready made as it were, the image of a cer-\ntain Comrade Ogilvy, who had recently died in battle, in heroic circumstances.\n\nThere were occasions when Big Brother devoted his Order for the Day to com-\nmemorating some humble, rank-and-file Party member whose life and death he\n\n\n\nheld up as an example worthy to be followed. Today he should commemorate\nComrade Ogilvy. It was true that there was no such person as Comrade Ogilvy,\nbut a few lines of print and a couple of faked photographs would soon bring him\ninto existence.\nWinston thought for a moment, then pulled the speakwrite towards him\nand began dictating in Big Brother\u2019s familiar style: a style at once military\nand pedantic, and, because of a trick of asking questions and then promptly\nanswering them (\u2019What lessons do we learn from this fact, comrades? The\nlesson \u2014 which is also one of the fundamental principles of Ingsoc \u2014 that,\u2019 etc.,\netc.), easy to imitate.\nAt the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys except a drum, a\nsub-machine gun, and a model helicopter. At six \u2014 a year early, by a special\nrelaxation of the rules \u2014 he had joined the Spies, at nine he had been a troop\nleader. At eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought Police after\noverhearing a conversation which appeared to him to have criminal tendencies.\nAt seventeen he had been a district organizer of the Junior Anti-Sex League.\nAt nine teen he had designed a hand-grenade which had been adopted by the\nMinistry of Peace and which, at its first trial, had killed thirty-one Eurasian\nprisoners in one burst. At twenty-three he had perished in action. Pursued by\nenemy jet planes while flying over the Indian Ocean with important despatches,\nhe had weighted his body with his machine gun and leapt out of the helicopter\ninto deep water, despatches and all \u2014 an end, said Big Brother, which it was\nimpossible to contemplate without feelings of envy. Big Brother added a few\nremarks on the purity and single-mindedness of Comrade Ogilvy\u2019s life. He was\na total abstainer and a nonsmoker, had no recreations except a daily hour in\nthe gymnasium, and had taken a vow of celibacy, believing marriage and the\ncare of a family to be incompatible with a twenty-four-hour-a-day devotion to\nduty. He had no subjects of conversation except the principles of Ingsoc, and\nno aim in life except the defeat of the Eurasian enemy and the hunting-down of\nspies, saboteurs, thoughtcriminals, and traitors generally.\nWinston debated with himself whether to award Comrade Ogilvy the Order\n\nof Conspicuous Merit: in the end he decided against it because of the unneces-\nsary cross-referencing that it would entail.\n\nOnce again he glanced at his rival in the opposite cubicle. Something seemed\nto tell him with certainty that Tillotson was busy on the same job as himself.\nThere was no way of knowing whose job would finally be adopted, but he felt a\nprofound conviction that it would be his own. Comrade Ogilvy, unimagined an\nhour ago, was now a fact. It struck him as curious that you could create dead\nmen but not living ones. Comrade Ogilvy, who had never existed in the present,\nnow existed in the past, and when once the act of forgery was forgotten, he\nwould exist just as authentically, and upon the same evidence, as Charlemagne\nor Julius Caesar.\n\n\n\n \n\nIn the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch queue jerked slowly\nforward. The room was already very full and deafeningly noisy. From the grille\nat the counter the steam of stew came pouring forth, with a sour metallic smell\nwhich did not quite overcome the fumes of Victory Gin. On the far side of the\nroom there was a small bar, a mere hole in the wall, where gin could be bought\nat ten cents the large nip.\n\u2019Just the man I was looking for,\u2019 said a voice at Winston\u2019s back.\nHe turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research\nDepartment. Perhaps \u2019friend\u2019 was not exactly the right word. You did not have\nfriends nowadays, you had comrades: but there were some comrades whose\nsociety was pleasanter than that of others. Syme was a philologist, a specialist\nin Newspeak. Indeed, he was one of the enormous team of experts now engaged\nin compiling the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a tiny\ncreature, smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large, protuberant eyes, at\nonce mournful and derisive, which seemed to search your face closely while he\nwas speaking to you.\n\u2019I wanted to ask you whether you\u2019d got any razor blades,\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Not one!\u2019 said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. \u2019I\u2019ve tried all over the\nplace. They don\u2019t exist any longer.\u2019\nEveryone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he had two unused ones\nwhich he was hoarding up. There had been a famine of them for months past.\nAt any given moment there was some necessary article which the Party shops\nwere unable to supply. Sometimes it was buttons, sometimes it was darning\nwool, sometimes it was shoelaces; at present it was razor blades. You could\nonly get hold of them, if at all, by scrounging more or less furtively on the \u2019free\u2019\nmarket.\n\u2019I\u2019ve been using the same blade for six weeks,\u2019 he added untruthfully.\nThe queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he turned and faced\nSyme again. Each of them took a greasy metal tray from a pile at the end of\nthe counter.\n\u2019Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday?\u2019 said Syme.\n\u2019I was working,\u2019 said Winston indifferently. \u2019I shall see it on the flicks, I\nsuppose.\u2019\n\u2019A very inadequate substitute,\u2019 said Syme.\nHis mocking eyes roved over Winston\u2019s face. \u2019I know you,\u2019 the eyes seemed\nto say, \u2019I see through you. I know very well why you didn\u2019t go to see those\nprisoners hanged.\u2019 In an intellectual way, Syme was venomously orthodox. He\n\n\n\nwould talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of helicopter raids on enemy\nvillages, and trials and confessions of thought-criminals, the executions in the\ncellars of the Ministry of Love. Talking to him was largely a matter of getting\nhim away from such subjects and entangling him, if possible, in the technicalities\nof Newspeak, on which he was authoritative and interesting. Winston turned\nhis head a little aside to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark eyes.\n\u2019It was a good hanging,\u2019 said Syme reminiscently. \u2019I think it spoils it when\nthey tie their feet together. I like to see them kicking. And above all, at the\nend, the tongue sticking right out, and blue a quite bright blue. That\u2019s the\ndetail that appeals to me.\u2019\n\u2019Nex\u2019, please!\u2019 yelled the white-aproned prole with the ladle.\nWinston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille. On to each was\ndumped swiftly the regulation lunch \u2014 a metal pannikin of pinkish-grey stew,\na hunk of bread, a cube of cheese, a mug of milkless Victory Coffee, and one\nsaccharine tablet.\n\u2019There\u2019s a table over there, under that telescreen,\u2019 said Syme. \u2019Let\u2019s pick up\na gin on the way.\u2019\nThe gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. They threaded\n\ntheir way across the crowded room and unpacked their trays on to the metal-\ntopped table, on one corner of which someone had left a pool of stew, a filthy\n\nliquid mess that had the appearance of vomit. Winston took up his mug of\ngin, paused for an instant to collect his nerve, and gulped the oily-tasting stuff\ndown. When he had winked the tears out of his eyes he suddenly discovered that\nhe was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of the stew, which, in among\nits general sloppiness, had cubes of spongy pinkish stuff which was probably a\npreparation of meat. Neither of them spoke again till they had emptied their\npannikins. From the table at Winston\u2019s left, a little behind his back, someone\nwas talking rapidly and continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking\nof a duck, which pierced the general uproar of the room.\n\n\u2019How is the Dictionary getting on?\u2019 said Winston, raising his voice to over-\ncome the noise.\n\n\u2019Slowly,\u2019 said Syme. \u2019I\u2019m on the adjectives. It\u2019s fascinating.\u2019\nHe had brightened up immediately at the mention of Newspeak. He pushed\nhis pannikin aside, took up his hunk of bread in one delicate hand and his cheese\nin the other, and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak without\nshouting.\n\u2019The Eleventh Edition is the definitive edition,\u2019 he said. \u2019We\u2019re getting the\nlanguage into its final shape \u2014 the shape it\u2019s going to have when nobody speaks\nanything else. When we\u2019ve finished with it, people like you will have to learn it\nall over again. You think, I dare say, that our chief job is inventing new words.\nBut not a bit of it! We\u2019re destroying words \u2014 scores of them, hundreds of them,\nevery day. We\u2019re cutting the language down to the bone. The Eleventh Edition\nwon\u2019t contain a single word that will become obsolete before the year .\u2019\nHe bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, then\ncontinued speaking, with a sort of pedant\u2019s passion. His thin dark face had\nbecome animated, his eyes had lost their mocking expression and grown almost\ndreamy.\n\u2019It\u2019s a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course the great wastage\nis in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got\nrid of as well. It isn\u2019t only the synonyms; there are also the antonyms. After all,\n\n\n\nwhat justification is there for a word which is simply the opposite of some other\nword? A word contains its opposite in itself. Take \u201dgood\u201d, for instance. If you\nhave a word like \u201dgood\u201d, what need is there for a word like \u201dbad\u201d? \u201dUngood\u201d\nwill do just as well \u2014 better, because it\u2019s an exact opposite, which the other\nis not. Or again, if you want a stronger version of \u201dgood\u201d, what sense is there\nin having a whole string of vague useless words like \u201dexcellent\u201d and \u201dsplendid\u201d\nand all the rest of them? \u201dPlusgood\u201d covers the meaning, or \u201d doubleplusgood\u201d\nif you want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms already. but\nin the final version of Newspeak there\u2019ll be nothing else. In the end the whole\nnotion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words \u2014 in reality,\nonly one word. Don\u2019t you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was B.B.\u2019s idea\noriginally, of course,\u2019 he added as an afterthought.\nA sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston\u2019s face at the mention of Big\nBrother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of enthusiasm.\n\u2019You haven\u2019t a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,\u2019 he said almost\nsadly. \u2019Even when you write it you\u2019re still thinking in Oldspeak. I\u2019ve read some\nof those pieces that you write in The Times occasionally. They\u2019re good enough,\nbut they\u2019re translations. In your heart you\u2019d prefer to stick to Oldspeak, with\nall its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. You don\u2019t grasp the beauty\nof the destruction of words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language\nin the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?\u2019\nWinston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, not\ntrusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the dark-coloured\nbread, chewed it briefly, and went on:\n\u2019Don\u2019t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of\nthought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because\nthere will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever\nbe needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly\ndefined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in\nthe Eleventh Edition, we\u2019re not far from that point. But the process will still be\ncontinuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and\nthe range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there\u2019s\nno reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It\u2019s merely a question of\nself-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won\u2019t be any need even for\nthat. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak\nis Ingsoc and Ingsoc is Newspeak,\u2019 he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction.\n\u2019Has it ever occurred to you, Winston, that by the year , at the very latest,\nnot a single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation\nas we are having now?\u2019\n\u2019Except-\u2019 began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped.\nIt had been on the tip of his tongue to say \u2019Except the proles,\u2019 but he\nchecked himself, not feeling fully certain that this remark was not in some way\nunorthodox. Syme, however, had divined what he was about to say.\n\u2019The proles are not human beings,\u2019 he said carelessly. \u2019 By  earlier,\nprobably \u2014 all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. The whole\nliterature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton,\n\nByron \u2014 they\u2019ll exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely changed into some-\nthing different, but actually changed into something contradictory of what they\n\nused to be. Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will\nchange. How could you have a slogan like \u201dfreedom is slavery\u201d when the concept\n\n\n\nof freedom has been abolished? The whole climate of thought will be different.\nIn fact there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means\nnot thinking \u2014 not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.\u2019\nOne of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep conviction, Syme will\nbe vaporized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly and speaks too plainly.\nThe Party does not like such people. One day he will disappear. It is written\nin his face.\nWinston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned a little sideways in\nhis chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table on his left the man with\nthe strident voice was still talking remorselessly away. A young woman who\nwas perhaps his secretary, and who was sitting with her back to Winston, was\nlistening to him and seemed to be eagerly agreeing with everything that he said.\nFrom time to time Winston caught some such remark as \u2019I think you\u2019re so right,\nI do so agree with you\u2019, uttered in a youthful and rather silly feminine voice. But\nthe other voice never stopped for an instant, even when the girl was speaking.\nWinston knew the man by sight, though he knew no more about him than\nthat he held some important post in the Fiction Department. He was a man\nof about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head\nwas thrown back a little, and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his\nspectacles caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of\neyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured\nout of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just\nonce Winston caught a phrase-\u2019complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism\u2019-\njerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line of type\ncast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet,\nthough you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not\nbe in any doubt about its general nature. He might be denouncing Goldstein\nand demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs, he\nmight be fulminating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be\npraising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front-it made no difference.\nWhatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy,\npure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up\nand down, Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being\nbut some kind of dummy. It was not the man\u2019s brain that was speaking, it was\nhis larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it was\nnot speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness, like the\nquacking of a duck.\nSyme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of his spoon was\ntracing patterns in the puddle of stew. The voice from the other table quacked\nrapidly on, easily audible in spite of the surrounding din.\n\u2019There is a word in Newspeak,\u2019 said Syme, \u2019I don\u2019t know whether you know\nit: duckspeak, to quack like a duck. It is one of those interesting words that\nhave two contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, applied\nto someone you agree with, it is praise.\u2019\nUnquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston thought again. He thought\nit with a kind of sadness, although well knowing that Syme despised him and\n\nslightly disliked him, and was fully capable of denouncing him as a thought-\ncriminal if he saw any reason for doing so. There was something subtly wrong\n\nwith Syme. There was something that he lacked: discretion, aloofness, a sort\nof saving stupidity. You could not say that he was unorthodox. He believed in\n\n\n\nthe principles of Ingsoc, he venerated Big Brother, he rejoiced over victories,\nhe hated heretics, not merely with sincerity but with a sort of restless zeal,\nan up-to-dateness of information, which the ordinary Party member did not\napproach. Yet a faint air of disreputability always clung to him. He said things\nthat would have been better unsaid, he had read too many books, he frequented\nthe Chestnut Tree Caf \u0301e, haunt of painters and musicians. There was no law,\nnot even an unwritten law, against frequenting the Chestnut Tree Caf \u0301e, yet the\nplace was somehow ill-omened. The old, discredited leaders of the Party had\nbeen used to gather there before they were finally purged. Goldstein himself, it\nwas said, had sometimes been seen there, years and decades ago. Syme\u2019s fate\nwas not difficult to foresee. And yet it was a fact that if Syme grasped, even for\nthree seconds, the nature of his, Winston\u2019s, secret opinions, he would betray him\ninstantly to the Thought police. So would anybody else, for that matter: but\nSyme more than most. Zeal was not enough. Orthodoxy was unconsciousness.\nSyme looked up. \u2019Here comes Parsons,\u2019 he said.\nSomething in the tone of his voice seemed to add, \u2019that bloody fool\u2019. Parsons,\nWinston\u2019s fellow-tenant at Victory Mansions, was in fact threading his way\nacross the room \u2014 a tubby, middle-sized man with fair hair and a froglike face.\nAt thirty-five he was already putting on rolls of fat at neck and waistline, but his\nmovements were brisk and boyish. His whole appearance was that of a little boy\ngrown large, so much so that although he was wearing the regulation overalls, it\nwas almost impossible not to think of him as being dressed in the blue shorts,\ngrey shirt, and red neckerchief of the Spies. In visualizing him one saw always a\npicture of dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy forearms. Parsons\ndid, indeed, invariably revert to shorts when a community hike or any other\nphysical activity gave him an excuse for doing so. He greeted them both with a\ncheery \u2019Hullo, hullo!\u2019 and sat down at the table, giving off an intense smell of\nsweat. Beads of moisture stood out all over his pink face. His powers of sweating\nwere extraordinary. At the Community Centre you could always tell when he\nhad been playing table-tennis by the dampness of the bat handle. Syme had\nproduced a strip of paper on which there was a long column of words, and was\nstudying it with an ink-pencil between his fingers.\n\n\u2019Look at him working away in the lunch hour,\u2019 said Parsons, nudging Win-\nston. \u2019Keenness, eh? What\u2019s that you\u2019ve got there, old boy? Something a bit\n\ntoo brainy for me, I expect. Smith, old boy, I\u2019ll tell you why I\u2019m chasing you.\nIt\u2019s that sub you forgot to give me.\u2019\n\u2019Which sub is that? said Winston, automatically feeling for money. About a\nquarter of one\u2019s salary had to be earmarked for voluntary subscriptions, which\nwere so numerous that it was difficult to keep track of them.\n\u2019For Hate Week. You know \u2014 the house-by-house fund. I\u2019m treasurer for\nour block. We\u2019re making an all-out effort \u2014 going to put on a tremendous show.\nI tell you, it won\u2019t be my fault if old Victory Mansions doesn\u2019t have the biggest\noutfit of flags in the whole street. Two dollars you promised me.\u2019\nWinston found and handed over two creased and filthy notes, which Parsons\nentered in a small notebook, in the neat handwriting of the illiterate.\n\u2019By the way, old boy,\u2019 he said. \u2019I hear that little beggar of mine let fly at\nyou with his catapult yesterday. I gave him a good dressing-down for it. In fact\nI told him I\u2019d take the catapult away if he does it again.\n\u2019I think he was a little upset at not going to the execution,\u2019 said Winston.\n\n\u2019 Ah, well \u2014 what I mean to say, shows the right spirit, doesn\u2019t it? Mis-\n\n\nchievous little beggars they are, both of them, but talk about keenness! All they\nthink about is the Spies, and the war, of course. D\u2019you know what that little\ngirl of mine did last Saturday, when her troop was on a hike out Berkhamsted\nway? She got two other girls to go with her, slipped off from the hike, and\nspent the whole afternoon following a strange man. They kept on his tail for\ntwo hours, right through the woods, and then, when they got into Amersham,\nhanded him over to the patrols.\u2019\n\u2019What did they do that for?\u2019 said Winston, somewhat taken aback. Parsons\nwent on triumphantly:\n\u2019My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent \u2014 might have been\ndropped by parachute, for instance. But here\u2019s the point, old boy. What do you\nthink put her on to him in the first place? She spotted he was wearing a funny\nkind of shoes \u2014 said she\u2019d never seen anyone wearing shoes like that before. So\nthe chances were he was a foreigner. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh?\u2019\n\u2019What happened to the man?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019Ah, that I couldn\u2019t say, of course. But I wouldn\u2019t be altogether surprised\nif-\u2019 Parsons made the motion of aiming a rifle, and clicked his tongue for the\nexplosion.\n\u2019Good,\u2019 said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from his strip of paper.\n\u2019Of course we can\u2019t afford to take chances,\u2019 agreed Winston dutifully.\n\u2019What I mean to say, there is a war on,\u2019 said Parsons.\nAs though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call floated from the telescreen\njust above their heads. However, it was not the proclamation of a military\nvictory this time, but merely an announcement from the Ministry of Plenty.\n\u2019Comrades!\u2019 cried an eager youthful voice. \u2019Attention, comrades! We have\nglorious news for you. We have won the battle for production! Returns now\ncompleted of the output of all classes of consumption goods show that the\nstandard of living has risen by no less than  per cent over the past year. All\nover Oceania this morning there were irrepressible spontaneous demonstrations\nwhen workers marched out of factories and offices and paraded through the\nstreets with banners voicing their gratitude to Big Brother for the new, happy\nlife which his wise leadership has bestowed upon us. Here are some of the\ncompleted figures. Foodstuffs-\u2019\nThe phrase \u2019our new, happy life\u2019 recurred several times. It had been a\nfavourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Parsons, his attention caught by\nthe trumpet call, sat listening with a sort of gaping solemnity, a sort of edified\nboredom. He could not follow the figures, but he was aware that they were in\nsome way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged out a huge and filthy pipe\nwhich was already half full of charred tobacco. With the tobacco ration at\n grammes a week it was seldom possible to fill a pipe to the top. Winston\nwas smoking a Victory Cigarette which he held carefully horizontal. The new\nration did not start till tomorrow and he had only four cigarettes left. For the\nmoment he had shut his ears to the remoter noises and was listening to the\nstuff that streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that there had even been\ndemonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty\ngrammes a week. And only yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that\nthe ration was to be reduced to twenty grammes a week. Was it possible that\nthey could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it.\nParsons swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature\nat the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a furious desire\n\n\n\nto track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone who should suggest that last\nweek the ration had been thirty grammes. Syme, too-in some more complex\nway, involving doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, alone in the\npossession of a memory?\nThe fabulous statistics continued to pour out of the telescreen. As compared\nwith last year there was more food, more clothes, more houses, more furniture,\nmore cooking-pots, more fuel, more ships, more helicopters, more books, more\nbabies \u2014 more of everything except disease, crime, and insanity. Year by year\nand minute by minute, everybody and everything was whizzing rapidly upwards.\nAs Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up his spoon and was dabbling\nin the pale-coloured gravy that dribbled across the table, drawing a long streak\nof it out into a pattern. He meditated resentfully on the physical texture of\nlife. Had it always been like this? Had food always tasted like this? He looked\nround the canteen. A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the\ncontact of innumerable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed so close\ntogether that you sat with elbows touching; bent spoons, dented trays, coarse\nwhite mugs; all surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite\nsmell of bad gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Always in\nyour stomach and in your skin there was a sort of protest, a feeling that you\nhad been cheated of something that you had a right to. It was true that he had\nno memories of anything greatly different. In any time that he could accurately\nremember, there had never been quite enough to eat, one had never had socks\nor underclothes that were not full of holes, furniture had always been battered\nand rickety, rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to pieces,\nbread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tasting, cigarettes insufficient \u2014\nnothing cheap and plentiful except synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew\nworse as one\u2019s body aged, was it not a sign that this was not the natural order\nof things, if one\u2019s heart sickened at the discomfort and dirt and scarcity, the\ninterminable winters, the stickiness of one\u2019s socks, the lifts that never worked,\nthe cold water, the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the food with\nits strange evil tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one had\nsome kind of ancestral memory that things had once been different?\nHe looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was ugly, and would\nstill have been ugly even if dressed otherwise than in the uniform blue overalls.\nOn the far side of the room, sitting at a table alone, a small, curiously beetle-like\nman was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting suspicious glances from\nside to side. How easy it was, thought Winston, if you did not look about you,\nto believe that the physical type set up by the Party as an ideal-tall muscular\nyouths and deep-bosomed maidens, blond-haired, vital, sunburnt, carefree \u2014\nexisted and even predominated. Actually, so far as he could judge, the majority\nof people in Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curious how\nthat beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries: little dumpy men, growing\nstout very early in life, with short legs, swift scuttling movements, and fat\ninscrutable faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to flourish\nbest under the dominion of the Party.\nThe announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended on another trumpet\ncall and gave way to tinny music. Parsons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by the\nbombardment of figures, took his pipe out of his mouth.\n\u2019The Ministry of Plenty\u2019s certainly done a good job this year,\u2019 he said with\na knowing shake of his head. \u2019By the way, Smith old boy, I suppose you haven\u2019t\n\n\n\ngot any razor blades you can let me have?\u2019\n\u2019Not one,\u2019 said Winston. \u2019I\u2019ve been using the same blade for six weeks\nmyself.\u2019\n\u2019Ah, well \u2014 just thought I\u2019d ask you, old boy.\u2019\n\u2019Sorry,\u2019 said Winston.\nThe quacking voice from the next table, temporarily silenced during the\nMinistry\u2019s announcement, had started up again, as loud as ever. For some reason\nWinston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs Parsons, with her wispy hair\nand the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years those children would be\ndenouncing her to the Thought Police. Mrs Parsons would be vaporized. Syme\nwould be vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O\u2019Brien would be vaporized.\nParsons, on the other hand, would never be vaporized. The eyeless creature\nwith the quacking voice would never be vaporized. The little beetle-like men\nwho scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine corridors of Ministries they, too,\nwould never be vaporized. And the girl with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction\nDepartment \u2014 she would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that he\nknew instinctively who would survive and who would perish: though just what\nit was that made for survival, it was not easy to say.\nAt this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk. The\ngirl at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him. It was\nthe girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way, but with\ncurious intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away again.\nThe sweat started out on Winston\u2019s backbone. A horrible pang of terror\nwent through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left a sort of nagging\nuneasiness behind. Why was she watching him? Why did she keep following\nhim about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been\nat the table when he arrived, or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at\nany rate, during the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him\nwhen there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had been\nto listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough.\nHis earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually a member\nof the Thought Police, but then it was precisely the amateur spy who was the\ngreatest danger of all. He did not know how long she had been looking at him,\nbut perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was possible that his features had\nnot been perfectly under control. It was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts\nwander when you were in any public place or within range of a telescreen.\nThe smallest thing could give you away. A nervous tic, an unconscious look of\nanxiety, a habit of muttering to yourself \u2014 anything that carried with it the\nsuggestion of abnormality, of having something to hide. In any case, to wear\nan improper expression on your face (to look incredulous when a victory was\nannounced, for example) was itself a punishable offence. There was even a word\nfor it in Newspeak: facecrime, it was called.\nThe girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after all she was not\nreally following him about, perhaps it was coincidence that she had sat so close\nto him two days running. His cigarette had gone out, and he laid it carefully on\nthe edge of the table. He would finish smoking it after work, if he could keep the\ntobacco in it. Quite likely the person at the next table was a spy of the Thought\nPolice, and quite likely he would be in the cellars of the Ministry of Love within\nthree days, but a cigarette end must not be wasted. Syme had folded up his\nstrip of paper and stowed it away in his pocket. Parsons had begun talking\n\n\n\nagain.\n\u2019Did I ever tell you, old boy,\u2019 he said, chuckling round the stem of his pipe,\n\n\u2019about the time when those two nippers of mine set fire to the old market-\nwoman\u2019s skirt because they saw her wrapping up sausages in a poster of B.B.?\n\nSneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of matches. Burned her\n\nquite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But keen as mustard! That\u2019s a first-\nrate training they give them in the Spies nowadays \u2014 better than in my day,\n\neven. What d\u2019you think\u2019s the latest thing they\u2019ve served them out with? Ear\ntrumpets for listening through keyholes! My little girl brought one home the\nother night \u2014 tried it out on our sitting-room door, and reckoned she could\nhear twice as much as with her ear to the hole. Of course it\u2019s only a toy, mind\nyou. Still, gives \u2019em the right idea, eh?\u2019\nAt this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. It was the signal to\nreturn to work. All three men sprang to their feet to join in the struggle round\nthe lifts, and the remaining tobacco fell out of Winston\u2019s cigarette.\n\n\n\n \n\nWinston was writing in his diary:\nIt was three years ago. It was on a dark evening, in a narrow side-street near\none of the big railway stations. She was standing near a doorway in the wall,\nunder a street lamp that hardly gave any light. She had a young face, painted\nvery thick. It was really the paint that appealed to me, the whiteness of it, like\na mask, and the bright red lips. Party women never paint their faces. There\nwas nobody else in the street, and no telescreens. She said two dollars. I\nFor the moment it was too difficult to go on. He shut his eyes and pressed\nhis fingers against them, trying to squeeze out the vision that kept recurring.\nHe had an almost overwhelming temptation to shout a string of filthy words\nat the top of his voice. Or to bang his head against the wall, to kick over the\ntable, and hurl the inkpot through the window \u2014 to do any violent or noisy or\npainful thing that might black out the memory that was tormenting him.\n\nYour worst enemy, he reflected, was your own nervous system. At any mo-\nment the tension inside you was liable to translate itself into some visible symp-\ntom. He thought of a man whom he had passed in the street a few weeks back;\n\na quite ordinary-looking man, a Party member, aged thirty-five to forty, tallish\nand thin, carrying a brief-case. They were a few metres apart when the left side\nof the man\u2019s face was suddenly contorted by a sort of spasm. It happened again\njust as they were passing one another: it was only a twitch, a quiver, rapid\nas the clicking of a camera shutter, but obviously habitual. He remembered\nthinking at the time: That poor devil is done for. And what was frightening\nwas that the action was quite possibly unconscious. The most deadly danger of\nall was talking in your sleep. There was no way of guarding against that, so far\nas he could see.\nHe drew his breath and went on writing:\nI went with her through the doorway and across a backyard into a basement\nkitchen. There was a bed against the wall, and a lamp on the table, turned\ndown very low. She\nHis teeth were set on edge. He would have liked to spit. Simultaneously\nwith the woman in the basement kitchen he thought of Katharine, his wife.\nWinston was married \u2014 had been married, at any rate: probably he still was\nmarried, so far as he knew his wife was not dead. He seemed to breathe again\nthe warm stuffy odour of the basement kitchen, an odour compounded of bugs\nand dirty clothes and villainous cheap scent, but nevertheless alluring, because\nno woman of the Party ever used scent, or could be imagined as doing so. Only\nthe proles used scent. In his mind the smell of it was inextricably mixed up\n\n\n\nwith fornication.\nWhen he had gone with that woman it had been his first lapse in two years\nor thereabouts. Consorting with prostitutes was forbidden, of course, but it\nwas one of those rules that you could occasionally nerve yourself to break. It\nwas dangerous, but it was not a life-and-death matter. To be caught with a\nprostitute might mean five years in a forced-labour camp: not more, if you had\ncommitted no other offence. And it was easy enough, provided that you could\navoid being caught in the act. The poorer quarters swarmed with women who\nwere ready to sell themselves. Some could even be purchased for a bottle of\ngin, which the proles were not supposed to drink. Tacitly the Party was even\ninclined to encourage prostitution, as an outlet for instincts which could not\nbe altogether suppressed. Mere debauchery did not matter very much, so long\nas it was furtive and joyless and only involved the women of a submerged and\ndespised class. The unforgivable crime was promiscuity between Party members.\nBut \u2014 though this was one of the crimes that the accused in the great purges\ninvariably confessed to \u2014 it was difficult to imagine any such thing actually\nhappening.\nThe aim of the Party was not merely to prevent men and women from\nforming loyalties which it might not be able to control. Its real, undeclared\npurpose was to remove all pleasure from the sexual act. Not love so much as\neroticism was the enemy, inside marriage as well as outside it. All marriages\nbetween Party members had to be approved by a committee appointed for the\npurpose, and \u2014 though the principle was never clearly stated \u2014 permission was\nalways refused if the couple concerned gave the impression of being physically\nattracted to one another. The only recognized purpose of marriage was to beget\nchildren for the service of the Party. Sexual intercourse was to be looked on as\na slightly disgusting minor operation, like having an enema. This again was\nnever put into plain words, but in an indirect way it was rubbed into every\nParty member from childhood onwards. There were even organizations such as\nthe Junior Anti-Sex League, which advocated complete celibacy for both sexes.\nAll children were to be begotten by artificial insemination (artsem, it was called\nin Newspeak) and brought up in public institutions. This, Winston was aware,\nwas not meant altogether seriously, but somehow it fitted in with the general\nideology of the Party. The Party was trying to kill the sex instinct, or, if it\ncould not be killed, then to distort it and dirty it. He did not know why this\nwas so, but it seemed natural that it should be so. And as far as the women\nwere concerned, the Party\u2019s efforts were largely successful.\nHe thought again of Katharine. It must be nine, ten \u2014 nearly eleven years\nsince they had parted. It was curious how seldom he thought of her. For days\nat a time he was capable of forgetting that he had ever been married. They had\nonly been together for about fifteen months. The Party did not permit divorce,\nbut it rather encouraged separation in cases where there were no children.\nKatharine was a tall, fair-haired girl, very straight, with splendid movements.\nShe had a bold, aquiline face, a face that one might have called noble until one\ndiscovered that there was as nearly as possible nothing behind it. Very early in\nher married life he had decided \u2014 though perhaps it was only that he knew her\nmore intimately than he knew most people \u2014 that she had without exception\nthe most stupid, vulgar, empty mind that he had ever encountered. She had\nnot a thought in her head that was not a slogan, and there was no imbecility,\nabsolutely none that she was not capable of swallowing if the Party handed it\n\n\n\nout to her. \u2019The human sound-track\u2019 he nicknamed her in his own mind. Yet\nhe could have endured living with her if it had not been for just one thing \u2014\nsex.\nAs soon as he touched her she seemed to wince and stiffen. To embrace\nher was like embracing a jointed wooden image. And what was strange was\nthat even when she was clasping him against her he had the feeling that she\nwas simultaneously pushing him away with all her strength. The rigidlty of\nher muscles managed to convey that impression. She would lie there with shut\neyes, neither resisting nor co-operating but submitting. It was extraordinarily\nembarrassing, and, after a while, horrible. But even then he could have borne\nliving with her if it had been agreed that they should remain celibate. But\ncuriously enough it was Katharine who refused this. They must, she said,\nproduce a child if they could. So the performance continued to happen, once a\nweek quite regulariy, whenever it was not impossible. She even used to remind\nhim of it in the morning, as something which had to be done that evening and\nwhich must not be forgotten. She had two names for it. One was \u2019making a\nbaby\u2019, and the other was \u2019our duty to the Party\u2019 (yes, she had actually used\nthat phrase). Quite soon he grew to have a feeling of positive dread when the\nappointed day came round. But luckily no child appeared, and in the end she\nagreed to give up trying, and soon afterwards they parted.\nWinston sighed inaudibly. He picked up his pen again and wrote:\n\nShe threw herself down on the bed, and at once, without any kind of pre-\nliminary in the most coarse, horrible way you can imagine, pulled up her skirt.\n\nI\nHe saw himself standing there in the dim lamplight, with the smell of bugs\nand cheap scent in his nostrils, and in his heart a feeling of defeat and resentment\nwhich even at that moment was mixed up with the thought of Katharine\u2019s white\nbody, frozen for ever by the hypnotic power of the Party. Why did it always\nhave to be like this? Why could he not have a woman of his own instead of\nthese filthy scuffles at intervals of years? But a real love affair was an almost\nunthinkable event. The women of the Party were all alike. Chastity was as deep\ningrained in them as Party loyalty. By careful early conditioning, by games and\ncold water, by the rubbish that was dinned into them at school and in the Spies\nand the Youth League, by lectures, parades, songs, slogans, and martial music,\nthe natural feeling had been driven out of them. His reason told him that there\nmust be exceptions, but his heart did not believe it. They were all impregnable,\nas the Party intended that they should be. And what he wanted, more even\nthan to be loved, was to break down that wall of virtue, even if it were only once\nin his whole life. The sexual act, successfully performed, was rebellion. Desire\nwas thoughtcrime. Even to have awakened Katharine, if he could have achieved\nit, would have been like a seduction, although she was his wife.\nBut the rest of the story had got to be written down. He wrote:\nI turned up the lamp. When I saw her in the light\nAfter the darkness the feeble light of the paraffin lamp had seemed very\nbright. For the first time he could see the woman properly. He had taken a step\ntowards her and then halted, full of lust and terror. He was painfully conscious\nof the risk he had taken in coming here. It was perfectly possible that the\npatrols would catch him on the way out: for that matter they might be waiting\noutside the door at this moment. If he went away without even doing what he\nhad come here to do \u2014 !\n\n\n\nIt had got to be written down, it had got to be confessed. What he had\nsuddenly seen in the lamplight was that the woman was old. The paint was\nplastered so thick on her face that it looked as though it might crack like a\ncardboard mask. There were streaks of white in her hair; but the truly dreadful\ndetail was that her mouth had fallen a little open, revealing nothing except a\ncavernous blackness. She had no teeth at all.\nHe wrote hurriedly, in scrabbling handwriting:\nWhen I saw her in the light she was quite an old woman, fifty years old at\nleast. But I went ahead and did it just the same.\nHe pressed his fingers against his eyelids again. He had written it down at\nlast, but it made no difference. The therapy had not worked. The urge to shout\nfilthy words at the top of his voice was as strong as ever.\n\n\n\n \n\nIf there is hope, wrote Winston, it lies in the proles.\nIf there was hope, it must lie in the proles, because only there in those\nswarming disregarded masses,  per cent of the population of Oceania, could\n\nthe force to destroy the Party ever be generated. The Party could not be over-\nthrown from within. Its enemies, if it had any enemies, had no way of coming\n\ntogether or even of identifying one another. Even if the legendary Brotherhood\nexisted, as just possibly it might, it was inconceivable that its members could\never assemble in larger numbers than twos and threes. Rebellion meant a look\nin the eyes, an inflexion of the voice, at the most, an occasional whispered\nword. But the proles, if only they could somehow become conscious of their\nown strength. would have no need to conspire. They needed only to rise up and\nshake themselves like a horse shaking off flies. If they chose they could blow\nthe Party to pieces tomorrow morning. Surely sooner or later it must occur to\nthem to do it? And yet-!\nHe remembered how once he had been walking down a crowded street when\na tremendous shout of hundreds of voices women\u2019s voices \u2014 had burst from a\nside-street a little way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger and despair,\na deep, loud \u2019Oh-o-o-o-oh!\u2019 that went humming on like the reverberation of a\nbell. His heart had leapt. It\u2019s started! he had thought. A riot! The proles are\nbreaking loose at last! When he had reached the spot it was to see a mob of\ntwo or three hundred women crowding round the stalls of a street market, with\nfaces as tragic as though they had been the doomed passengers on a sinking\nship. But at this moment the general despair broke down into a multitude\nof individual quarrels. It appeared that one of the stalls had been selling tin\nsaucepans. They were wretched, flimsy things, but cooking-pots of any kind\nwere always difficult to get. Now the supply had unexpectedly given out. The\nsuccessful women, bumped and jostled by the rest, were trying to make off with\ntheir saucepans while dozens of others clamoured round the stall, accusing the\nstall-keeper of favouritism and of having more saucepans somewhere in reserve.\nThere was a fresh outburst of yells. Two bloated women, one of them with her\nhair coming down, had got hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear\nit out of one another\u2019s hands. For a moment they were both tugging, and then\nthe handle came off. Winston watched them disgustedly. And yet, just for a\nmoment, what almost frightening power had sounded in that cry from only a\nfew hundred throats! Why was it that they could never shout like that about\nanything that mattered?\nHe wrote:\n\n\n\nUntil they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have\nrebelled they cannot become conscious.\nThat, he reflected, might almost have been a transcription from one of the\nParty textbooks. The Party claimed, of course, to have liberated the proles\nfrom bondage. Before the Revolution they had been hideously oppressed by the\ncapitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had been forced to work\nin the coal mines (women still did work in the coal mines, as a matter of fact),\nchildren had been sold into the factories at the age of six. But simultaneously,\ntrue to the Principles of doublethink, the Party taught that the proles were\nnatural inferiors who must be kept in subjection, like animals, by the application\nof a few simple rules. In reality very little was known about the proles. It was\nnot necessary to know much. So long as they continued to work and breed,\ntheir other activities were without importance. Left to themselves, like cattle\nturned loose upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of life\nthat appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral pattern. They were\nborn, they grew up in the gutters, they went to work at twelve, they passed\nthrough a brief blossoming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married\nat twenty, they were middle-aged at thirty, they died, for the most part, at\nsixty. Heavy physical work, the care of home and children, petty quarrels with\nneighbours, films, football, beer, and above all, gambling, filled up the horizon\nof their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult. A few agents of\nthe Thought Police moved always among them, spreading false rumours and\nmarking down and eliminating the few individuals who were judged capable of\nbecoming dangerous; but no attempt was made to indoctrinate them with the\nideology of the Party. It was not desirable that the proles should have strong\npolitical feelings. All that was required of them was a primitive patriotism which\ncould be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make them accept longer\nworking-hours or shorter rations. And even when they became discontented,\nas they sometimes did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without\ngeneral ideas, they could only focus it on petty specific grievances. The larger\nevils invariably escaped their notice. The great majority of proles did not even\nhave telescreens in their homes. Even the civil police interfered with them\n\nvery little. There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a whole world-\nwithin-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes, drug-peddlers, and racketeers of\n\nevery description; but since it all happened among the proles themselves, it\nwas of no importance. In all questions of morals they were allowed to follow\ntheir ancestral code. The sexual puritanism of the Party was not imposed upon\nthem. Promiscuity went unpunished, divorce was permitted. For that matter,\neven religious worship would have been permitted if the proles had shown any\nsign of needing or wanting it. They were beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan\nput it: \u2019Proles and animals are free.\u2019\nWinston reached down and cautiously scratched his varicose ulcer. It had\n\nbegun itching again. The thing you invariably came back to was the impossi-\nbility of knowing what life before the Revolution had really been like. He took\n\nout of the drawer a copy of a children\u2019s history textbook which he had borrowed\nfrom Mrs Parsons, and began copying a passage into the diary:\nIn the old days (it ran), before the glorious Revolution, London was not the\nbeautiful city that we know today. It was a dark, dirty, miserable place where\nhardly anybody had enough to eat and where hundreds and thousands of poor\npeople had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to sleep under. Children\n\n\n\nno older than you had to work twelve hours a day for cruel masters who flogged\nthem with whips if they worked too slowly and fed them on nothing but stale\nbreadcrusts and water.\nBut in among all this terrible poverty there were just a few great big beautiful\nhouses that were lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to\nlook after them. These rich men were called capitalists. They were fat, ugly\nmen with wicked faces, like the one in the picture on the opposite page. You\ncan see that he is dressed in a long black coat which was called a frock coat,\nand a queer, shiny hat shaped like a stovepipe, which was called a top hat. This\nwas the uniform of the capitalists, and no one else was allowed to wear it. The\ncapitalists owned everything in the world, and everyone else was their slave.\nThey owned all the land, all the houses, all the factories, and all the money. If\nanyone disobeyed them they could throw them into prison, or they could take\nhis job away and starve him to death. When any ordinary person spoke to a\ncapitalist he had to cringe and bow to him, and take off his cap and address\nhim as \u2019Sir\u2019. The chief of all the capitalists was called the King. and\nBut he knew the rest of the catalogue. There would be mention of the bishops\nin their lawn sleeves, the judges in their ermine robes, the pillory, the stocks,\nthe treadmill, the cat-o\u2019-nine tails, the Lord Mayor\u2019s Banquet, and the practice\nof kissing the Pope\u2019s toe. There was also something called the jus primae noctis,\nwhich would probably not be mentioned in a textbook for children. It was the\nlaw by which every capitalist had the right to sleep with any woman working in\none of his factories.\nHow could you tell how much of it was lies? It might be true that the average\nhuman being was better off now than he had been before the Revolution. The\nonly evidence to the contrary was the mute protest in your own bones, the\ninstinctive feeling that the conditions you lived in were intolerable and that at\nsome other time they must have been different. It struck him that the truly\ncharacteristic thing about modern life was not its cruelty and insecurity, but\nsimply its bareness, its dinginess, its listlessness. Life, if you looked about you,\nbore no resemblance not only to the lies that streamed out of the telescreens,\nbut even to the ideals that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it,\neven for a Party member, were neutral and non-political, a matter of slogging\nthrough dreary jobs, fighting for a place on the Tube, darning a worn-out sock,\ncadging a saccharine tablet, saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the Party\nwas something huge, terrible, and glittering \u2014 a world of steel and concrete, of\nmonstrous machines and terrifying weapons \u2014 a nation of warriors and fanatics,\nmarching forward in perfect unity, all thinking the same thoughts and shouting\nthe same slogans, perpetually working, fighting, triumphing, persecuting \u2014\nthree hundred million people all with the same face. The reality was decaying,\n\ndingy cities where underfed people shuffled to and fro in leaky shoes, in patched-\nup nineteenth-century houses that smelt always of cabbage and bad lavatories.\n\nHe seemed to see a vision of London, vast and ruinous, city of a million dustbins,\nand mixed up with it was a picture of Mrs Parsons, a woman with lined face\nand wispy hair, fiddling helplessly with a blocked waste-pipe.\n\nHe reached down and scratched his ankle again. Day and night the tele-\nscreens bruised your ears with statistics proving that people today had more\n\nfood, more clothes, better houses, better recreations \u2014 that they lived longer,\nworked shorter hours, were bigger, healthier, stronger, happier, more intelligent,\nbetter educated, than the people of fifty years ago. Not a word of it could ever\n\n\n\nbe proved or disproved. The Party claimed, for example, that today  per cent\nof adult proles were literate: before the Revolution, it was said, the number had\nonly been  per cent. The Party claimed that the infant mortality rate was\nnow only  per thousand, whereas before the Revolution it had been  \u2014\nand so it went on. It was like a single equation with two unknowns. It might\nvery well be that literally every word in the history books, even the things that\none accepted without question, was pure fantasy. For all he knew there might\nnever have been any such law as the jus primae noctis, or any such creature as\na capitalist, or any such garment as a top hat.\nEverything faded into mist. The past was erased, the erasure was forgotten,\nthe lie became truth. Just once in his life he had possessed \u2014 after the event:\n\nthat was what counted \u2014 concrete, unmistakable evidence of an act of falsifica-\ntion. He had held it between his fingers for as long as thirty seconds. In ,\n\nit must have been \u2014 at any rate,\nit was at about the time when he and Katharine had parted. But the really\nrelevant date was seven or eight years earlier.\nThe story really began in the middle sixties, the period of the great purges\nin which the original leaders of the Revolution were wiped out once and for all.\nBy  none of them was left, except Big Brother himself. All the rest had by\nthat time been exposed as traitors and counter- revolutionaries. Goldstein had\nfled and was hiding no one knew where, and of the others, a few had simply\ndisappeared, while the majority had been executed after spectacular public trials\nat which they made confession of their crimes. Among the last survivors were\nthree men named Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. It must have been in \nthat these three had been arrested. As often happened, they had vanished for\na year or more, so that one did not know whether they were alive or dead, and\nthen had suddenly been brought forth to incriminate themselves in the usual\nway. They had confessed to intelligence with the enemy (at that date, too,\nthe enemy was Eurasia), embezzlement of public funds, the murder of various\ntrusted Party members, intrigues against the leadership of Big Brother which\nhad started long before the Revolution happened, and acts of sabotage causing\nthe death of hundreds of thousands of people. After confessing to these things\nthey had been pardoned, reinstated in the Party, and given posts which were in\nfact sinecures but which sounded important. All three had written long, abject\narticles in The Times, analysing the reasons for their defection and promising\nto make amends.\nSome time after their release Winston had actually seen all three of them\nin the Chestnut Tree Caf \u0301e. He remembered the sort of terrified fascination\nwith which he had watched them out of the corner of his eye. They were men\nfar older than himself, relics of the ancient world, almost the last great figures\nleft over from the heroic days of the Party. The glamour of the underground\nstruggle and the civil war still faintly clung to them. He had the feeling, though\nalready at that time facts and dates were growing blurry, that he had known\ntheir names years earlier than he had known that of Big Brother. But also\nthey were outlaws, enemies, untouchables, doomed with absolute certainty to\nextinction within a year or two. No one who had once fallen into the hands of\nthe Thought Police ever escaped in the end. They were corpses waiting to be\nsent back to the grave.\nThere was no one at any of the tables nearest to them. It was not wise even\nto be seen in the neighbourhood of such people. They were sitting in silence\n\n\n\nbefore glasses of the gin flavoured with cloves which was the speciality of the\ncaf \u0301e. Of the three, it was Rutherford whose appearance had most impressed\n\nWinston. Rutherford had once been a famous caricaturist, whose brutal car-\ntoons had helped to inflame popular opinion before and during the Revolution.\n\nEven now, at long intervals, his cartoons were appearing in The Times. They\n\nwere simply an imitation of his earlier manner, and curiously lifeless and uncon-\nvincing. Always they were a rehashing of the ancient themes \u2014 slum tenements,\n\nstarving children, street battles, capitalists in top hats \u2014 even on the barricades\nthe capitalists still seemed to cling to their top hats an endless, hopeless effort\nto get back into the past. He was a monstrous man, with a mane of greasy grey\nhair, his face pouched and seamed, with thick negroid lips. At one time he must\nhave been immensely strong; now his great body was sagging, sloping, bulging,\nfalling away in every direction. He seemed to be breaking up before one\u2019s eyes,\nlike a mountain crumbling.\nIt was the lonely hour of fifteen. Winston could not now remember how\nhe had come to be in the caf \u0301e at such a time. The place was almost empty.\nA tinny music was trickling from the telescreens. The three men sat in their\ncorner almost motionless, never speaking. Uncommanded, the waiter brought\nfresh glasses of gin. There was a chessboard on the table beside them, with\nthe pieces set out but no game started. And then, for perhaps half a minute\nin all, something happened to the telescreens. The tune that they were playing\nchanged, and the tone of the music changed too. There came into it \u2014 but\nit was something hard to describe. It was a peculiar, cracked, braying, jeering\nnote: in his mind Winston called it a yellow note. And then a voice from the\ntelescreen was singing:\nUnder the spreading chestnut tree\nI sold you and you sold me:\nThere lie they, and here lie we\nUnder the spreading chestnut tree.\n\nThe three men never stirred. But when Winston glanced again at Ruther-\nford\u2019s ruinous face, he saw that his eyes were full of tears. And for the first\n\ntime he noticed, with a kind of inward shudder, and yet not knowing at what\nhe shuddered, that both Aaronson and Rutherford had broken noses.\nA little later all three were re-arrested. It appeared that they had engaged\nin fresh conspiracies from the very moment of their release. At their second\ntrial they confessed to all their old crimes over again, with a whole string of new\nones. They were executed, and their fate was recorded in the Party histories, a\nwarning to posterity. About five years after this, in , Winston was unrolling\na wad of documents which had just flopped out of the pneumatic tube on to his\ndesk when he came on a fragment of paper which had evidently been slipped\nin among the others and then forgotten. The instant he had flattened it out\nhe saw its significance. It was a half-page torn out of The Times of about ten\nyears earlier \u2014 the top half of the page, so that it included the date \u2014 and it\ncontained a photograph of the delegates at some Party function in New York.\nProminent in the middle of the group were Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford.\nThere was no mistaking them, in any case their names were in the caption at\nthe bottom.\nThe point was that at both trials all three men had confessed that on that\ndate they had been on Eurasian soil. They had flown from a secret airfield in\nCanada to a rendezvous somewhere in Siberia, and had conferred with members\n\n\n\nof the Eurasian General Staff, to whom they had betrayed important military\nsecrets. The date had stuck in Winston\u2019s memory because it chanced to be\nmidsummer day; but the whole story must be on record in countless other\nplaces as well. There was only one possible conclusion: the confessions were\nlies.\nOf course, this was not in itself a discovery. Even at that time Winston had\nnot imagined that the people who were wiped out in the purges had actually\ncommitted the crimes that they were accused of. But this was concrete evidence;\nit was a fragment of the abolished past, like a fossil bone which turns up in the\nwrong stratum and destroys a geological theory. It was enough to blow the\nParty to atoms, if in some way it could have been published to the world and\nits significance made known.\nHe had gone straight on working. As soon as he saw what the photograph\nwas, and what it meant, he had covered it up with another sheet of paper.\nLuckily, when he unrolled it, it had been upside-down from the point of view of\nthe telescreen.\nHe took his scribbling pad on his knee and pushed back his chair so as to get\nas far away from the telescreen as possible. To keep your face expressionless was\nnot difficult, and even your breathing could be controlled, with an effort: but you\ncould not control the beating of your heart, and the telescreen was quite delicate\nenough to pick it up. He let what he judged to be ten minutes go by, tormented\nall the while by the fear that some accident \u2014 a sudden draught blowing across\nhis desk, for instance \u2014 would betray him. Then, without uncovering it again,\nhe dropped the photograph into the memory hole, along with some other waste\npapers. Within another minute, perhaps, it would have crumbled into ashes.\nThat was ten \u2014 eleven years ago. Today, probably, he would have kept that\nphotograph. It was curious that the fact of having held it in his fingers seemed\nto him to make a difference even now, when the photograph itself, as well as\nthe event it recorded, was only memory. Was the Party\u2019s hold upon the past\nless strong, he wondered, because a piece of evidence which existed no longer\nhad once existed?\nBut today, supposing that it could be somehow resurrected from its ashes,\nthe photograph might not even be evidence. Already, at the time when he made\nhis discovery, Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia, and it must have been\nto the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men had betrayed their country.\nSince then there had been other changes \u2014 two, three, he could not remember\nhow many. Very likely the confessions had been rewritten and rewritten until\nthe original facts and dates no longer had the smallest significance. The past not\nonly changed, but changed continuously. What most afflicted him with the sense\nof nightmare was that he had never clearly understood why the huge imposture\nwas undertaken. The immediate advantages of falsifying the past were obvious,\nbut the ultimate motive was mysterious. He took up his pen again and wrote:\nI understand HOW: I do not understand WHY.\nHe wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself\nwas a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one. At one time it\nhad been a sign of madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; today,\nto believe that the past is inalterable. He might be alone in holding that belief,\nand if alone, then a lunatic. But the thought of being a lunatic did not greatly\ntrouble him: the horror was that he might also be wrong.\nHe picked up the children\u2019s history book and looked at the portrait of Big\n\n\n\nBrother which formed its frontispiece. The hypnotic eyes gazed into his own.\nIt was as though some huge force were pressing down upon you \u2014 something\nthat penetrated inside your skull, battering against your brain, frightening you\nout of your beliefs, persuading you, almost, to deny the evidence of your senses.\nIn the end the Party would announce that two and two made five, and you\nwould have to believe it. It was inevitable that they should make that claim\nsooner or later: the logic of their position demanded it. Not merely the validity\nof experience, but the very existence of external reality, was tacitly denied by\ntheir philosophy. The heresy of heresies was common sense. And what was\nterrifying was not that they would kill you for thinking otherwise, but that they\nmight be right. For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four?\nOr that the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both\nthe past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is\ncontrollable what then?\nBut no! His courage seemed suddenly to stiffen of its own accord. The face\nof O\u2019Brien, not called up by any obvious association, had floated into his mind.\nHe knew, with more certainty than before, that O\u2019Brien was on his side. He was\nwriting the diary for O\u2019Brien \u2014 to O\u2019Brien: it was like an interminable letter\nwhich no one would ever read, but which was addressed to a particular person\nand took its colour from that fact.\nThe Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their\nfinal, most essential command. His heart sank as he thought of the enormous\npower arrayed against him, the ease with which any Party intellectual would\noverthrow him in debate, the subtle arguments which he would not be able\nto understand, much less answer. And yet he was in the right! They were\nwrong and he was right. The obvious, the silly, and the true had got to be\ndefended. Truisms are true, hold on to that! The solid world exists, its laws do\nnot change. Stones are hard, water is wet, objects unsupported fall towards the\nearth\u2019s centre. With the feeling that he was speaking to O\u2019Brien, and also that\nhe was setting forth an important axiom, he wrote:\nFreedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that is granted,\nall else follows.\n\n\n\n \n\nFrom somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of roasting coffee \u2014 real\ncoffee, not Victory Coffee \u2014 came floating out into the street. Winston paused\ninvoluntarily. For perhaps two seconds he was back in the half-forgotten world\nof his childhood. Then a door banged, seeming to cut off the smell as abruptly\nas though it had been a sound.\nHe had walked several kilometres over pavements, and his varicose ulcer\nwas throbbing. This was the second time in three weeks that he had missed\nan evening at the Community Centre: a rash act, since you could be certain\nthat the number of your attendances at the Centre was carefully checked. In\nprinciple a Party member had no spare time, and was never alone except in\nbed. It was assumed that when he was not working, eating, or sleeping he\nwould be taking part in some kind of communal recreation: to do anything that\nsuggested a taste for solitude, even to go for a walk by yourself, was always\nslightly dangerous. There was a word for it in Newspeak: ownlife, it was called,\nmeaning individualism and eccentricity. But this evening as he came out of the\nMinistry the balminess of the April air had tempted him. The sky was a warmer\nblue than he had seen it that year, and suddenly the long, noisy evening at the\nCentre, the boring, exhausting games, the lectures, the creaking camaraderie\noiled by gin, had seemed intolerable. On impulse he had turned away from the\nbus-stop and wandered off into the labyrinth of London, first south, then east,\nthen north again, losing himself among unknown streets and hardly bothering\nin which direction he was going.\n\u2019If there is hope,\u2019 he had written in the diary, \u2019it lies in the proles.\u2019 The words\nkept coming back to him, statement of a mystical truth and a palpable absurdity.\nHe was somewhere in the vague, brown-coloured slums to the north and east\nof what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He was walking up a cobbled\nstreet of little two-storey houses with battered doorways which gave straight on\nthe pavement and which were somehow curiously suggestive of ratholes. There\nwere puddles of filthy water here and there among the cobbles. In and out\nof the dark doorways, and down narrow alley-ways that branched off on either\nside, people swarmed in astonishing numbers \u2014 girls in full bloom, with crudely\nlipsticked mouths, and youths who chased the girls, and swollen waddling women\nwho showed you what the girls would be like in ten years\u2019 time, and old bent\ncreatures shuffling along on splayed feet, and ragged barefooted children who\nplayed in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells from their mothers.\nPerhaps a quarter of the windows in the street were broken and boarded up.\nMost of the people paid no attention to Winston; a few eyed him with a sort\n\n\n\nof guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red forearms folded\nacross thelr aprons were talking outside a doorway. Winston caught scraps of\nconversation as he approached.\n\u2019 \u201dYes,\u201d I says to \u2019er, \u201dthat\u2019s all very well,\u201d I says. \u201dBut if you\u2019d of been in\nmy place you\u2019d of done the same as what I done. It\u2019s easy to criticize,\u201d I says,\n\u201dbut you ain\u2019t got the same problems as what I got.\u201d \u2019\n\u2019Ah,\u2019 said the other, \u2019that\u2019s jest it. That\u2019s jest where it is.\u2019\nThe strident voices stopped abruptly. The women studied him in hostile\nsilence as he went past. But it was not hostility, exactly; merely a kind of\nwariness, a momentary stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar animal.\nThe blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in a street like this.\nIndeed, it was unwise to be seen in such places, unless you had definite business\nthere. The patrols might stop you if you happened to run into them. \u2019May I\nsee your papers, comrade? What are you doing here? What time did you leave\nwork? Is this your usual way home?\u2019 \u2014 and so on and so forth. Not that there\nwas any rule against walking home by an unusual route: but it was enough to\ndraw attention to you if the Thought Police heard about it.\nSuddenly the whole street was in commotion. There were yells of warning\nfrom all sides. People were shooting into the doorways like rabbits. A young\nwoman leapt out of a doorway a little ahead of Winston, grabbed up a tiny\nchild playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it, and leapt back again,\nall in one movement. At the same instant a man in a concertina-like black suit,\nwho had emerged from a side alley, ran towards Winston, pointing excitedly to\nthe sky.\n\u2019Steamer!\u2019 he yelled. \u2019Look out, guv\u2019nor! Bang over\u2019ead! Lay down quick!\u2019\n\u2019Steamer\u2019 was a nickname which, for some reason, the proles applied to\nrocket bombs. Winston promptly flung himself on his face. The proles were\nnearly always right when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed to\npossess some kind of instinct which told them several seconds in advance when a\nrocket was coming, although the rockets supposedly travelled faster than sound.\nWinston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar that seemed\nto make the pavement heave; a shower of light objects pattered on to his back.\nWhen he stood up he found that he was covered with fragments of glass from\nthe nearest window.\nHe walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of houses  metres up\nthe street. A black plume of smoke hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of\nplaster dust in which a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There was\na little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him, and in the middle of\nit he could see a bright red streak. When he got up to it he saw that it was a\nhuman hand severed at the wrist. Apart from the bloody stump, the hand was\nso completely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast.\nHe kicked the thing into the gutter, and then, to avoid the crowd, turned\ndown a side-street to the right. Within three or four minutes he was out of the\narea which the bomb had affected, and the sordid swarming life of the streets\nwas going on as though nothing had happened. It was nearly twenty hours, and\nthe drinking-shops which the proles frequented (\u2019pubs\u2019, they called them) were\nchoked with customers. From their grimy swing doors, endlessly opening and\nshutting, there came forth a smell of urine, sawdust, and sour beer. In an angle\nformed by a projecting house-front three men were standing very close together,\nthe middle one of them holding a folded-up newspaper which the other two were\n\n\n\nstudying over his shoulder. Even before he was near enough to make out the\nexpression on their faces, Winston could see absorption in every line of their\nbodies. It was obviously some serious piece of news that they were reading. He\nwas a few paces away from them when suddenly the group broke up and two of\nthe men were in violent altercation. For a moment they seemed almost on the\npoint of blows.\n\u2019Can\u2019t you bleeding well listen to what I say? I tell you no number ending\nin seven ain\u2019t won for over fourteen months!\u2019\n\u2019Yes, it \u2019as, then!\u2019\n\u2019No, it \u2019as not! Back \u2019ome I got the \u2019ole lot of \u2019em for over two years wrote\ndown on a piece of paper. I takes \u2019em down reg\u2019lar as the clock. An\u2019 I tell you,\nno number ending in seven-\u2019\n\u2019Yes, a seven \u2019as won! I could pretty near tell you the bleeding number. Four\noh seven, it ended in. It were in February \u2014 second week in February.\u2019\n\u2019February your grandmother! I got it all down in black and white. An\u2019 I tell\nyou, no number-\u2019\n\u2019Oh, pack it in!\u2019 said the third man.\nThey were talking about the Lottery. Winston looked back when he had\ngone thirty metres. They were still arguing, with vivid, passionate faces. The\nLottery, with its weekly pay-out of enormous prizes, was the one public event\nto which the proles paid serious attention. It was probable that there were\nsome millions of proles for whom the Lottery was the principal if not the only\nreason for remaining alive. It was their delight, their folly, their anodyne, their\nintellectual stimulant. Where the Lottery was concerned, even people who could\nbarely read and write seemed capable of intricate calculations and staggering\nfeats of memory. There was a whole tribe of men who made a living simply\nby selling systems, forecasts, and lucky amulets. Winston had nothing to do\nwith the running of the Lottery, which was managed by the Ministry of Plenty,\nbut he was aware (indeed everyone in the party was aware) that the prizes were\nlargely imaginary. Only small sums were actually paid out, the winners of the big\nprizes being non-existent persons. In the absence of any real intercommunication\nbetween one part of Oceania and another, this was not difficult to arrange.\nBut if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling on to that.\nWhen you put it in words it sounded reasonable: it was when you looked at\nthe human beings passing you on the pavement that it became an act of faith.\nThe street into which he had turned ran downhill. He had a feeling that he\nhad been in this neighbourhood before, and that there was a main thoroughfare\nnot far away. From somewhere ahead there came a din of shouting voices. The\nstreet took a sharp turn and then ended in a flight of steps which led down into\na sunken alley where a few stall-keepers were selling tired-looking vegetables.\nAt this moment Winston remembered where he was. The alley led out into\nthe main street, and down the next turning, not five minutes away, was the\njunk-shop where he had bought the blank book which was now his diary. And\nin a small stationer\u2019s shop not far away he had bought his penholder and his\nbottle of ink.\nHe paused for a moment at the top of the steps. On the opposite side of the\nalley there was a dingy little pub whose windows appeared to be frosted over but\nin reality were merely coated with dust. A very old man, bent but active, with\nwhite moustaches that bristled forward like those of a prawn, pushed open the\nswing door and went in. As Winston stood watching, it occurred to him that\n\n\n\nthe old man, who must be eighty at the least, had already been middle-aged\nwhen the Revolution happened. He and a few others like him were the last links\nthat now existed with the vanished world of capitalism. In the Party itself there\nwere not many people left whose ideas had been formed before the Revolution.\nThe older generation had mostly been wiped out in the great purges of the\nfifties and sixties, and the few who survived had long ago been terrified into\ncomplete intellectual surrender. If there was any one still alive who could give\nyou a truthful account of conditions in the early part of the century, it could\nonly be a prole. Suddenly the passage from the history book that he had copied\ninto his diary came back into Winston\u2019s mind, and a lunatic impulse took hold\nof him. He would go into the pub, he would scrape acquaintance with that old\nman and question him. He would say to him: \u2019Tell me about your life when you\nwere a boy. What was it like in those days? Were things better than they are\nnow, or were they worse?\u2019\nHurriedly, lest he should have time to become frightened, he descended the\nsteps and crossed the narrow street. It was madness of course. As usual, there\nwas no definite rule against talking to proles and frequenting their pubs, but\nit was far too unusual an action to pass unnoticed. If the patrols appeared he\nmight plead an attack of faintness, but it was not likely that they would believe\nhim. He pushed open the door, and a hideous cheesy smell of sour beer hit him\nin the face. As he entered the din of voices dropped to about half its volume.\nBehind his back he could feel everyone eyeing his blue overalls. A game of darts\nwhich was going on at the other end of the room interrupted itself for perhaps\nas much as thirty seconds. The old man whom he had followed was standing\nat the bar, having some kind of altercation with the barman, a large, stout,\nhook-nosed young man with enormous forearms. A knot of others, standing\nround with glasses in their hands, were watching the scene.\n\n\u2019I arst you civil enough, didn\u2019t I?\u2019 said the old man, straightening his shoul-\nders pugnaciously. \u2019You telling me you ain\u2019t got a pint mug in the \u2019ole bleeding\n\nboozer?\u2019\n\u2019And what in hell\u2019s name is a pint?\u2019 said the barman, leaning forward with\nthe tips of his fingers on the counter.\n\u2019Ark at \u2019im! Calls \u2019isself a barman and don\u2019t know what a pint is! Why, a\npint\u2019s the \u2019alf of a quart, and there\u2019s four quarts to the gallon. \u2019Ave to teach\nyou the A, B, C next.\u2019\n\u2019Never heard of \u2019em,\u2019 said the barman shortly. \u2019Litre and half litre \u2014 that\u2019s\nall we serve. There\u2019s the glasses on the shelf in front of you.\n\u2019I likes a pint,\u2019 persisted the old man. \u2019You could \u2019a drawed me off a pint\neasy enough. We didn\u2019t \u2019ave these bleeding litres when I was a young man.\u2019\n\u2019When you were a young man we were all living in the treetops,\u2019 said the\nbarman, with a glance at the other customers.\nThere was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused by Winston\u2019s entry\nseemed to disappear. The old man\u2019s whitestubbled face had flushed pink. He\nturned away, muttering to himself, and bumped into Winston. Winston caught\nhim gently by the arm.\n\u2019May I offer you a drink?\u2019 he said.\n\n\u2019You\u2019re a gent,\u2019 said the other, straightening his shoulders again. He ap-\npeared not to have noticed Winston\u2019s blue overalls. \u2019Pint!\u2019 he added aggressively\n\nto the barman. \u2019Pint of wallop.\u2019\nThe barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer into thick glasses\n\n\n\nwhich he had rinsed in a bucket under the counter. Beer was the only drink you\ncould get in prole pubs. The proles were supposed not to drink gin, though in\npractice they could get hold of it easily enough. The game of darts was in full\nswing again, and the knot of men at the bar had begun talking about lottery\ntickets. Winston\u2019s presence was forgotten for a moment. There was a deal table\nunder the window where he and the old man could talk without fear of being\noverheard. It was horribly dangerous, but at any rate there was no telescreen\nin the room, a point he had made sure of as soon as he came in.\n\u201dE could \u2019a drawed me off a pint,\u2019 grumbled the old man as he settled down\nbehind a glass. \u2019A \u2019alf litre ain\u2019t enough. It don\u2019t satisfy. And a \u2019ole litre\u2019s too\nmuch. It starts my bladder running. Let alone the price.\u2019\n\n\u2019You must have seen great changes since you were a young man,\u2019 said Win-\nston tentatively.\n\nThe old man\u2019s pale blue eyes moved from the darts board to the bar, and\nfrom the bar to the door of the Gents, as though it were in the bar-room that\nhe expected the changes to have occurred.\n\u2019The beer was better,\u2019 he said finally. \u2019And cheaper! When I was a young\nman, mild beer \u2014 wallop we used to call it \u2014 was fourpence a pint. That was\nbefore the war, of course.\u2019\n\u2019Which war was that?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019It\u2019s all wars,\u2019 said the old man vaguely. He took up his glass, and his\nshoulders straightened again. \u201dEre\u2019s wishing you the very best of \u2019ealth!\u2019\nIn his lean throat the sharp-pointed Adam\u2019s apple made a surprisingly rapid\nup-and-down movement, and the beer vanished. Winston went to the bar and\ncame back with two more half-litres. The old man appeared to have forgotten\nhis prejudice against drinking a full litre.\n\u2019You are very much older than I am,\u2019 said Winston. \u2019You must have been a\ngrown man before I was born. You can remember what it was like in the old\ndays, before the Revolution. People of my age don\u2019t really know anything about\nthose times. We can only read about them in books, and what it says in the\nbooks may not be true. I should like your opinion on that. The history books\nsay that life before the Revolution was completely different from what it is now.\nThere was the most terrible oppression, injustice, poverty worse than anything\nwe can imagine. Here in London, the great mass of the people never had enough\nto eat from birth to death. Half of them hadn\u2019t even boots on their feet. They\nworked twelve hours a day, they left school at nine, they slept ten in a room.\nAnd at the same time there were a very few people, only a few thousands \u2014\nthe capitalists, they were called \u2014 who were rich and powerful. They owned\neverything that there was to own. They lived in great gorgeous houses with\nthirty servants, they rode about in motor-cars and four-horse carriages, they\ndrank champagne, they wore top hats-\u2019\nThe old man brightened suddenly.\n\u2019Top \u2019ats!\u2019 he said. \u2019Funny you should mention \u2019em. The same thing come\ninto my \u2019ead only yesterday, I dono why. I was jest thinking, I ain\u2019t seen a top\n\u2019at in years. Gorn right out, they \u2019ave. The last time I wore one was at my\nsister-in-law\u2019s funeral. And that was \u2014 well, I couldn\u2019t give you the date, but\nit must\u2019a been fifty years ago. Of course it was only \u2019ired for the occasion, you\nunderstand.\u2019\n\u2019It isn\u2019t very important about the top hats,\u2019 said Winston patiently. \u2019The\npoint is, these capitalists \u2014 they and a few lawyers and priests and so forth\n\n\n\nwho lived on them \u2014 were the lords of the earth. Everything existed for their\nbenefit. You \u2014 the ordinary people, the workers \u2014 were their slaves. They\ncould do what they liked with you. They could ship you off to Canada like\ncattle. They could sleep with your daughters if they chose. They could order\nyou to be flogged with something called a cat-o\u2019-nine tails. You had to take\nyour cap off when you passed them. Every capitalist went about with a gang of\nlackeys who-\u2019\nThe old man brightened again.\n\u2019Lackeys!\u2019 he said. \u2019Now there\u2019s a word I ain\u2019t \u2019eard since ever so long.\nLackeys! That reg\u2019lar takes me back, that does. I recollect oh, donkey\u2019s years\nago \u2014 I used to sometimes go to \u2019Yde Park of a Sunday afternoon to \u2019ear the\nblokes making speeches. Salvation Army, Roman Catholics, Jews, Indians \u2014 all\nsorts there was. And there was one bloke \u2014 well, I couldn\u2019t give you \u2019is name,\nbut a real powerful speaker \u2019e was. \u2019E didn\u2019t \u2019alf give it \u2019em! \u201dLackeys!\u201d \u2019e says,\n\u201dlackeys of the bourgeoisie! Flunkies of the ruling class!\u201d Parasites \u2014 that was\nanother of them. And \u2019yenas \u2014 \u2019e definitely called \u2019em \u2019yenas. Of course \u2019e was\nreferring to the Labour Party, you understand.\u2019\nWinston had the feeling that they were talking at cross-purposes.\n\u2019What I really wanted to know was this,\u2019 he said. \u2019Do you feel that you have\nmore freedom now than you had in those days? Are you treated more like a\nhuman being? In the old days, the rich people, the people at the top-\u2019\n\u2019The \u2019Ouse of Lords,\u2019 put in the old man reminiscently.\n\u2019The House of Lords, if you like. What I am asking is, were these people able\nto treat you as an inferior, simply because they were rich and you were poor?\nIs it a fact, for instance, that you had to call them \u201dSir\u201d and take off your cap\nwhen you passed them?\u2019\nThe old man appeared to think deeply. He drank off about a quarter of his\nbeer before answering.\n\u2019Yes,\u2019 he said. \u2019They liked you to touch your cap to \u2019em. It showed respect,\nlike. I didn\u2019t agree with it, myself, but I done it often enough. Had to, as you\nmight say.\u2019\n\u2019And was it usual \u2014 I\u2019m only quoting what I\u2019ve read in history books \u2014\nwas it usual for these people and their servants to push you off the pavement\ninto the gutter?\u2019\n\u2019One of \u2019em pushed me once,\u2019 said the old man. \u2019I recollect it as if it was\nyesterday. It was Boat Race night \u2014 terribly rowdy they used to get on Boat\nRace night \u2014 and I bumps into a young bloke on Shaftesbury Avenue. Quite\na gent, \u2019e was \u2014 dress shirt, top \u2019at, black overcoat. \u2019E was kind of zig-zagging\nacross the pavement, and I bumps into \u2019im accidental-like. \u2019E says, \u201dWhy can\u2019t\nyou look where you\u2019re going?\u201d \u2019e says. I say, \u201dJu think you\u2019ve bought the\nbleeding pavement?\u201d \u2019E says, \u201dI\u2019ll twist your bloody \u2019ead off if you get fresh\nwith me.\u201d I says, \u201dYou\u2019re drunk. I\u2019ll give you in charge in \u2019alf a minute,\u201d I says.\nAn\u2019 if you\u2019ll believe me, \u2019e puts \u2019is \u2019and on my chest and gives me a shove as\npretty near sent me under the wheels of a bus. Well, I was young in them days,\nand I was going to \u2019ave fetched \u2019im one, only-\u2019\nA sense of helplessness took hold of Winston. The old man\u2019s memory was\nnothing but a rubbish-heap of details. One could question him all day without\ngetting any real information. The party histories might still be true, after a\nfashion: they might even be completely true. He made a last attempt.\n\n\n\n\u2019Perhaps I have not made myself clear,\u2019 he said. \u2019What I\u2019m trying to say is\nthis. You have been alive a very long time; you lived half your life before the\nRevolution. In , for instance, you were already grown up. Would you say\nfrom what you can remember, that life in  was better than it is now, or\nworse? If you could choose, would you prefer to live then or now?\u2019\nThe old man looked meditatively at the darts board. He finished up his beer,\nmore slowly than before. When he spoke it was with a tolerant philosophical\nair, as though the beer had mellowed him.\n\u2019I know what you expect me to say,\u2019 he said. \u2019You expect me to say as I\u2019d\nsooner be young again. Most people\u2019d say they\u2019d sooner be young, if you arst\u2019\n\u2019em. You got your \u2019ealth and strength when you\u2019re young. When you get to\nmy time of life you ain\u2019t never well. I suffer something wicked from my feet,\nand my bladder\u2019s jest terrible. Six and seven times a night it \u2019as me out of bed.\nOn the other \u2019and, there\u2019s great advantages in being a old man. You ain\u2019t got\nthe same worries. No truck with women, and that\u2019s a great thing. I ain\u2019t \u2019ad a\nwoman for near on thirty year, if you\u2019d credit it. Nor wanted to, what\u2019s more.\u2019\nWinston sat back against the window-sill. It was no use going on. He was\nabout to buy some more beer when the old man suddenly got up and shuffled\nrapidly into the stinking urinal at the side of the room. The extra half-litre was\nalready working on him. Winston sat for a minute or two gazing at his empty\nglass, and hardly noticed when his feet carried him out into the street again.\nWithin twenty years at the most, he reflected, the huge and simple question,\n\u2019Was life better before the Revolution than it is now?\u2019 would have ceased once\nand for all to be answerable. But in effect it was unanswerable even now, since\nthe few scattered survivors from the ancient world were incapable of comparing\none age with another. They remembered a million useless things, a quarrel\nwith a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicycle pump, the expression on a long-dead\nsister\u2019s face, the swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but all\nthe relevant facts were outside the range of their vision. They were like the ant,\nwhich can see small objects but not large ones. And when memory failed and\nwritten records were falsified \u2014 when that happened, the claim of the Party\nto have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted, because\nthere did not exist, and never again could exist, any standard against which it\ncould be tested.\nAt this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly. He halted and looked\nup. He was in a narrow street, with a few dark little shops, interspersed among\ndwelling-houses. Immediately above his head there hung three discoloured metal\nballs which looked as if they had once been gilded. He seemed to know the\nplace. Of course! He was standing outside the junk-shop where he had bought\nthe diary.\nA twinge of fear went through him. It had been a sufficiently rash act to buy\nthe book in the beginning, and he had sworn never to come near the place again.\nAnd yet the instant that he allowed his thoughts to wander, his feet had brought\nhim back here of their own accord. It was precisely against suicidal impulses of\nthis kind that he had hoped to guard himself by opening the diary. At the same\ntime he noticed that although it was nearly twenty-one hours the shop was still\nopen. With the feeling that he would be less conspicuous inside than hanging\nabout on the pavement, he stepped through the doorway. If questioned, he\ncould plausibly say that he was trying to buy razor blades.\nThe proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp which gave off an unclean\n\n\n\nbut friendly smell. He was a man of perhaps sixty, frail and bowed, with a long,\nbenevolent nose, and mild eyes distorted by thick spectacles. His hair was\nalmost white, but his eyebrows were bushy and still black. His spectacles, his\ngentle, fussy movements, and the fact that he was wearing an aged jacket of\nblack velvet, gave him a vague air of intellectuality, as though he had been some\nkind of literary man, or perhaps a musician. His voice was soft, as though faded,\nand his accent less debased than that of the majority of proles.\n\n\u2019I recognized you on the pavement,\u2019 he said immediately. \u2019You\u2019re the gentle-\nman that bought the young lady\u2019s keepsake album. That was a beautiful bit of\n\npaper, that was. Cream- laid, it used to be called. There\u2019s been no paper like\nthat made for \u2014 oh, I dare say fifty years.\u2019 He peered at Winston over the top\nof his spectacles. \u2019Is there anything special I can do for you? Or did you just\nwant to look round?\u2019\n\u2019I was passing,\u2019 said Winston vaguely. \u2019I just looked in. I don\u2019t want anything\nin particular.\u2019\n\n\u2019It\u2019s just as well,\u2019 said the other, \u2019because I don\u2019t suppose I could have sat-\nisfied you.\u2019 He made an apologetic gesture with his softpalmed hand. \u2019You see\n\nhow it is; an empty shop, you might say. Between you and me, the antique\n\ntrade\u2019s just about finished. No demand any longer, and no stock either. Furni-\nture, china, glass it\u2019s all been broken up by degrees. And of course the metal\n\nstuff\u2019s mostly been melted down. I haven\u2019t seen a brass candlestick in years.\u2019\nThe tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably full, but there was\nalmost nothing in it of the slightest value. The floorspace was very restricted,\nbecause all round the walls were stacked innumerable dusty picture-frames. In\nthe window there were trays of nuts and bolts, worn-out chisels, penknives with\nbroken blades, tarnished watches that did not even pretend to be in going order,\nand other miscellaneous rubbish. Only on a small table in the corner was there a\nlitter of odds and ends \u2014 lacquered snuffboxes, agate brooches, and the like \u2014\nwhich looked as though they might include something interesting. As Winston\nwandered towards the table his eye was caught by a round, smooth thing that\ngleamed softly in the lamplight, and he picked it up.\nIt was a heavy lump of glass, curved on one side, flat on the other, making\nalmost a hemisphere. There was a peculiar softness, as of rainwater, in both the\ncolour and the texture of the glass. At the heart of it, magnified by the curved\nsurface, there was a strange, pink, convoluted object that recalled a rose or a\nsea anemone.\n\u2019What is it?\u2019 said Winston, fascinated.\n\u2019That\u2019s coral, that is,\u2019 said the old man. \u2019It must have come from the Indian\nOcean. They used to kind of embed it in the glass. That wasn\u2019t made less than\na hundred years ago. More, by the look of it.\u2019\n\u2019It\u2019s a beautiful thing,\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019It is a beautiful thing,\u2019 said the other appreciatively. \u2019But there\u2019s not many\nthat\u2019d say so nowadays.\u2019 He coughed. \u2019Now, if it so happened that you wanted\nto buy it, that\u2019d cost you four dollars. I can remember when a thing like that\nwould have fetched eight pounds, and eight pounds was \u2014 well, I can\u2019t work it\nout, but it was a lot of money. But who cares about genuine antiques nowadays\neven the few that\u2019s left?\u2019\nWinston immediately paid over the four dollars and slid the coveted thing\ninto his pocket. What appealed to him about it was not so much its beauty\nas the air it seemed to possess of belonging to an age quite different from the\n\n\n\npresent one. The soft, rainwatery glass was not like any glass that he had\never seen. The thing was doubly attractive because of its apparent uselessness,\nthough he could guess that it must once have been intended as a paperweight.\nIt was very heavy in his pocket, but fortunately it did not make much of a bulge.\nIt was a queer thing, even a compromising thing, for a Party member to have\nin his possession. Anything old, and for that matter anything beautiful, was\nalways vaguely suspect. The old man had grown noticeably more cheerful after\nreceiving the four dollars. Winston realized that he would have accepted three\nor even two.\n\u2019There\u2019s another room upstairs that you might care to take a look at,\u2019 he\nsaid. \u2019There\u2019s not much in it. Just a few pieces. We\u2019ll do with a light if we\u2019re\ngoing upstairs.\u2019\nHe lit another lamp, and, with bowed back, led the way slowly up the steep\nand worn stairs and along a tiny passage, into a room which did not give on the\nstreet but looked out on a cobbled yard and a forest of chimney-pots. Winston\nnoticed that the furniture was still arranged as though the room were meant to\nbe lived in. There was a strip of carpet on the floor, a picture or two on the walls,\nand a deep, slatternly arm-chair drawn up to the fireplace. An old-fashioned\nglass clock with a twelve-hour face was ticking away on the mantelpiece. Under\nthe window, and occupying nearly a quarter of the room, was an enormous bed\nwith the mattress still on it.\n\u2019We lived here till my wife died,\u2019 said the old man half apologetically. \u2019I\u2019m\nselling the furniture off by little and little. Now that\u2019s a beautiful mahogany\nbed, or at least it would be if you could get the bugs out of it. But I dare say\nyou\u2019d find it a little bit cumbersome.\nHe was holdlng the lamp high up, so as to illuminate the whole room, and\nin the warm dim light the place looked curiously inviting. The thought flitted\nthrough Winston\u2019s mind that it would probably be quite easy to rent the room\nfor a few dollars a week, if he dared to take the risk. It was a wild, impossible\nnotion, to be abandoned as soon as thought of; but the room had awakened in\nhim a sort of nostalgia, a sort of ancestral memory. It seemed to him that he\nknew exactly what it felt like to sit in a room like this, in an arm-chair beside\nan open fire with your feet in the fender and a kettle on the hob; utterly alone,\nutterly secure, with nobody watching you, no voice pursuing you, no sound\nexcept the singing of the kettle and the friendly ticking of the clock.\n\u2019There\u2019s no telescreen!\u2019 he could not help murmuring.\n\u2019Ah,\u2019 said the old man, \u2019I never had one of those things. Too expensive. And\nI never seemed to feel the need of it, somehow. Now that\u2019s a nice gateleg table\nin the corner there. Though of course you\u2019d have to put new hinges on it if you\nwanted to use the flaps.\u2019\nThere was a small bookcase in the other corner, and Winston had already\ngravitated towards it. It contained nothing but rubbish. The hunting-down and\ndestruction of books had been done with the same thoroughness in the prole\nquarters as everywhere else. It was very unlikely that there existed anywhere in\nOceania a copy of a book printed earlier than . The old man, still carrying\nthe lamp, was standing in front of a picture in a rosewood frame which hung on\nthe other side of the fireplace, opposite the bed.\n\u2019Now, if you happen to be interested in old prints at all -\u2019 he began delicately.\nWinston came across to examine the picture. It was a steel engraving of\nan oval building with rectangular windows, and a small tower in front. There\n\n\n\nwas a railing running round the building, and at the rear end there was what\nappeared to be a statue. Winston gazed at it for some moments. It seemed\nvaguely familiar, though he did not remember the statue.\n\u2019The frame\u2019s fixed to the wall,\u2019 said the old man, \u2019but I could unscrew it for\nyou, I dare say.\u2019\n\u2019I know that building,\u2019 said Winston finally. \u2019It\u2019s a ruin now. It\u2019s in the\nmiddle of the street outside the Palace of Justice.\u2019\n\u2019That\u2019s right. Outside the Law Courts. It was bombed in \u2014 oh, many years\nago. It was a church at one time, St Clement\u2019s Danes, its name was.\u2019 He smiled\napologetically, as though conscious of saying something slightly ridiculous, and\nadded: \u2019Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement\u2019s!\u2019\n\u2019What\u2019s that?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019Oh-\u201dOranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement\u2019s.\u201d That was a rhyme\nwe had when I was a little boy. How it goes on I don\u2019t remember, but I do know\nit ended up, \u201dHere comes a candle to light you to bed, Here comes a chopper\nto chop off your head.\u201d It was a kind of a dance. They held out their arms for\nyou to pass under, and when they came to \u201dHere comes a chopper to chop off\nyour head\u201d they brought their arms down and caught you. It was just names of\nchurches. All the London churches were in it \u2014 all the principal ones, that is.\u2019\nWinston wondered vaguely to what century the church belonged. It was\nalways difficult to determine the age of a London building. Anything large and\nimpressive, if it was reasonably new in appearance, was automatically claimed\nas having been built since the Revolution, while anything that was obviously\nof earlier date was ascribed to some dim period called the Middle Ages. The\ncenturies of capitalism were held to have produced nothing of any value. One\ncould not learn history from architecture any more than one could learn it from\nbooks. Statues, inscriptions, memorial stones, the names of streets \u2014 anything\nthat might throw light upon the past had been systematically altered.\n\u2019I never knew it had been a church,\u2019 he said.\n\u2019There\u2019s a lot of them left, really,\u2019 said the old man, \u2019though they\u2019ve been\nput to other uses. Now, how did that rhyme go? Ah! I\u2019ve got it!\n\u201dOranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement\u2019s,\nYou owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin\u2019s\n\u2014 \u201dthere, now, that\u2019s as far as I can get.\nA farthing, that was a small copper coin,\nlooked something like a cent.\u2019\n\u2019Where was St Martin\u2019s?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019St Martin\u2019s? That\u2019s still standing. It\u2019s in Victory Square, alongside the\npicture gallery. A building with a kind of a triangular porch and pillars in front,\nand a big flight of steps.\u2019\n\nWinston knew the place well. It was a museum used for propaganda dis-\nplays of various kinds \u2014 scale models of rocket bombs and Floating Fortresses,\n\nwaxwork tableaux illustrating enemy atrocities, and the like.\n\u2019St Martin\u2019s-in-the-Fields it used to be called,\u2019 supplemented the old man,\n\u2019though I don\u2019t recollect any fields anywhere in those parts.\u2019\n\nWinston did not buy the picture. It would have been an even more incon-\ngruous possession than the glass paperweight, and impossible to carry home,\n\nunless it were taken out of its frame. But he lingered for some minutes more,\ntalking to the old man, whose name, he discovered, was not Weeks-as one might\nhave gathered from the inscription over the shop-front \u2014 but Charrington. Mr\n\n\n\nCharrington, it seemed, was a widower aged sixty-three and had inhabited this\nshop for thirty years. Throughout that time he had been intending to alter the\nname over the window, but had never quite got to the point of doing it. All the\nwhile that they were talking the half-remembered rhyme kept running through\nWinston\u2019s head. Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement\u2019s, You owe me\nthree farthings, say the bells of St Martin\u2019s! It was curious, but when you said\nit to yourself you had the illusion of actually hearing bells, the bells of a lost\nLondon that still existed somewhere or other, disguised and forgotten. From\none ghostly steeple after another he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so\nfar as he could remember he had never in real life heard church bells ringing.\nHe got away from Mr Charrington and went down the stairs alone, so as\nnot to let the old man see him reconnoitring the street before stepping out of\nthe door. He had already made up his mind that after a suitable interval \u2014 a\nmonth, say \u2014 he would take the risk of visiting the shop again. It was perhaps\nnot more dangerous than shirking an evening at the Centre. The serious piece\nof folly had been to come back here in the first place, after buying the diary and\nwithout knowing whether the proprietor of the shop could be trusted. However-!\nYes, he thought again, he would come back. He would buy further scraps of\nbeautiful rubbish. He would buy the engraving of St Clement\u2019s Danes, take it\nout of its frame, and carry it home concealed under the jacket of his overalls.\nHe would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr Charrington\u2019s memory. Even\nthe lunatic project of renting the room upstairs flashed momentarily through\nhis mind again. For perhaps five seconds exaltation made him careless, and\nhe stepped out on to the pavement without so much as a preliminary glance\nthrough the window. He had even started humming to an improvised tune\n\nOranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement\u2019s, You owe me three far-\nthings, say the\n\nSuddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bowels to water. A figure\nin blue overalls was coming down the pavement, not ten metres away. It was\nthe girl from the Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The light was\nfailing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She looked him straight\nin the face, then walked quickly on as though she had not seen him.\nFor a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. Then he turned to\nthe right and walked heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he was\ngoing in the wrong direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There was\nno doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She must have followed\nhim here, because it was not credible that by pure chance she should have\nhappened to be walking on the same evening up the same obscure backstreet,\nkilometres distant from any quarter where Party members lived. It was too\ngreat a coincidence. Whether she was really an agent of the Thought Police,\nor simply an amateur spy actuated by officiousness, hardly mattered. It was\nenough that she was watching him. Probably she had seen him go into the pub\nas well.\nIt was an effort to walk. The lump of glass in his pocket banged against his\nthigh at each step, and he was half minded to take it out and throw it away.\nThe worst thing was the pain in his belly. For a couple of minutes he had the\nfeeling that he would die if he did not reach a lavatory soon. But there would\nbe no public lavatories in a quarter like this. Then the spasm passed, leaving a\ndull ache behind.\nThe street was a blind alley. Winston halted, stood for several seconds\n\n\n\nwondering vaguely what to do, then turned round and began to retrace his\nsteps. As he turned it occurred to him that the girl had only passed him three\nminutes ago and that by running he could probably catch up with her. He could\nkeep on her track till they were in some quiet place, and then smash her skull\nin with a cobblestone. The piece of glass in his pocket would be heavy enough\nfor the job. But he abandoned the idea immediately, because even the thought\nof making any physical effort was unbearable. He could not run, he could not\nstrike a blow. Besides, she was young and lusty and would defend herself. He\nthought also of hurrying to the Community Centre and staying there till the\nplace closed, so as to establish a partial alibi for the evening. But that too was\nimpossible. A deadly lassitude had taken hold of him. All he wanted was to get\nhome quickly and then sit down and be quiet.\nIt was after twenty-two hours when he got back to the flat. The lights would\nbe switched off at the main at twenty-three thirty. He went into the kitchen and\nswallowed nearly a teacupful of Victory Gin. Then he went to the table in the\nalcove, sat down, and took the diary out of the drawer. But he did not open\nit at once. From the telescreen a brassy female voice was squalling a patriotic\nsong. He sat staring at the marbled cover of the book, trying without success\nto shut the voice out of his consciousness.\nIt was at night that they came for you, always at night. The proper thing\nwas to kill yourself before they got you. Undoubtedly some people did so. Many\nof the disappearances were actually suicides. But it needed desperate courage\nto kill yourself in a world where firearms, or any quick and certain poison,\nwere completely unprocurable. He thought with a kind of astonishment of the\nbiological uselessness of pain and fear, the treachery of the human body which\nalways freezes into inertia at exactly the moment when a special effort is needed.\nHe might have silenced the dark-haired girl if only he had acted quickly enough:\nbut precisely because of the extremity of his danger he had lost the power to act.\nIt struck him that in moments of crisis one is never fighting against an external\nenemy, but always against one\u2019s own body. Even now, in spite of the gin, the\ndull ache in his belly made consecutive thought impossible. And it is the same,\nhe perceived, in all seemingly heroic or tragic situations. On the battlefield,\nin the torture chamber, on a sinking ship, the issues that you are fighting for\nare always forgotten, because the body swells up until it fills the universe, and\neven when you are not paralysed by fright or screaming with pain, life is a\nmoment-to-moment struggle against hunger or cold or sleeplessness, against a\nsour stomach or an aching tooth.\nHe opened the diary. It was important to write something down. The woman\non the telescreen had started a new song. Her voice seemed to stick into his\nbrain like jagged splinters of glass. He tried to think of O\u2019Brien, for whom, or\nto whom, the diary was written, but instead he began thinking of the things\nthat would happen to him after the Thought Police took him away. It would\nnot matter if they killed you at once. To be killed was what you expected. But\nbefore death (nobody spoke of such things, yet everybody knew of them) there\nwas the routine of confession that had to be gone through: the grovelling on the\nfloor and screaming for mercy, the crack of broken bones, the smashed teeth,\nand bloody clots of hair.\nWhy did you have to endure it, since the end was always the same? Why was\nit not possible to cut a few days or weeks out of your life? Nobody ever escaped\ndetection, and nobody ever failed to confess. When once you had succumbed to\n\n\n\nthoughtcrime it was certain that by a given date you would be dead. Why then\ndid that horror, which altered nothing, have to lie embedded in future time?\nHe tried with a little more success than before to summon up the image of\nO\u2019Brien. \u2019We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,\u2019 O\u2019Brien had\nsaid to him. He knew what it meant, or thought he knew. The place where\nthere is no darkness was the imagined future, which one would never see, but\nwhich, by foreknowledge, one could mystically share in. But with the voice\nfrom the telescreen nagging at his ears he could not follow the train of thought\nfurther. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Half the tobacco promptly fell out on\nto his tongue, a bitter dust which was difficult to spit out again. The face of Big\nBrother swam into his mind, displacing that of O\u2019Brien. Just as he had done\na few days earlier, he slid a coin out of his pocket and looked at it. The face\ngazed up at him, heavy, calm, protecting: but what kind of smile was hidden\nbeneath the dark moustache? Like a leaden knell the words came back at him:\nWAR IS PEACE\nFREEDOM IS SLAVERY\nIGNORANCE IS STRENGTH\n\n\n\n \n\nIt was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left the cubicle to go to the\nlavatory.\nA solitary figure was coming towards him from the other end of the long,\nbrightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair. Four days had gone past\nsince the evening when he had run into her outside the junk-shop. As she came\nnearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling, not noticeable at a distance\nbecause it was of the same colour as her overalls. Probably she had crushed her\nhand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots of\nnovels were \u2019roughed in\u2019. It was a common accident in the Fiction Department.\nThey were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and fell almost\nflat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was wrung out of her. She must have\nfallen right on the injured arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen to\nher knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which her mouth\nstood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his, with an appealing\nexpression that looked more like fear than pain.\nA curious emotion stirred in Winston\u2019s heart. In front of him was an enemy\nwho was trying to kill him: in front of him, also, was a human creature, in pain\nand perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had instinctively started forward\nto help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the bandaged arm, it\nhad been as though he felt the pain in his own body.\n\u2019You\u2019re hurt?\u2019 he said.\n\u2019It\u2019s nothing. My arm. It\u2019ll be all right in a second.\u2019\nShe spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly turned very\npale.\n\u2019You haven\u2019t broken anything?\u2019\n\u2019No, I\u2019m all right. It hurt for a moment, that\u2019s all.\u2019\nShe held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had regained\nsome of her colour, and appeared very much better.\n\u2019It\u2019s nothing,\u2019 she repeated shortly. \u2019I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang.\nThanks, comrade!\u2019\nAnd with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going, as\nbriskly as though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could not have\ntaken as much as half a minute. Not to let one\u2019s feelings appear in one\u2019s face was\na habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, and in any case they had been\nstanding straight in front of a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless\nit had been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for in the two\nor three seconds while he was helping her up the girl had slipped something\n\n\n\ninto his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was\nsomething small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred\nit to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper\nfolded into a square.\nWhile he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little more fingering, to\nget it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some kind written on\nit. For a moment he was tempted to take it into one of the water-closets and\nread it at once. But that would be shocking folly, as he well knew. There was\nno place where you could be more certain that the telescreens were watched\ncontinuously.\nHe went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper casually\namong the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles and hitched the\nspeakwrite towards him. \u2019five minutes,\u2019 he told himself, \u2019five minutes at the very\nleast!\u2019 His heart bumped in his breast with frightening loudness. Fortunately\nthe piece of work he was engaged on was mere routine, the rectification of a\nlong list of figures, not needing close attention.\nWhatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political\nmeaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One, much the\nmore likely, was that the girl was an agent of the Thought Police, just as he had\nfeared. He did not know why the Thought Police should choose to deliver their\nmessages in such a fashion, but perhaps they had their reasons. The thing that\nwas written on the paper might be a threat, a summons, an order to commit\nsuicide, a trap of some description. But there was another, wilder possibility\nthat kept raising its head, though he tried vainly to suppress it. This was, that\nthe message did not come from the Thought Police at all, but from some kind of\nunderground organization. Perhaps the Brotherhood existed after all! Perhaps\nthe girl was part of it! No doubt the idea was absurd, but it had sprung into his\nmind in the very instant of feeling the scrap of paper in his hand. It was not till a\ncouple of minutes later that the other, more probable explanation had occurred\nto him. And even now, though his intellect told him that the message probably\nmeant death \u2014 still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable hope\npersisted, and his heart banged, and it was with difficulty that he kept his voice\nfrom trembling as he murmured his figures into the speakwrite.\nHe rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it into the pneumatic\ntube. Eight minutes had gone by. He re-adjusted his spectacles on his nose,\nsighed, and drew the next batch of work towards him, with the scrap of paper\non top of it. He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large unformed\nhandwriting:\nI love you.\nFor several seconds he was too stunned even to throw the incriminating thing\ninto the memory hole. When he did so, although he knew very well the danger\nof showing too much interest, he could not resist reading it once again, just to\nmake sure that the words were really there.\nFor the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. What was even\nworse than having to focus his mind on a series of niggling jobs was the need to\nconceal his agitation from the telescreen. He felt as though a fire were burning\nin his belly. Lunch in the hot, crowded, noise-filled canteen was torment. He\nhad hoped to be alone for a little while during the lunch hour, but as bad luck\nwould have it the imbecile Parsons flopped down beside him, the tang of his\nsweat almost defeating the tinny smell of stew, and kept up a stream of talk\n\n\n\nabout the preparations for Hate Week. He was particularly enthusiastic about\na papier-m\u02c6ach \u0301e; model of Big Brother\u2019s head, two metres wide, which was being\nmade for the occasion by his daughter\u2019s troop of Spies. The irritating thing was\nthat in the racket of voices Winston could hardly hear what Parsons was saying,\nand was constantly having to ask for some fatuous remark to be repeated. Just\nonce he caught a glimpse of the girl, at a table with two other girls at the far\nend of the room. She appeared not to have seen him, and he did not look in\nthat direction again.\nThe afternoon was more bearable. Immediately after lunch there arrived a\ndelicate, difficult piece of work which would take several hours and necessitated\nputting everything else aside. It consisted in falsifying a series of production\nreports of two years ago, in such a way as to cast discredit on a prominent\nmember of the Inner Party, who was now under a cloud. This was the kind\nof thing that Winston was good at, and for more than two hours he succeeded\nin shutting the girl out of his mind altogether. Then the memory of her face\ncame back, and with it a raging, intolerable desire to be alone. Until he could\nbe alone it was impossible to think this new development out. Tonight was\none of his nights at the Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal\nin the canteen, hurried off to the Centre, took part in the solemn foolery of a\n\u2019discussion group\u2019, played two games of table tennis, swallowed several glasses\nof gin, and sat for half an hour through a lecture entitled \u2019Ingsoc in relation to\nchess\u2019. His soul writhed with boredom, but for once he had had no impulse to\nshirk his evening at the Centre. At the sight of the words I love you the desire to\nstay alive had welled up in him, and the taking of minor risks suddenly seemed\nstupid. It was not till twenty-three hours, when he was home and in bed \u2014 in\nthe darkness, where you were safe even from the telescreen so long as you kept\nsilent \u2014 that he was able to think continuously.\nIt was a physical problem that had to be solved: how to get in touch with\nthe girl and arrange a meeting. He did not consider any longer the possibility\nthat she might be laying some kind of trap for him. He knew that it was\nnot so, because of her unmistakable agitation when she handed him the note.\nObviously she had been frightened out of her wits, as well she might be. Nor\ndid the idea of refusing her advances even cross his mind. Only five nights ago\nhe had contemplated smashing her skull in with a cobblestone, but that was\nof no importance. He thought of her naked, youthful body, as he had seen it\nin his dream. He had imagined her a fool like all the rest of them, her head\nstuffed with lies and hatred, her belly full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at\nthe thought that he might lose her, the white youthful body might slip away\nfrom him! What he feared more than anything else was that she would simply\nchange her mind if he did not get in touch with her quickly. But the physical\ndifficulty of meeting was enormous. It was like trying to make a move at chess\nwhen you were already mated. Whichever way you turned, the telescreen faced\nyou. Actually, all the possible ways of communicating with her had occurred\nto him within five minutes of reading the note; but now, with time to think,\nhe went over them one by one, as though laying out a row of instruments on a\ntable.\nObviously the kind of encounter that had happened this morning could not\nbe repeated. If she had worked in the Records Department it might have been\ncomparatively simple, but he had only a very dim idea whereabouts in the\nbuilding the Fiction Departrnent lay, and he had no pretext for going there. If\n\n\n\nhe had known where she lived, and at what time she left work, he could have\ncontrived to meet her somewhere on her way home; but to try to follow her\nhome was not safe, because it would mean loitering about outside the Ministry,\nwhich was bound to be noticed. As for sending a letter through the mails, it\nwas out of the question. By a routine that was not even secret, all letters were\nopened in transit. Actually, few people ever wrote letters. For the messages\nthat it was occasionally necessary to send, there were printed postcards with\nlong lists of phrases, and you struck out the ones that were inapplicable. In any\ncase he did not know the girl\u2019s name, let alone her address. Finally he decided\nthat the safest place was the canteen. If he could get her at a table by herself,\nsomewhere in the middle of the room, not too near the telescreens, and with a\nsufficient buzz of conversation all round \u2014 if these conditions endured for, say,\nthirty seconds, it might be possible to exchange a few words.\nFor a week after this, life was like a restless dream. On the next day she did\nnot appear in the canteen until he was leaving it, the whistle having already\nblown. Presumably she had been changed on to a later shift. They passed each\nother without a glance. On the day after that she was in the canteen at the usual\ntime, but with three other girls and immediately under a telescreen. Then for\nthree dreadful days she did not appear at all. His whole mind and body seemed\nto be afflicted with an unbearable sensitivity, a sort of transparency, which made\nevery movement, every sound, every contact, every word that he had to speak\nor listen to, an agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from her\nimage. He did not touch the diary during those days. If there was any relief, it\nwas in his work, in which he could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at\na stretch. He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her. There\nwas no enquiry he could make. She might have been vaporized, she might have\ncommitted suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end of Oceania:\nworst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind and decided\nto avoid him.\nThe next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and she had\na band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief of seeing her was so\ngreat that he could not resist staring directly at her for several seconds. On\nthe following day he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he came\ninto the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the wall, and was\nquite alone. It was early, and the place was not very full. The queue edged\nforward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was held up for two minutes\nbecause someone in front was complaining that he had not received his tablet\nof saccharine. But the girl was still alone when Winston secured his tray and\nbegan to make for her table. He walked casually towards her, his eyes searching\nfor a place at some table beyond her. She was perhaps three metres away from\nhim. Another two seconds would do it. Then a voice behind him called, \u2019Smith!\u2019\nHe pretended not to hear. \u2019Smith!\u2019 repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no\nuse. He turned round. A blond-headed, silly-faced young man named Wilsher,\nwhom he barely knew, was inviting him with a smile to a vacant place at his\ntable. It was not safe to refuse. After having been recognized, he could not\ngo and sit at a table with an unattended girl. It was too noticeable. He sat\ndown with a friendly smile. The silly blond face beamed into his. Winston had\na hallucination of himself smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it. The\ngirl\u2019s table filled up a few minutes later.\nBut she must have seen him coming towards her, and perhaps she would\n\n\n\ntake the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early. Surely enough, she was\nat a table in about the same place, and again alone. The person immediately\nahead of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like man with a\nflat face and tiny, suspicious eyes. As Winston turned away from the counter\nwith his tray, he saw that the little man was making straight for the girl\u2019s table.\nHis hopes sank again. There was a vacant place at a table further away, but\nsomething in the little man\u2019s appearance suggested that he would be sufficiently\nattentive to his own comfort to choose the emptiest table. With ice at his heart\nWinston followed. It was no use unless he could get the girl alone. At this\nmoment there was a tremendous crash. The little man was sprawling on all\nfours, his tray had gone flying, two streams of soup and coffee were flowing\nacross the floor. He started to his feet with a malignant glance at Winston,\nwhom he evidently suspected of having tripped him up. But it was all right.\nFive seconds later, with a thundering heart, Winston was sitting at the girl\u2019s\ntable.\nHe did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began eating. It\nwas all-important to speak at once, before anyone else came, but now a terrible\nfear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since she had first\napproached him. She would have changed her mind, she must have changed\nher mind! It was impossible that this affair should end successfully; such things\ndid not happen in real life. He might have flinched altogether from speaking if\nat this moment he had not seen Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering\nlimply round the room with a tray, looking for a place to sit down. In his vague\nway Ampleforth was attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his\ntable if he caught sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act.\nBoth Winston and the girl were eating steadily. The stuff they were eating was\na thin stew, actually a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began\nspeaking. Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned the watery stuff\ninto their mouths, and between spoonfuls exchanged the few necessary words\nin low expressionless voices.\n\u2019What time do you leave work?\u2019\n\u2019Eighteen-thirty.\u2019\n\u2019Where can we meet?\u2019\n\u2019Victory Square, near the monument.\n\u2019It\u2019s full of telescreens.\u2019\n\u2019It doesn\u2019t matter if there\u2019s a crowd.\u2019\n\u2019Any signal?\u2019\n\u2019No. Don\u2019t come up to me until you see me among a lot of people. And\ndon\u2019t look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.\u2019\n\u2019What time?\u2019\n\u2019Nineteen hours.\u2019\n\u2019All right.\u2019\nAmpleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table. They did\nnot speak again, and, so far as it was possible for two people sitting on opposite\nsides of the same table, they did not look at one another. The girl finished her\nlunch quickly and made off, while Winston stayed to smoke a cigarette.\nWinston was in Victory Square before the appointed time. He wandered\nround the base of the enormous fluted column, at the top of which Big Brother\u2019s\nstatue gazed southward towards the skies where he had vanquished the Eurasian\naeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been, a few years ago) in the Battle\n\n\n\nof Airstrip One. In the street in front of it there was a statue of a man on\nhorseback which was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell. At five minutes\npast the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the terrible fear seized upon\nWinston. She was not coming, she had changed her mind! He walked slowly\nup to the north side of the square and got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure from\nidentifying St Martin\u2019s Church, whose bells, when it had bells, had chimed\n\u2019You owe me three farthings.\u2019 Then he saw the girl standing at the base of\nthe monument, reading or pretending to read a poster which ran spirally up the\ncolumn. It was not safe to go near her until some more people had accumulated.\nThere were telescreens all round the pediment. But at this moment there was\na din of shouting and a zoom of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left.\nSuddenly everyone seemed to be running across the square. The girl nipped\nnimbly round the lions at the base of the monument and joined in the rush.\nWinston followed. As he ran, he gathered from some shouted remarks that a\nconvoy of Eurasian prisoners was passing.\nAlready a dense mass of people was blocking the south side of the square.\nWinston, at normal times the kind of person who gravitates to the outer edge\nof any kind of scrimmage, shoved, butted, squirmed his way forward into the\nheart of the crowd. Soon he was within arm\u2019s length of the girl, but the way\nwas blocked by an enormous prole and an almost equally enormous woman,\n\npresumably his wife, who seemed to form an impenetrable wall of flesh. Win-\nston wriggled himself sideways, and with a violent lunge managed to drive his\n\nshoulder between them. For a moment it felt as though his entrails were being\nground to pulp between the two muscular hips, then he had broken through,\nsweating a little. He was next to the girl. They were shoulder to shoulder, both\nstaring fixedly in front of them.\nA long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed with sub-machine\nguns standing upright in each corner, was passing slowly down the street. In\nthe trucks little yellow men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting, jammed\nclose together. Their sad, Mongolian faces gazed out over the sides of the trucks\nutterly incurious. Occasionally when a truck jolted there was a clank-clank of\nmetal: all the prisoners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-load after truck-load of\nthe sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there but he saw them only\nintermittently. The girl\u2019s shoulder, and her arm right down to the elbow, were\npressed against his. Her cheek was almost near enough for him to feel its warmth.\nShe had immediately taken charge of the situation, just as she had done in the\ncanteen. She began speaking in the same expressionless voice as before, with\nlips barely moving, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and the\nrumbling of the trucks.\n\u2019Can you hear me?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019Can you get Sunday afternoon off?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019Then listen carefully. You\u2019ll have to remember this. Go to Paddington\nStation-\u2019\nWith a sort of military precision that astonished him, she outlined the route\nthat he was to follow. A half-hour railway journey; turn left outside the station;\ntwo kilometres along the road: a gate with the top bar missing; a path across a\nfield; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes; a dead tree with moss on it.\nIt was as though she had a map inside her head. \u2019Can you remember all that?\u2019\n\n\n\nshe murmured finally.\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate\u2019s got no top bar.\u2019\n\u2019Yes. What time?\u2019\n\u2019About fifteen. You may have to wait. I\u2019ll get there by another way. Are\nyou sure you remember everything?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019Then get away from me as quick as you can.\u2019\n\nShe need not have told him that. But for the moment they could not ex-\ntricate themselves from the crowd. The trucks were still filing post, the people\n\nstill insatiably gaping. At the start there had been a few boos and hisses, but\nit came only from the Party members among the crowd, and had soon stopped.\n\nThe prevailing emotion was simply curiosity. Foreigners, whether from Eura-\nsia or from Eastasia, were a kind of strange animal. One literally never saw\n\nthem except in the guise of prisoners, and even as prisoners one never got more\nthan a momentary glimpse of them. Nor did one know what became of them,\n\napart from the few who were hanged as war-criminals: te others simply van-\nished, presumably into forced-labour camps. The round Mogol faces had given\n\nway to faces of a more European type, dirty, bearded and exhausted. From\nover scrubby cheekbones eyes looked into Winston\u2019s, sometimes with strange\nintensity, and flashed away again. The convoy was drawing to an end. In the\nlast truck he could see an aged man, his face a mass of grizzled hair, standing\nupright with wrists crossed in front of him, as though he were used to having\nthem bound together. It was almost time for Winston and the girl to part. But\nat the last moment, while the crowd still hemmed them in, her hand felt for his\nand gave it a fleeting squeeze.\nIt could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a long time that their\nhands were clasped together. He had time to learn every detail of her hand.\nHe explored the long fingers, the shapely nails, the work-hardened palm with\nits row of callouses, the smooth flesh under the wrist. Merely from feeling it he\nwould have known it by sight. In the same instant it occurred to him that he\ndid not know what colour the girl\u2019s eyes were. They were probably brown, but\npeople with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To turn his head and look at\nher would have been inconceivable folly. With hands locked together, invisible\namong the press of bodies, they stared steadily in front of them, and instead of\nthe eyes of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully at Winston\nout of nests of hair.\n\n\n\n \n\nWinston picked his way up the lane through dappled light and shade, stepping\nout into pools of gold wherever the boughs parted. Under the trees to the left\nof him the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to kiss one\u2019s skin.\nIt was the second of May. From somewhere deeper in the heart of the wood\ncame the droning of ring doves.\nHe was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about the journey, and\nthe girl was so evidently experienced that he was less frightened than he would\nnormally have been. Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe place. In\ngeneral you could not assume that you were much safer in the country than in\nLondon. There were no telescreens, of course, but there was always the danger\n\nof concealed microphones by which your voice might be picked up and recog-\nnized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey by yourself without attracting\n\nattention. For distances of less than  kilometres it was not necessary to get\nyour passport endorsed, but sometimes there were patrols hanging about the\nrailway stations, who examined the papers of any Party member they found\nthere and asked awkward questions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on\nthe walk from the station he had made sure by cautious backward glances that\nhe was not being followed. The train was full of proles, in holiday mood because\nof the summery weather. The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was\nfilled to overflowing by a single enormous family. ranging from a toothless\ngreat-grandmother to a month-old baby, going out to spend an afternoon with\n\u2019in-laws\u2019 in the country, and, as they freely explained to Winston, to get hold\nof a little blackmarket butter.\nThe lane widened, and in a minute he came to the footpath she had told him\nof, a mere cattle-track which plunged between the bushes. He had no watch,\nbut it could not be fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick underfoot that it was\nimpossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and began picking some partly\nto pass the time away, but also from a vague idea that he would like to have a\nbunch of flowers to offer to the girl when they met. He had got together a big\nbunch and was smelling their faint sickly scent when a sound at his back froze\nhim, the unmistakable crackle of a foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells.\nIt was the best thing to do. It might be the girl, or he might have been followed\nafter all. To look round was to show guilt. He picked another and another. A\nhand fell lightly on his shoulder.\nHe looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evidently as a warning\nthat he must keep silent, then parted the bushes and quickly led the way along\nthe narrow track into the wood. Obviously she had been that way before, for\n\n\n\nshe dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston followed, still clasping\nhis bunch of flowers. His first feeling was relief, but as he watched the strong\nslender body moving in front of him, with the scarlet sash that was just tight\nenough to bring out the curve of her hips, the sense of his own inferiority was\nheavy upon him. Even now it seemed quite likely that when she turned round\nand looked at him she would draw back after all. The sweetness of the air and\nthe greenness of the leaves daunted him. Already on the walk from the station\nthe May sunshine had made him feel dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors,\nwith the sooty dust of London in the pores of his skin. It occurred to him that\ntill now she had probably never seen him in broad daylight in the open. They\ncame to the fallen tree that she had spoken of. The girl hopped over and forced\napart the bushes, in which there did not seem to be an opening. When Winston\nfollowed her, he found that they were in a natural clearing, a tiny grassy knoll\nsurrounded by tall saplings that shut it in completely. The girl stopped and\nturned.\n\u2019Here we are,\u2019 she said.\nHe was facing her at several paces\u2019 distance. As yet he did not dare move\nnearer to her.\n\u2019I didn\u2019t want to say anything in the lane,\u2019 she went on, \u2019in case there\u2019s a\nmike hidden there. I don\u2019t suppose there is, but there could be. There\u2019s always\nthe chance of one of those swine recognizing your voice. We\u2019re all right here.\u2019\nHe still had not the courage to approach her. \u2019We\u2019re all right here?\u2019 he\nrepeated stupidly.\n\u2019Yes. Look at the trees.\u2019 They were small ashes, which at some time had\nbeen cut down and had sprouted up again into a forest of poles, none of them\nthicker than one\u2019s wrist. \u2019There\u2019s nothing big enough to hide a mike in. Besides,\nI\u2019ve been here before.\u2019\nThey were only making conversation. He had managed to move closer to her\nnow. She stood before him very upright, with a smile on her face that looked\nfaintly ironical, as though she were wondering why he was so slow to act. The\nbluebells had cascaded on to the ground. They seemed to have fallen of their\nown accord. He took her hand.\n\u2019Would you believe,\u2019 he said, \u2019that till this moment I didn\u2019t know what colour\nyour eyes were?\u2019 They were brown, he noted, a rather light shade of brown, with\ndark lashes. \u2019Now that you\u2019ve seen what I\u2019m really like, can you still bear to\nlook at me?\u2019\n\u2019Yes, easily.\u2019\n\u2019I\u2019m thirty-nine years old. I\u2019ve got a wife that I can\u2019t get rid of. I\u2019ve got\nvaricose veins. I\u2019ve got five false teeth.\u2019\n\u2019I couldn\u2019t care less,\u2019 said the girl.\nThe next moment, it was hard to say by whose act, she was in his his arms.\nAt the beginning he had no feeling except sheer incredulity. The youthful body\nwas strained against his own, the mass of dark hair was against his face, and\nyes! actually she had turned her face up and he was kissing the wide red mouth.\nShe had clasped her arms about his neck, she was calling him darling, precious\none, loved one. He had pulled her down on to the ground, she was utterly\nunresisting, he could do what he liked with her. But the truth was that he had\nno physical sensation, except that of mere contact. All he felt was incredulity\nand pride. He was glad that this was happening, but he had no physical desire.\nIt was too soon, her youth and prettiness had frightened him, he was too much\n\n\n\nused to living without women \u2014 he did not know the reason. The girl picked\nherself up and pulled a bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him, putting\nher arm round his waist.\n\u2019Never mind, dear. There\u2019s no hurry. We\u2019ve got the whole afternoon. Isn\u2019t\nthis a splendid hide-out? I found it when I got lost once on a community hike.\nIf anyone was coming you could hear them a hundred metres away.\u2019\n\u2019What is your name?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019Julia. I know yours. It\u2019s Winston \u2014 Winston Smith.\u2019\n\u2019How did you find that out?\u2019\n\u2019I expect I\u2019m better at finding things out than you are, dear. Tell me, what\ndid you think of me before that day I gave you the note?\u2019\nHe did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was even a sort of\nlove-offering to start off by telling the worst.\n\u2019I hated the sight of you,\u2019 he said. \u2019I wanted to rape you and then murder you\nafterwards. Two weeks ago I thought seriously of smashing your head in with\na cobblestone. If you really want to know, I imagined that you had something\nto do with the Thought Police.\u2019\n\nThe girl laughed delightedly, evidently taking this as a tribute to the excel-\nlence of her disguise.\n\n\u2019Not the Thought Police! You didn\u2019t honestly think that?\u2019\n\u2019Well, perhaps not exactly that. But from your general appearance \u2014 merely\nbecause you\u2019re young and fresh and healthy, you understand \u2014 I thought that\nprobably-\u2019\n\u2019You thought I was a good Party member. Pure in word and deed. Banners,\nprocessions, slogans, games, community hikes all that stuff. And you thought\nthat if I had a quarter of a chance I\u2019d denounce you as a thought-criminal and\nget you killed off?\u2019\n\u2019Yes, something of that kind. A great many young girls are like that, you\nknow.\u2019\n\u2019It\u2019s this bloody thing that does it,\u2019 she said, ripping off the scarlet sash of\nthe Junior Anti-Sex League and flinging it on to a bough. Then, as though\ntouching her waist had reminded her of something, she felt in the pocket of her\noveralls and produced a small slab of chocolate. She broke it in half and gave\none of the pieces to Winston. Even before he had taken it he knew by the smell\nthat it was very unusual chocolate. It was dark and shiny, and was wrapped in\nsilver paper. Chocolate normally was dull-brown crumbly stuff that tasted, as\nnearly as one could describe it, like the smoke of a rubbish fire. But at some\ntime or another he had tasted chocolate like the piece she had given him. The\nfirst whiff of its scent had stirred up some memory which he could not pin down,\nbut which was powerful and troubling.\n\u2019Where did you get this stuff?\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Black market,\u2019 she said indifferently. \u2019Actually I am that sort of girl, to\nlook at. I\u2019m good at games. I was a troop-leader in the Spies. I do voluntary\nwork three evenings a week for the Junior Anti-Sex League. Hours and hours\nI\u2019ve spent pasting their bloody rot all over London. I always carry one end of\na banner in the processions. I always Iook cheerful and I never shirk anything.\nAlways yell with the crowd, that\u2019s what I say. It\u2019s the only way to be safe.\u2019\nThe first fragment of chocolate had melted on Winston\u2019s tongue. The taste\nwas delightful. But there was still that memory moving round the edges of his\nconsciousness, something strongly felt but not reducible to definite shape, like\n\n\n\nan object seen out of the corner of one\u2019s eye. He pushed it away from him,\naware only that it was the memory of some action which he would have liked\nto undo but could not.\n\u2019You are very young,\u2019 he said. \u2019You are ten or fifteen years younger than I\nam. What could you see to attract you in a man like me?\u2019\n\u2019It was something in your face. I thought I\u2019d take a chance. I\u2019m good at\nspotting people who don\u2019t belong. As soon as I saw you I knew you were against\nthem.\u2019\nThem, it appeared, meant the Party, and above all the Inner Party, about\nwhom she talked with an open jeering hatred which made Winston feel uneasy,\nalthough he knew that they were safe here if they could be safe anywhere.\nA thing that astonished him about her was the coarseness of her language.\nParty members were supposed not to swear, and Winston himself very seldom\ndid swear, aloud, at any rate. Julia, however, seemed unable to mention the\nParty, and especially the Inner Party, without using the kind of words that you\nsaw chalked up in dripping alley-ways. He did not dislike it. It was merely\none symptom of her revolt against the Party and all its ways, and somehow it\nseemed natural and healthy, like the sneeze of a horse that smells bad hay. They\nhad left the clearing and were wandering again through the chequered shade,\nwith their arms round each other\u2019s waists whenever it was wide enough to walk\ntwo abreast. He noticed how much softer her waist seemed to feel now that the\nsash was gone. They did not speak above a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia\nsaid, it was better to go quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the\nlittle wood. She stopped him.\n\u2019Don\u2019t go out into the open. There might be someone watching. We\u2019re all\nright if we keep behind the boughs.\u2019\nThey were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The sunlight, filtering\nthrough innumerable leaves, was still hot on their faces. Winston looked out\ninto the field beyond, and underwent a curious, slow shock of recognition. He\nknew it by sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a footpath wandering across\nit and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on the opposite side the\nboughs of the elm trees swayed just perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves\nstirred faintly in dense masses like women\u2019s hair. Surely somewhere nearby,\nbut out of sight, there must be a stream with green pools where dace were\nswimming?\n\u2019Isn\u2019t there a stream somewhere near here?\u2019 he whispered.\n\u2019That\u2019s right, there is a stream. It\u2019s at the edge of the next field, actually.\nThere are fish in it, great big ones. You can watch them lying in the pools under\nthe willow trees, waving their tails.\u2019\n\u2019It\u2019s the Golden Country \u2014 almost,\u2019 he murmured.\n\u2019The Golden Country?\u2019\n\u2019It\u2019s nothing, really. A landscape I\u2019ve seen sometimes in a dream.\u2019\n\u2019Look!\u2019 whispered Julia.\nA thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away, almost at the level\nof their faces. Perhaps it had not seen them. It was in the sun, they in the\nshade. It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked\nits head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to the sun, and\nthen began to pour forth a torrent of song. In the afternoon hush the volume\nof sound was startling. Winston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The\nmusic went on and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, never\n\n\n\nonce repeating itself, almost as though the bird were deliberately showing off\nits virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped for a few seconds, spread out and resettled\nits wings, then swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston\nwatched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that bird\nsinging? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the\nlonely wood and pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether after\nall there was a microphone hidden somewhere near. He and Julia had spoken\nonly in low whispers, and it would not pick up what they had said, but it would\npick up the thrush. Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small,\nbeetle-like man was listening intently \u2014 listening to that. But by degrees the\nflood of music drove all speculations out of his mind. It was as though it were a\nkind of liquid stuff that poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight\nthat filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and merely felt. The girl\u2019s\nwaist in the bend of his arm was soft and warm. He pulled her round so that\nthey were breast to breast; her body seemed to melt into his. Wherever his\nhands moved it was all as yielding as water. Their mouths clung together; it\nwas quite different from the hard kisses they had exchanged earlier. When they\nmoved their faces apart again both of them sighed deeply. The bird took fright\nand fled with a clatter of wings.\nWinston put his lips against her ear. \u2019Now,\u2019 he whispered.\n\u2019Not here,\u2019 she whispered back. \u2019Come back to the hide- out. It\u2019s safer.\u2019\nQuickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they threaded their way back\nto the clearing. When they were once inside the ring of saplings she turned and\nfaced him. They were both breathing fast. but the smile had reappeared round\nthe corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him for an instant, then felt\nat the zipper of her overalls. And, yes! it was almost as in his dream. Almost\nas swiftly as he had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she\nflung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture by which a whole\ncivilization seemed to be annihilated. Her body gleamed white in the sun. But\nfor a moment he did not look at her body; his eyes were anchored by the freckled\nface with its faint, bold smile. He knelt down before her and took her hands in\nhis\n\u2019Have you done this before?\u2019\n\u2019Of course. Hundreds of times \u2014 well scores of times anyway \u2019With Party\nmembers.\u2019\n\u2019Yes, always with Party members.\u2019\n\u2019With members of the Inner Party?\u2019\n\u2019Not with those swine, no. But there\u2019s plenty that would if they got half a\nchance. They\u2019re not so holy as they make out.\u2019\nHis heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: he wished it had been\nhundreds \u2014 thousands. Anything that hinted at corruption always filled him\nwith a wild hope. Who knew, perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface,\nits cult of strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing iniquity. If he\ncould have infected the whole lot of them with leprosy or syphilis, how gladly\nhe would have done so! Anything to rot, to weaken, to undermine! He pulled\nher down so that they were kneeling face to face.\n\u2019Listen. The more men you\u2019ve had, the more I love you. Do you understand\nthat?\u2019\n\u2019Yes, perfectly.\u2019\n\n\n\n\u2019I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don\u2019t want any virtue to exist anywhere. I\nwant everyone to be corrupt to the bones.\n\u2019Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I\u2019m corrupt to the bones.\u2019\n\u2019You like doing this? I don\u2019t mean simply me: I mean the thing in itself?\u2019\n\u2019I adore it.\u2019\nThat was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the love of one\nperson but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that was\nthe force that would tear the Party to pieces. He pressed her down upon the\ngrass, among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no difficulty. Presently\nthe rising and falling of their breasts slowed to normal speed, and in a sort of\npleasant helplessness they fell apart. The sun seemed to have grown hotter.\nThey were both sleepy. He reached out for the discarded overalls and pulled\nthem partly over her. Almost immediately they fell asleep and slept for about\nhalf an hour.\nWinston woke first. He sat up and watched the freckled face, still peacefully\nasleep, pillowed on the palm of her hand. Except for her mouth, you could not\ncall her beautiful. There was a line or two round the eyes, if you looked closely.\nThe short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and soft. It occurred to him that\nhe still did not know her surname or where she lived.\nThe young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in him a pitying,\nprotecting feeling. But the mindless tenderness that he had felt under the hazel\ntree, while the thrush was singing, had not quite come back. He pulled the\noveralls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the old days, he thought,\na man looked at a girl\u2019s body and saw that it was desirable, and that was the\nend of the story. But you could not have pure love or pure lust nowadays. No\nemotion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear and hatred. Their\nembrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow struck against\nthe Party. It was a political act.\n\n\n\n \n\n\u2019We can come here once again,\u2019 said Julia. \u2019It\u2019s generally safe to use any hide-out\ntwice. But not for another month or two, of course.\u2019\nAs soon as she woke up her demeanour had changed. She became alert and\nbusiness-like, put her clothes on, knotted the scarlet sash about her waist, and\nbegan arranging the details of the journey home. It seemed natural to leave this\nto her. She obviously had a practical cunning which Winston lacked, and she\nseemed also to have an exhaustive knowledge of the countryside round London,\nstored away from innumerable community hikes. The route she gave him was\nquite different from the one by which he had come, and brought him out at a\ndifferent railway station. \u2019Never go home the same way as you went out,\u2019 she\nsaid, as though enunciating an important general principle. She would leave\nfirst, and Winston was to wait half an hour before following her.\nShe had named a place where they could meet after work, four evenings\nhence. It was a street in one of the poorer quarters, where there was an open\nmarket which was generally crowded and noisy. She would be hanging about\namong the stalls, pretending to be in search of shoelaces or sewing-thread. If she\njudged that the coast was clear she would blow her nose when he approached;\notherwise he was to walk past her without recognition. But with luck, in the\nmiddle of the crowd, it would be safe to talk for a quarter of an hour and arrange\nanother meeting.\n\u2019And now I must go,\u2019 she said as soon as he had mastered his instructions.\n\u2019I\u2019m due back at nineteen-thirty. I\u2019ve got to put in two hours for the Junior\nAnti-Sex League, handing out leaflets, or something. Isn\u2019t it bloody? Give me a\nbrush-down, would you? Have I got any twigs in my hair? Are you sure? Then\ngood-bye, my love, good-bye!\u2019\nShe flung herself into his arms, kissed him almost violently, and a moment\nlater pushed her way through the saplings and disappeared into the wood with\nvery little noise. Even now he had not found out her surname or her address.\nHowever, it made no difference, for it was inconceivable that they could ever\nmeet indoors or exchange any kind of written communication.\nAs it happened, they never went back to the clearing in the wood. During\nthe month of May there was only one further occasion on which they actually\nsucceeded in making love. That was in another hidlng-place known to Julia,\nthe belfry of a ruinous church in an almost-deserted stretch of country where an\natomic bomb had fallen thirty years earlier. It was a good hiding-place when\nonce you got there, but the getting there was very dangerous. For the rest\nthey could meet only in the streets, in a different place every evening and never\n\n\n\nfor more than half an hour at a time. In the street it was usually possible to\ntalk, after a fashion. As they drifted down the crowded pavements, not quite\nabreast and never looking at one another, they carried on a curious, intermittent\nconversation which flicked on and off like the beams of a lighthouse, suddenly\nnipped into silence by the approach of a Party uniform or the proximity of a\ntelescreen, then taken up again minutes later in the middle of a sentence, then\nabruptly cut short as they parted at the agreed spot, then continued almost\nwithout introduction on the following day. Julia appeared to be quite used to\nthis kind of conversation, which she called \u2019talking by instalments\u2019. She was also\nsurprisingly adept at speaking without moving her lips. Just once in almost a\nmonth of nightly meetings they managed to exchange a kiss. They were passing\nin silence down a side-street (Julia would never speak when they were away from\nthe main streets) when there was a deafening roar, the earth heaved, and the air\ndarkened, and Winston found himself lying on his side, bruised and terrified. A\nrocket bomb must have dropped quite near at hand. Suddenly he became aware\nof Julia\u2019s face a few centimetres from his own, deathly white, as white as chalk.\nEven her lips were white. She was dead! He clasped her against him and found\nthat he was kissing a live warm face. But there was some powdery stuff that\ngot in the way of his lips. Both of their faces were thickly coated with plaster.\nThere were evenings when they reached their rendezvous and then had to\nwalk past one another without a sign, because a patrol had just come round\nthe corner or a helicopter was hovering overhead. Even if it had been less\ndangerous, it would still have been difficult to find time to meet. Winston\u2019s\nworking week was sixty hours, Julia\u2019s was even longer, and their free days varied\naccording to the pressure of work and did not often coincide. Julia, in any case,\nseldom had an evening completely free. She spent an astonishing amount of time\nin attending lectures and demonstrations, distributing literature for the junior\nAnti-Sex League, preparing banners for Hate Week, making collections for the\nsavings campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said, it was camouflage.\nIf you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones. She even induced\nWinston to mortgage yet another of his evenings by enrolling himself for the\npart-time munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Party members.\nSo, one evening every week, Winston spent four hours of paralysing boredom,\nscrewing together small bits of metal which were probably parts of bomb fuses,\nin a draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers mingled drearily\nwith the music of the telescreens.\n\nWhen they met in the church tower the gaps in their fragmentary conver-\nsation were filled up. It was a blazing afternoon. The air in the little square\n\nchamber above the bells was hot and stagnant, and smelt overpoweringly of\npigeon dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty, twig-littered floor, one\nor other of them getting up from time to time to cast a glance through the\narrowslits and make sure that no one was coming.\nJulia was twenty-six years old. She lived in a hostel with thirty other girls\n(\u2019Always in the stink of women! How I hate women!\u2019 she said parenthetically),\nand she worked, as he had guessed, on the novel-writing machines in the Fiction\nDepartment. She enjoyed her work, which consisted chiefly in running and\nservicing a powerful but tricky electric motor. She was \u2019not clever\u2019, but was\nfond of using her hands and felt at home with machinery. She could describe\nthe whole process of composing a novel, from the general directive issued by\nthe Planning Committee down to the final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad.\n\n\n\nBut she was not interested in the finished product. She \u2019didn\u2019t much care for\nreading,\u2019 she said. Books were just a commodity that had to be produced, like\njam or bootlaces.\nShe had no memories of anything before the early sixties and the only person\nshe had ever known who talked frequently of the days before the Revolution\nwas a grandfather who had disappeared when she was eight. At school she had\nbeen captain of the hockey team and had won the gymnastics trophy two years\nrunning. She had been a troop-leader in the Spies and a branch secretary in the\nYouth League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex League. She had always borne\nan excellent character. She had even (an infallible mark of good reputation)\nbeen picked out to work in Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department\nwhich turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the proles. It was\nnicknamed Muck House by the people who worked in it, she remarked. There\nshe had remained for a year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets\nwith titles like Spanking Stories or One Night in a Girls\u2019 School, to be bought\nfurtively by proletarian youths who were under the impression that they were\nbuying something illegal.\n\u2019What are these books like?\u2019 said Winston curiously.\n\u2019Oh, ghastly rubbish. They\u2019re boring, really. They only have six plots, but\nthey swap them round a bit. Of course I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I was\nnever in the Rewrite Squad. I\u2019m not literary, dear \u2014 not even enough for that.\u2019\nHe learned with astonishment that all the workers in Pornosec, except the\nheads of the departments, were girls. The theory was that men, whose sex\ninstincts were less controllable than those of women, were in greater danger of\nbeing corrupted by the filth they handled.\n\u2019They don\u2019t even like having married women there,\u2019 she added. Girls are\nalways supposed to be so pure. Here\u2019s one who isn\u2019t, anyway.\nShe had had her first love-affair when she was sixteen, with a Party member\nof sixty who later committed suicide to avoid arrest. \u2019And a good job too,\u2019 said\nJulia, \u2019otherwise they\u2019d have had my name out of him when he confessed.\u2019 Since\nthen there had been various others. Life as she saw it was quite simple. You\nwanted a good time; \u2019they\u2019, meaning the Party, wanted to stop you having it;\nyou broke the rules as best you couId. She seemed to think it just as natural\nthat \u2019they\u2019 should want to rob you of your pleasures as that you should want\nto avoid being caught. She hated the Party, and said so in the crudest words,\nbut she made no general criticism of it. Except where it touched upon her\nown life she had no interest in Party doctrine. He noticed that she never used\nNewspeak words except the ones that had passed into everyday use. She had\nnever heard of the Brotherhood, and refused to believe in its existence. Any\nkind of organized revolt against the Party, which was bound to be a failure,\nstruck her as stupid. The clever thing was to break the rules and stay alive all\nthe same. He wondered vaguely how many others like her there might be in the\nyounger generation people who had grown up in the world of the Revolution,\nknowing nothing else, accepting the Party as something unalterable, like the\nsky, not rebelling against its authority but simply evading it, as a rabbit dodges\na dog.\nThey did not discuss the possibility of getting married. It was too remote to\nbe worth thinking about. No imaginable committee would ever sanction such a\nmarriage even if Katharine, Winston\u2019s wife, could somehow have been got rid\nof. It was hopeless even as a daydream.\n\n\n\u2019What was she like, your wife?\u2019 said Julia.\n\n\u2019She was \u2014 do you know the Newspeak word goodthinkful? Meaning natu-\nrally orthodox, incapable of thinking a bad thought?\u2019\n\n\u2019No, I didn\u2019t know the word, but I know the kind of person, right enough.\u2019\nHe began telling her the story of his married life, but curiously enough she\nappeared to know the essential parts of it already. She described to him, almost\nas though she had seen or felt it, the stiffening of Katharine\u2019s body as soon as\nhe touched her, the way in which she still seemed to be pushing him from her\nwith all her strength, even when her arms were clasped tightly round him. With\nJulia he felt no difficulty in talking about such things: Katharine, in any case,\nhad long ceased to be a painful memory and became merely a distasteful one.\n\u2019I could have stood it if it hadn\u2019t been for one thing,\u2019 he said. He toId her\nabout the frigid little ceremony that Katharine had forced him to go through\non the same night every week. \u2019She hated it, but nothing would make her stop\ndoing it. She used to call it \u2014 but you\u2019ll never guess.\u2019\n\u2019Our duty to the Party,\u2019 said Julia promptly.\n\u2019How did you know that?\u2019\n\u2019I\u2019ve been at school too, dear. Sex talks once a month for the over-sixteens.\nAnd in the Youth Movement. They rub it into you for years. I dare say it works\nin a lot of cases. But of course you can never tell; people are such hypocrites.\u2019\nShe began to enlarge upon the subject. With Julia, everything came back\nto her own sexuality. As soon as this was touched upon in any way she was\ncapable of great acuteness. Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner meaning\nof the Party\u2019s sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex instinct created\na world of its own which was outside the Party\u2019s control and which therefore\nhad to be destroyed if possible. What was more important was that sexual\nprivation induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could be transformed\ninto war-fever and leader-worship. The way she put it was:\n\u2019When you make love you\u2019re using up energy; and afterwards you feel happy\nand don\u2019t give a damn for anything. They can\u2019t bear you to feel like that. They\nwant you to be bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and down\nand cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour. If you\u2019re happy inside\nyourself, why should you get excited about Big Brother and the Three-Year\nPlans and the Two Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot?\u2019\n\nThat was very true, he thought. There was a direct intimate connexion be-\ntween chastity and political orthodoxy. For how could the fear, the hatred, and\n\nthe lunatic credulity which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right\npitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and using it as a driving\nforce? The sex impulse was dangerous to the Party, and the Party had turned\nit to account. They had played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood.\n\nThe family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people were encour-\naged to be fond of their children, in almost the old-fashioned way. The children,\n\non the other hand, were systematically turned against their parents and taught\nto spy on them and report their deviations. The family had become in effect an\nextension of the Thought Police. It was a device by means of which everyone\ncould be surrounded night and day by informers who knew him intimately.\nAbruptly his mind went back to Katharine. Katharine would unquestionably\nhave denounced him to the Thought Police if she had not happened to be too\nstupid to detect the unorthodoxy of his opinions. But what really recalled\nher to him at this moment was the stifling heat of the afternoon, which had\n\n\n\nbrought the sweat out on his forehead. He began telling Julia of something that\nhad happened, or rather had failed to happen, on another sweltering summer\nafternoon, eleven years ago.\nIt was three or four months after they were married. They had lost their\nway on a community hike somewhere in Kent. They had only lagged behind the\nothers for a couple of minutes, but they took a wrong turning, and presently\nfound themselves pulled up short by the edge of an old chalk quarry. It was a\nsheer drop of ten or twenty metres, with boulders at the bottom. There was\nnobody of whom they could ask the way. As soon as she realized that they were\nlost Katharine became very uneasy. To be away from the noisy mob of hikers\neven for a moment gave her a feeling of wrong-doing. She wanted to hurry back\nby the way they had come and start searching in the other direction. But at\nthis moment Winston noticed some tufts of loosestrife growing in the cracks of\nthe cliff beneath them. One tuft was of two colours, magenta and brick-red,\napparently growing on the same root. He had never seen anything of the kind\nbefore, and he called to Katharine to come and look at it.\n\u2019Look, Katharine! Look at those flowers. That clump down near the bottom.\nDo you see they\u2019re two different colours?\u2019\nShe had already turned to go, but she did rather fretfully come back for a\nmoment. She even leaned out over the cliff face to see where he was pointing.\nHe was standing a little behind her, and he put his hand on her waist to steady\nher. At this moment it suddenly occurred to him how completely alone they\nwere. There was not a human creature anywhere, not a leaf stirring, not even\na bird awake. In a place like this the danger that there would be a hidden\nmicrophone was very small, and even if there was a microphone it would only\npick up sounds. It was the hottest sleepiest hour of the afternoon. The sun\nblazed down upon them, the sweat tickled his face. And the thought struck him\n...\n\u2019Why didn\u2019t you give her a good shove?\u2019 said Julia. \u2019I would have.\u2019\n\u2019Yes, dear, you would have. I would, if I\u2019d been the same person then as I\nam now. Or perhaps I would \u2014 I\u2019m not certain.\u2019\n\u2019Are you sorry you didn\u2019t?\u2019\n\u2019Yes. On the whole I\u2019m sorry I didn\u2019t.\u2019\nThey were sitting side by side on the dusty floor. He pulled her closer against\nhim. Her head rested on his shoulder, the pleasant smell of her hair conquering\nthe pigeon dung. She was very young, he thought, she still expected something\nfrom life, she did not understand that to push an inconvenient person over a\ncliff solves nothing.\n\u2019Actually it would have made no difference,\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Then why are you sorry you didn\u2019t do it?\u2019\n\u2019Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this game that we\u2019re\nplaying, we can\u2019t win. Some kinds of failure are better than other kinds, that\u2019s\nall.\u2019\nHe felt her shoulders give a wriggle of dissent. She always contradicted him\nwhen he said anything of this kind. She would not accept it as a law of nature\nthat the individual is always defeated. In a way she realized that she herself was\ndoomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would catch her and kill her,\nbut with another part of her mind she believed that it was somehow possible to\nconstruct a secret world in which you could live as you chose. All you needed\nwas luck and cunning and boldness. She did not understand that there was no\n\n\n\nsuch thing as happiness, that the only victory lay in the far future, long after\nyou were dead, that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was\nbetter to think of yourself as a corpse.\n\u2019We are the dead,\u2019 he said.\n\u2019We\u2019re not dead yet,\u2019 said Julia prosaically.\n\u2019Not physically. Six months, a year \u2014 five years, conceivably. I am afraid\nof death. You are young, so presumably you\u2019re more afraid of it than I am.\nObviously we shall put it off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference.\nSo long as human beings stay human, death and life are the same thing.\u2019\n\u2019Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or a skeleton? Don\u2019t\nyou enjoy being alive? Don\u2019t you like feeling: This is me, this is my hand, this\nis my leg, I\u2019m real, I\u2019m solid, I\u2019m alive! Don\u2019t you like this?\u2019\nShe twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against him. He could feel\nher breasts, ripe yet firm, through her overalls. Her body seemed to be pouring\nsome of its youth and vigour into his.\n\u2019Yes, I like that,\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear, we\u2019ve got to fix up\nabout the next time we meet. We may as well go back to the place in the wood.\nWe\u2019ve given it a good long rest. But you must get there by a different way this\ntime. I\u2019ve got it all planned out. You take the train \u2014 but look, I\u2019ll draw it out\nfor you.\u2019\nAnd in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust, and\nwith a twig from a pigeon\u2019s nest began drawing a map on the floor.\n\n\n\n \n\nWinston looked round the shabby little room above Mr Charrington\u2019s shop.\nBeside the window the enormous bed was made up, with ragged blankets and\n\na coverless bolster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was tick-\ning away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gateleg table, the glass\n\npaperweight which he had bought on his last visit gleamed softly out of the\nhalf-darkness.\nIn the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and two cups, provided\nby Mr Charrington. Winston lit the burner and set a pan of water to boil. He\nhad brought an envelope full of Victory Coffee and some saccharine tablets.\nThe clock\u2019s hands said seventeen-twenty: it was nineteen-twenty really. She\nwas coming at nineteen-thirty.\nFolly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous, suicidal folly. Of all\nthe crimes that a Party member could commit, this one was the least possible\nto conceal. Actually the idea had first floated into his head in the form of a\nvision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the surface of the gateleg table.\nAs he had foreseen, Mr Charrington had made no difficulty about letting the\nroom. He was obviously glad of the few dollars that it would bring him. Nor\ndid he seem shocked or become offensively knowing when it was made clear that\nWinston wanted the room for the purpose of a love-affair. Instead he looked\ninto the middle distance and spoke in generalities, with so delicate an air as\nto give the impression that he had become partly invisible. Privacy, he said,\nwas a very valuable thing. Everyone wanted a place where they could be alone\noccasionally. And when they had such a place, it was only common courtesy in\nanyone else who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even, seeming\nalmost to fade out of existence as he did so, added that there were two entries\nto the house, one of them through the back yard, which gave on an alley.\nUnder the window somebody was singing. Winston peeped out, secure in\nthe protection of the muslin curtain. The June sun was still high in the sky,\nand in the sun-filled court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pillar,\nwith brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped about her middle, was\nstumping to and fro between a washtub and a clothes line, pegging out a series of\nsquare white things which Winston recognized as babies\u2019 diapers. Whenever her\nmouth was not corked with clothes pegs she was singing in a powerful contralto:\nIt was only an \u2019opeless fancy.\nIt passed like an Ipril dye,\nBut a look an\u2019 a word an\u2019 the dreams they stirred!\nThey \u2019ave stolen my \u2019eart awye!\n\n\nThe tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless\nsimilar songs published for the benefit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music\nDepartment. The words of these songs were composed without any human\nintervention whatever on an instrument known as a versificator. But the woman\nsang so tunefully as to turn the dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound.\nHe could hear the woman singing and the scrape of her shoes on the flagstones,\nand the cries of the children in the street, and somewhere in the far distance\na faint roar of traffic, and yet the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the\nabsence of a telescreen.\nFolly, folly, folly! he thought again. It was inconceivable that they could\nfrequent this place for more than a few weeks without being caught. But the\ntemptation of having a hiding-place that was truly their own, indoors and near\nat hand, had been too much for both of them. For some time after their visit to\nthe church belfry it had been impossible to arrange meetings. Working hours\nhad been drastically increased in anticipation of Hate Week. It was more than\na month distant, but the enormous, complex preparations that it entailed were\nthrowing extra work on to everybody. Finally both of them managed to secure\na free afternoon on the same day. They had agreed to go back to the clearing\nin the wood. On the evening beforehand they met briefly in the street. As\nusual, Winston hardly looked at Julia as they drifted towards one another in\nthe crowd, but from the short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was\npaler than usual.\n\u2019It\u2019s all off,\u2019 she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to speak. \u2019Tomorrow,\nI mean.\u2019\n\u2019What?\u2019\n\u2019Tomorrow afternoon. I can\u2019t come.\u2019\n\u2019Why not?\u2019\n\u2019Oh, the usual reason. It\u2019s started early this time.\u2019\nFor a moment he was violently angry. During the month that he had known\nher the nature of his desire for her had changed. At the beginning there had\nbeen little true sensuality in it. Their first love-making had been simply an act\nof the will. But after the second time it was different. The smell of her hair, the\ntaste of her mouth, the feeling of her skin seemed to have got inside him, or into\nthe air all round him. She had become a physical necessity, something that he\nnot only wanted but felt that he had a right to. When she said that she could\nnot come, he had the feeling that she was cheating him. But just at this moment\nthe crowd pressed them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave the\ntips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to invite not desire but affection.\nIt struck him that when one lived with a woman this particular disappointment\nmust be a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness, such as he had not\nfelt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He wished that they were a\nmarried couple of ten years\u2019 standing. He wished that he were walking through\nthe streets with her just as they were doing now but openly and without fear,\ntalking of trivialities and buying odds and ends for the household. He wished\nabove all that they had some place where they could be alone together without\nfeeling the obligation to make love every time they met. It was not actually at\nthat moment, but at some time on the following day, that the idea of renting\nMr Charrington\u2019s room had occurred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she\nhad agreed with unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was lunacy.\nIt was as though they were intentionally stepping nearer to their graves. As he\n\n\n\nsat waiting on the edge of the bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry\nof Love. It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and out of one\u2019s\nconsciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times, preceding death as surely as\n precedes . One could not avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it:\nand yet instead, every now and again, by a conscious, wilful act, one chose to\nshorten the interval before it happened.\nAt this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia burst into the\nroom. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse brown canvas, such as he had\nsometimes seen her carrying to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward to\ntake her in his arms, but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly, partly because\nshe was still holding the tool-bag.\n\u2019Half a second,\u2019 she said. \u2019Just let me show you what I\u2019ve brought. Did you\nbring some of that filthy Victory Coffee? I thought you would. You can chuck\nit away again, because we shan\u2019t be needing it. Look here.\u2019\nShe fell on her knees, threw open the bag, and tumbled out some spanners\nand a screwdriver that filled the top part of it. Underneath were a number of\nneat paper packets. The first packet that she passed to Winston had a strange\nand yet vaguely familiar feeling. It was filled with some kind of heavy, sand-like\nstuff which yielded wherever you touched it.\n\u2019It isn\u2019t sugar?\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here\u2019s a loaf of bread proper white\nbread, not our bloody stuff \u2014 and a little pot of jam. And here\u2019s a tin of milk\n\u2014 but look! This is the one I\u2019m really proud of. I had to wrap a bit of sacking\nround it, because-\u2019\nBut she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it up. The smell was\nalready filling the room, a rich hot smell which seemed like an emanation from\nhis early childhood, but which one did occasionally meet with even now, blowing\ndown a passage-way before a door slammed, or diffusing itself mysteriously in\na crowded street, sniffed for an instant and then lost again.\n\u2019It\u2019s coffee,\u2019 he murmured, \u2019real coffee.\u2019\n\u2019It\u2019s Inner Party coffee. There\u2019s a whole kilo here, she said.\n\u2019How did you manage to get hold of all these things?\u2019\n\u2019It\u2019s all Inner Party stuff. There\u2019s nothing those swine don\u2019t have, nothing.\nBut of course waiters and servants and people pinch things, and \u2014 look, I got\na little packet of tea as well.\u2019\nWinston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a corner of the packet.\n\u2019It\u2019s real tea. Not blackberry leaves.\u2019\n\n\u2019There\u2019s been a lot of tea about lately. They\u2019ve captured India, or some-\nthing,\u2019 she said vaguely. \u2019But listen, dear. I want you to turn your back on me\n\nfor three minutes. Go and sit on the other side of the bed. Don\u2019t go too near\nthe window. And don\u2019t turn round till I tell you.\u2019\nWinston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain. Down in the yard\nthe red-armed woman was still marching to and fro between the washtub and\nthe line. She took two more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep feeling:\nThey sye that time \u2019eals all things,\nThey sye you can always forget;\nBut the smiles an\u2019 the tears acrorss the years\nThey twist my \u2019eart-strings yet!\nShe knew the whole drivelling song by heart, it seemed. Her voice floated\nupward with the sweet summer air, very tuneful, charged with a sort of happy\n\n\n\nmelancholy. One had the feeling that she would have been perfectly content, if\nthe June evening had been endless and the supply of clothes inexhaustible, to\nremain there for a thousand years, pegging out diapers and singing rubbish. It\nstruck him as a curious fact that he had never heard a member of the Party\n\nsinging alone and spontaneously. It would even have seemed slightly unortho-\ndox, a dangerous eccentricity, like talking to oneself. Perhaps it was only when\n\npeople were somewhere near the starvation level that they had anything to sing\nabout.\n\u2019You can turn round now,\u2019 said Julia.\nHe turned round, and for a second almost failed to recognize her. What\nhe had actually expected was to see her naked. But she was not naked. The\ntransformation that had happened was much more surprising than that. She\nhad painted her face.\nShe must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian quarters and bought\nherself a complete set of make-up materials. Her lips were deeply reddened, her\ncheeks rouged, her nose powdered; there was even a touch of something under\nthe eyes to make them brighter. It was not very skilfully done, but Winston\u2019s\nstandards in such matters were not high. He had never before seen or imagined\na woman of the Party with cosmetics on her face. The improvement in her\nappearance was startling. With just a few dabs of colour in the right places\nshe had become not only very much prettier, but, above all, far more feminine.\nHer short hair and boyish overalls merely added to the effect. As he took her\nin his arms a wave of synthetic violets flooded his nostrils. He remembered the\nhalf-darkness of a basement kitchen, and a woman\u2019s cavernous mouth. It was\nthe very same scent that she had used; but at the moment it did not seem to\nmatter.\n\u2019Scent too!\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Yes, dear, scent too. And do you know what I\u2019m going to do next? I\u2019m\ngoing to get hold of a real woman\u2019s frock from somewhere and wear it instead\nof these bloody trousers. I\u2019ll wear silk stockings and high-heeled shoes! In this\nroom I\u2019m going to be a woman, not a Party comrade.\u2019\nThey flung their clothes off and climbed into the huge mahogany bed. It\nwas the first time that he had stripped himself naked in her presence. Until now\nhe had been too much ashamed of his pale and meagre body, with the varicose\nveins standing out on his calves and the discoloured patch over his ankle. There\nwere no sheets, but the blanket they lay on was threadbare and smooth, and\nthe size and springiness of the bed astonished both of them. \u2019It\u2019s sure to be full\nof bugs, but who cares?\u2019 said Julia. One never saw a double bed nowadays,\nexcept in the homes of the proles. Winston had occasionally slept in one in his\nboyhood: Julia had never been in one before, so far as she could remember.\nPresently they fell asleep for a little while. When Winston woke up the\nhands of the clock had crept round to nearly nine. He did not stir, because\nJulia was sleeping with her head in the crook of his arm. Most of her make-up\nhad transferred itself to his own face or the bolster, but a light stain of rouge still\nbrought out the beauty of her cheekbone. A yellow ray from the sinking sun fell\nacross the foot of the bed and lighted up the fireplace, where the water in the\npan was boiling fast. Down in the yard the woman had stopped singing, but the\nfaint shouts of children floated in from the street. He wondered vaguely whether\nin the abolished past it had been a normal experience to lie in bed like this, in\nthe cool of a summer evening, a man and a woman with no clothes on, making\n\n\n\nlove when they chose, talking of what they chose, not feeling any compulsion\nto get up, simply lying there and listening to peaceful sounds outside. Surely\nthere could never have been a time when that seemed ordinary? Julia woke up,\nrubbed her eyes, and raised herself on her elbow to look at the oilstove.\n\u2019Half that water\u2019s boiled away,\u2019 she said. \u2019I\u2019ll get up and make some coffee\nin another moment. We\u2019ve got an hour. What time do they cut the lights off\nat your flats?\u2019\n\u2019Twenty-three thirty.\u2019\n\u2019It\u2019s twenty-three at the hostel. But you have to get in earlier than that,\nbecause \u2014 Hi! Get out, you filthy brute!\u2019\nShe suddenly twisted herself over in the bed, seized a shoe from the floor,\nand sent it hurtling into the corner with a boyish jerk of her arm, exactly as\nhe had seen her fling the dictionary at Goldstein, that morning during the Two\nMinutes Hate.\n\u2019What was it?\u2019 he said in surprise.\n\u2019A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wainscoting. There\u2019s a\nhole down there. I gave him a good fright, anyway.\u2019\n\u2019Rats!\u2019 murmured Winston. \u2019In this room!\u2019\n\u2019They\u2019re all over the place,\u2019 said Julia indifferently as she lay down again.\n\u2019We\u2019ve even got them in the kitchen at the hostel. Some parts of London are\nswarming with them. Did you know they attack children? Yes, they do. In\nsome of these streets a woman daren\u2019t leave a baby alone for two minutes. It\u2019s\nthe great huge brown ones that do it. And the nasty thing is that the brutes\nalways-\u2019\n\u2019Don\u2019t go on!\u2019 said Winston, with his eyes tightly shut.\n\u2019Dearest! You\u2019ve gone quite pale. What\u2019s the matter? Do they make you\nfeel sick?\u2019\n\u2019Of all horrors in the world \u2014 a rat!\u2019\nShe pressed herself against him and wound her limbs round him, as though\nto reassure him with the warmth of her body. He did not reopen his eyes\nimmediately. For several moments he had had the feeling of being back in a\nnightmare which had recurred from time to time throughout his life. It was\nalways very much the same. He was standing in front of a wall of darkness, and\non the other side of it there was something unendurable, something too dreadful\nto be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was always one of self-deception,\nbecause he did in fact know what was behind the wall of darkness. With a\ndeadly effort, like wrenching a piece out of his own brain, he could even have\ndragged the thing into the open. He always woke up without discovering what\nit was: but somehow it was connected with what Julia had been saying when\nhe cut her short.\n\u2019I\u2019m sorry,\u2019 he said, \u2019it\u2019s nothing. I don\u2019t like rats, that\u2019s all.\u2019\n\u2019Don\u2019t worry, dear, we\u2019re not going to have the filthy brutes in here. I\u2019ll stuff\nthe hole with a bit of sacking before we go. And next time we come here I\u2019ll\nbring some plaster and bung it up properly.\u2019\nAlready the black instant of panic was half-forgotten. Feeling slightly ashamed\nof himself, he sat up against the bedhead. Julia got out of bed, pulled on her\noveralls, and made the coffee. The smell that rose from the saucepan was so\npowerful and exciting that they shut the window lest anybody outside should\nnotice it and become inquisitive. What was even better than the taste of the\ncoffee was the silky texture given to it by the sugar, a thing Winston had almost\n\n\n\nforgotten after years of saccharine. With one hand in her pocket and a piece of\n\nbread and jam in the other, Julia wandered about the room, glancing indiffer-\nently at the bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gateleg table,\n\nplumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to see if it was comfortable, and\nexamining the absurd twelve-hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She\nbrought the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a better\nlight. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always, by the soft, rainwatery\nappearance of the glass.\n\u2019What is it, do you think?\u2019 said Julia.\n\u2019I don\u2019t think it\u2019s anything-I mean, I don\u2019t think it was ever put to any use.\nThat\u2019s what I like about it. It\u2019s a little chunk of history that they\u2019ve forgotten\nto alter. It\u2019s a message from a hundred years ago, if one knew how to read it.\u2019\n\u2019And that picture over there\u2019 \u2014 she nodded at the engraving on the opposite\nwall-\u2019would that be a hundred years old?\u2019\n\u2019More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can\u2019t tell. It\u2019s impossible to discover\nthe age of anything nowadays.\u2019\nShe went over to look at it. \u2019Here\u2019s where that brute stuck his nose out,\u2019\nshe said, kicking the wainscoting immediately below the picture. \u2019What is this\nplace? I\u2019ve seen it before somewhere.\u2019\n\u2019It\u2019s a church, or at least it used to be. St Clement Danes its name was.\u2019\nThe fragment of rhyme that Mr Charrington had taught him came back into\nhis head, and he added half-nostalgically: \u201dOranges and lemons, say the bells\nof St Clement\u2019s!\u201d\nTo his astonishment she capped the line:\n\u2019You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin\u2019s,\nWhen will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey \u2014 \u2019\n\u2019I can\u2019t remember how it goes on after that. But anyway I remember it ends\nup, \u201dHere comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off\nyour head!\u201d\nIt was like the two halves of a countersign. But there must be another line\nafter \u2019the bells of Old Bailey\u2019. Perhaps it could be dug out of Mr Charrington\u2019s\nmemory, if he were suitably prompted.\n\u2019Who taught you that?\u2019 he said.\n\u2019My grandfather. He used to say it to me when I was a little girl. He was\nvaporized when I was eight \u2014 at any rate, he disappeared. I wonder what a\nlemon was,\u2019 she added inconsequently. \u2019I\u2019ve seen oranges. They\u2019re a kind of\nround yellow fruit with a thick skin.\u2019\n\u2019I can remember lemons,\u2019 said Winston. \u2019They were quite common in the\nfifties. They were so sour that it set your teeth on edge even to smell them.\u2019\n\u2019I bet that picture\u2019s got bugs behind it,\u2019 said Julia. \u2019I\u2019ll take it down and\ngive it a good clean some day. I suppose it\u2019s almost time we were leaving. I\nmust start washing this paint off. What a bore! I\u2019ll get the lipstick off your face\nafterwards.\u2019\nWinston did not get up for a few minutes more. The room was darkening.\nHe turned over towards the light and lay gazing into the glass paperweight. The\ninexhaustibly interesting thing was not the fragment of coral but the interior\nof the glass itself. There was such a depth of it, and yet it was almost as\ntransparent as air. It was as though the surface of the glass had been the arch\nof the sky, enclosing a tiny world with its atmosphere complete. He had the\nfeeling that he could get inside it, and that in fact he was inside it, along with\n\n\n\nthe mahogany bed and the gateleg table, and the clock and the steel engraving\nand the paperweight itself. The paperweight was the room he was in, and the\ncoral was Julia\u2019s life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the\ncrystal.\n\n\n\n \n\nSyme had vanished. A morning came, and he was missing from work: a few\n\nthoughtless people commented on his absence. On the next day nobody men-\ntioned him. On the third day Winston went into the vestibule of the Records\n\nDepartment to look at the notice-board. One of the notices carried a printed\nlist of the members of the Chess Committee, of whom Syme had been one. It\nlooked almost exactly as it had looked before \u2014 nothing had been crossed out\n\u2014 but it was one name shorter. It was enough. Syme had ceased to exist: he\nhad never existed.\nThe weather was baking hot. In the labyrinthine Ministry the windowless,\n\nair-conditioned rooms kept their normal temperature, but outside the pave-\nments scorched one\u2019s feet and the stench of the Tubes at the rush hours was\n\na horror. The preparations for Hate Week were in full swing, and the staffs of\n\nall the Ministries were working overtime. Processions, meetings, military pa-\nrades, lectures, waxworks, displays, film shows, telescreen programmes all had\n\nto be organized; stands had to be erected, effigies built, slogans coined, songs\n\nwritten, rumours circulated, photographs faked. Julia\u2019s unit in the Fiction De-\npartment had been taken off the production of novels and was rushing out a\n\nseries of atrocity pamphlets. Winston, in addition to his regular work, spent\nlong periods every day in going through back files of The Times and altering\nand embellishing news items which were to be quoted in speeches. Late at\n\nnight, when crowds of rowdy proles roamed the streets, the town had a curi-\nously febrile air. The rocket bombs crashed oftener than ever, and sometimes\n\nin the far distance there were enormous explosions which no one could explain\nand about which there were wild rumours.\nThe new tune which was to be the theme-song of Hate Week (the Hate Song,\nit was called) had already been composed and was being endlessly plugged on\nthe telescreens. It had a savage, barking rhythm which could not exactly be\ncalled music, but resembled the beating of a drum. Roared out by hundreds of\nvoices to the tramp of marching feet, it was terrifying. The proles had taken a\nfancy to it, and in the midnight streets it competed with the still-popular \u2019It\nwas only a hopeless fancy\u2019. The Parsons children played it at all hours of the\nnight and day, unbearably, on a comb and a piece of toilet paper. Winston\u2019s\nevenings were fuller than ever. Squads of volunteers, organized by Parsons,\nwere preparing the street for Hate Week, stitching banners, painting posters,\nerecting flagstaffs on the roofs, and perilously slinging wires across the street for\nthe reception of streamers. Parsons boasted that Victory Mansions alone would\ndisplay four hundred metres of bunting. He was in his native element and as\n\n\n\nhappy as a lark. The heat and the manual work had even given him a pretext\nfor reverting to shorts and an open shirt in the evenings. He was everywhere at\nonce, pushing, pulling, sawing, hammering, improvising, jollying everyone along\nwith comradely exhortations and giving out from every fold of his body what\nseemed an inexhaustible supply of acrid-smelling sweat.\nA new poster had suddenly appeared all over London. It had no caption,\nand represented simply the monstrous figure of a Eurasian soldier, three or four\nmetres high, striding forward with expressionless Mongolian face and enormous\nboots, a submachine gun pointed from his hip. From whatever angle you looked\nat the poster, the muzzle of the gun, magnified by the foreshortening, seemed\nto be pointed straight at you. The thing had been plastered on every blank\nspace on every wall, even outnumbering the portraits of Big Brother. The\nproles, normally apathetic about the war, were being lashed into one of their\nperiodical frenzies of patriotism. As though to harmonize with the general\nmood, the rocket bombs had been killing larger numbers of people than usual.\nOne fell on a crowded film theatre in Stepney, burying several hundred victims\namong the ruins. The whole population of the neighbourhood turned out for a\nlong, trailing funeral which went on for hours and was in effect an indignation\nmeeting. Another bomb fell on a piece of waste ground which was used as a\nplayground and several dozen children were blown to pieces. There were further\nangry demonstrations, Goldstein was burned in effigy, hundreds of copies of the\nposter of the Eurasian soldier were torn down and added to the flames, and\na number of shops were looted in the turmoil; then a rumour flew round that\nspies were directing the rocket bombs by means of wireless waves, and an old\ncouple who were suspected of being of foreign extraction had their house set on\nfire and perished of suffocation.\nIn the room over Mr Charrington\u2019s shop, when they could get there, Julia\nand Winston lay side by side on a stripped bed under the open window, naked for\nthe sake of coolness. The rat had never come back, but the bugs had multiplied\nhideously in the heat. It did not seem to matter. Dirty or clean, the room was\nparadise. As soon as they arrived they would sprinkle everything with pepper\nbought on the black market, tear off their clothes, and make love with sweating\nbodies, then fall asleep and wake to find that the bugs had rallied and were\nmassing for the counter-attack.\nFour, five, six \u2014 seven times they met during the month of June. Winston\nhad dropped his habit of drinking gin at all hours. He seemed to have lost the\nneed for it. He had grown fatter, his varicose ulcer had subsided, leaving only a\nbrown stain on the skin above his ankle, his fits of coughing in the early morning\nhad stopped. The process of life had ceased to be intolerable, he had no longer\nany impulse to make faces at the telescreen or shout curses at the top of his\nvoice. Now that they had a secure hiding-place, almost a home, it did not even\nseem a hardship that they could only meet infrequently and for a couple of hours\nat a time. What mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist.\nTo know that it was there, inviolate, was almost the same as being in it. The\nroom was a world, a pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk. Mr\nCharrington, thought Winston, was another extinct animal. He usually stopped\nto talk with Mr Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs. The old\nman seemed seldom or never to go out of doors, and on the other hand to\nhave almost no customers. He led a ghostlike existence between the tiny, dark\nshop, and an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his meals and which\n\n\n\ncontained, among other things, an unbelievably ancient gramophone with an\nenormous horn. He seemed glad of the opportunity to talk. Wandering about\namong his worthless stock, with his long nose and thick spectacles and his bowed\nshoulders in the velvet jacket, he had always vaguely the air of being a collector\nrather than a tradesman. With a sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this\nscrap of rubbish or that \u2014 a china bottle-stopper, the painted lid of a broken\nsnuffbox, a pinchbeck locket containing a strand of some long-dead baby\u2019s hair\n\u2014 never asking that Winston should buy it, merely that he should admire it. To\ntalk to him was like listening to the tinkling of a worn-out musical-box. He had\ndragged out from the corners of his memory some more fragments of forgotten\nrhymes. There was one about four and twenty blackbirds, and another about a\ncow with a crumpled horn, and another about the death of poor Cock Robin. \u2019It\njust occurred to me you might be interested,\u2019 he would say with a deprecating\nlittle laugh whenever he produced a new fragment. But he could never recall\nmore than a few lines of any one rhyme.\nBoth of them knew-in a way, it was never out of their minds that what\nwas now happening could not last long. There were times when the fact of\nimpending death seemed as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they would\ncling together with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned soul grasping\nat his last morsel of pleasure when the clock is within five minutes of striking.\nBut there were also times when they had the illusion not only of safety but\nof permanence. So long as they were actually in this room, they both felt, no\nharm could come to them. Getting there was difficult and dangerous, but the\nroom itself was sanctuary. It was as when Winston had gazed into the heart\nof the paperweight, with the feeling that it would be possible to get inside that\nglassy world, and that once inside it time could be arrested. Often they gave\nthemselves up to daydreams of escape. Their luck would hold indefinitely, and\nthey would carry on their intrigue, just like this, for the remainder of their\nnatural lives. Or Katharine would die, and by subtle manoeuvrings Winston\nand Julia would succeed in getting married. Or they would commit suicide\ntogether. Or they would disappear, alter themselves out of recognition, learn\nto speak with proletarian accents, get jobs in a factory and live out their lives\nundetected in a back-street. It was all nonsense, as they both knew. In reality\nthere was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they\nhad no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day and from week\nto week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed an unconquerable\ninstinct, just as one\u2019s lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is\nair available.\nSometimes, too, they talked of engaging in active rebellion against the Party,\n\nbut with no notion of how to take the first step. Even if the fabulous Brother-\nhood was a reality, there still remained the difficulty of finding one\u2019s way into\n\nit. He told her of the strange intimacy that existed, or seemed to exist, between\nhimself and O\u2019Brien, and of the impulse he sometimes felt, simply to walk into\nO\u2019Brien\u2019s presence, announce that he was the enemy of the Party, and demand\nhis help. Curiously enough, this did not strike her as an impossibly rash thing\nto do. She was used to judging people by their faces, and it seemed natural to\nher that Winston should believe O\u2019Brien to be trustworthy on the strength of a\nsingle flash of the eyes. Moreover she took it for granted that everyone, or nearly\neveryone, secretly hated the Party and would break the rules if he thought it\nsafe to do so. But she refused to believe that widespread, organized opposition\n\n\n\nexisted or could exist. The tales about Goldstein and his underground army,\nshe said, were simply a lot of rubbish which the Party had invented for its own\npurposes and which you had to pretend to believe in. Times beyond number,\nat Party rallies and spontaneous demonstrations, she had shouted at the top of\nher voice for the execution of people whose names she had never heard and in\nwhose supposed crimes she had not the faintest belief. When public trials were\nhappening she had taken her place in the detachments from the Youth League\nwho surrounded the courts from morning to night, chanting at intervals \u2019Death\nto the traitors!\u2019 During the Two Minutes Hate she always excelled all others in\n\nshouting insults at Goldstein. Yet she had only the dimmest idea of who Gold-\nstein was and what doctrines he was supposed to represent. She had grown up\n\nsince the Revolution and was too young to remember the ideological battles of\nthe fifties and sixties. Such a thing as an independent political movement was\noutside her imagination: and in any case the Party was invincible. It would\nalways exist, and it would always be the same. You could only rebel against it\nby secret disobedience or, at most, by isolated acts of violence such as killing\nsomebody or blowing something up.\nIn some ways she was far more acute than Winston, and far less susceptible\nto Party propaganda. Once when he happened in some connexion to mention\nthe war against Eurasia, she startled him by saying casually that in her opinion\nthe war was not happening. The rocket bombs which fell daily on London\nwere probably fired by the Government of Oceania itself, \u2019just to keep people\nfrightened\u2019. This was an idea that had literally never occurred to him. She\nalso stirred a sort of envy in him by telling him that during the Two Minutes\nHate her great difficulty was to avoid bursting out laughing. But she only\nquestioned the teachings of the Party when they in some way touched upon her\nown life. Often she was ready to accept the official mythology, simply because\nthe difference between truth and falsehood did not seem important to her. She\nbelieved, for instance, having learnt it at school, that the Party had invented\naeroplanes. (In his own schooldays, Winston remembered, in the late fifties,\nit was only the helicopter that the Party claimed to have invented; a dozen\nyears later, when Julia was at school, it was already claiming the aeroplane;\none generation more, and it would be claiming the steam engine.) And when\nhe told her that aeroplanes had been in existence before he was born and long\nbefore the Revolution, the fact struck her as totally uninteresting. After all,\nwhat did it matter who had invented aeroplanes? It was rather more of a shock\nto him when he discovered from some chance remark that she did not remember\nthat Oceania, four years ago, had been at war with Eastasia and at peace with\nEurasia. It was true that she regarded the whole war as a sham: but apparently\nshe had not even noticed that the name of the enemy had changed. \u2019I thought\nwe\u2019d always been at war with Eurasia,\u2019 she said vaguely. It frightened him a\nlittle. The invention of aeroplanes dated from long before her birth, but the\nswitchover in the war had happened only four years ago, well after she was\ngrown up. He argued with her about it for perhaps a quarter of an hour. In\nthe end he succeeded in forcing her memory back until she did dimly recall that\nat one time Eastasia and not Eurasia had been the enemy. But the issue still\nstruck her as unimportant. \u2019Who cares?\u2019 she said impatiently. \u2019It\u2019s always one\nbloody war after another, and one knows the news is all lies anyway.\nSometimes he talked to her of the Records Department and the impudent\nforgeries that he committed there. Such things did not appear to horrify her.\n\n\n\nShe did not feel the abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought of lies be-\ncoming truths. He told her the story of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford and\n\nthe momentous slip of paper which he had once held between his fingers. It did\nnot make much impression on her. At first, indeed, she failed to grasp the point\nof the story.\n\u2019Were they friends of yours?\u2019 she said.\n\u2019No, I never knew them. They were Inner Party members. Besides, they\nwere far older men than I was. They belonged to the old days, before the\nRevolution. I barely knew them by sight.\u2019\n\u2019Then what was there to worry about? People are being killed off all the\ntime, aren\u2019t they?\u2019\nHe tried to make her understand. \u2019This was an exceptional case. It wasn\u2019t\njust a question of somebody being killed. Do you realize that the past, starting\nfrom yesterday, has been actually abolished? If it survives anywhere, it\u2019s in a\nfew solid objects with no words attached to them, like that lump of glass there.\nAlready we know almost literally nothing about the Revolution and the years\nbefore the Revolution. Every record has been destroyed or falsified, every book\nhas been rewritten, every picture has been repainted, every statue and street\nand building has been renamed, every date has been altered. And that process\nis continuing day by day and minute by minute. History has stopped. Nothing\nexists except an endless present in which the Party is always right. I know, of\ncourse, that the past is falsified, but it would never be possible for me to prove\nit, even when I did the falsification myself. After the thing is done, no evidence\never remains. The only evidence is inside my own mind, and I don\u2019t know with\nany certainty that any other human being shares my memories. Just in that\none instance, in my whole life, I did possess actual concrete evidence after the\nevent \u2014 years after it.\u2019\n\u2019And what good was that?\u2019\n\u2019It was no good, because I threw it away a few minutes later. But if the\nsame thing happened today, I should keep it.\u2019\n\u2019Well, I wouldn\u2019t!\u2019 said Julia. \u2019I\u2019m quite ready to take risks, but only for\nsomething worth while, not for bits of old newspaper. What could you have\ndone with it even if you had kept it?\u2019\n\u2019Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have planted a few\ndoubts here and there, supposing that I\u2019d dared to show it to anybody. I don\u2019t\nimagine that we can alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine\nlittle knots of resistance springing up here and there \u2014 small groups of people\nbanding themselves together, and gradually growing, and even leaving a few\nrecords behind, so that the next generations can carry on where we leave off.\u2019\n\u2019I\u2019m not interested in the next generation, dear. I\u2019m interested in us.\n\u2019You\u2019re only a rebel from the waist downwards,\u2019 he told her.\nShe thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms round him in delight.\nIn the ramifications of party doctrine she had not the faintest interest.\n\nWhenever he began to talk of the principles of Ingsoc, doublethink, the mu-\ntability of the past, and the denial of objective reality, and to use Newspeak\n\nwords, she became bored and confused and said that she never paid any atten-\ntion to that kind of thing. One knew that it was all rubbish, so why let oneself\n\nbe worried by it? She knew when to cheer and when to boo, and that was all\none needed. If he persisted in talking of such subjects, she had a disconcerting\nhabit of falling asleep. She was one of those people who can go to sleep at\n\n\n\nany hour and in any position. Talking to her, he realized how easy it was to\npresent an appearance of orthodoxy while having no grasp whatever of what\northodoxy meant. In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most\n\nsuccessfully on people incapable of understanding it. They could be made to ac-\ncept the most flagrant violations of reality, because they never fully grasped the\n\nenormity of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently interested\nin public events to notice what was happening. By lack of understanding they\nremained sane. They simply swallowed everything, and what they swallowed\ndid them no harm, because it left no residue behind, just as a grain of corn will\npass undigested through the body of a bird.\n\n\n\n \n\nIt had happened at last. The expected message had come. All his life, it seemed\nto him, he had been waiting for this to happen.\nHe was walking down the long corridor at the Ministry and he was almost\nat the spot where Julia had slipped the note into his hand when he became\naware that someone larger than himself was walking just behind him. The\nperson, whoever it was, gave a small cough, evidently as a prelude to speaking.\nWinston stopped abruptly and turned. It was O\u2019Brien.\nAt last they were face to face, and it seemed that his only impulse was\nto run away. His heart bounded violently. He would have been incapable of\nspeaking. O\u2019Brien, however, had continued forward in the same movement,\nlaying a friendly hand for a moment on Winston\u2019s arm, so that the two of them\nwere walking side by side. He began speaking with the peculiar grave courtesy\nthat differentiated him from the majority of Inner Party members.\n\u2019I had been hoping for an opportunity of talking to you,\u2019 he said. \u2019I was\nreading one of your Newspeak articles in The Times the other day. You take a\nscholarly interest in Newspeak, I believe?\u2019\nWinston had recovered part of his self-possession. \u2019Hardly scholarly,\u2019 he said.\n\u2019I\u2019m only an amateur. It\u2019s not my subject. I have never had anything to do\nwith the actual construction of the language.\u2019\n\u2019But you write it very elegantly,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019That is not only my own\nopinion. I was talking recently to a friend of yours who is certainly an expert.\nHis name has slipped my memory for the moment.\u2019\nAgain Winston\u2019s heart stirred painfully. It was inconceivable that this was\nanything other than a reference to Syme. But Syme was not only dead, he\nwas abolished, an unperson. Any identifiable reference to him would have been\nmortally dangerous. O\u2019Brien\u2019s remark must obviously have been intended as a\nsignal, a codeword. By sharing a small act of thoughtcrime he had turned the\ntwo of them into accomplices. They had continued to stroll slowly down the\ncorridor, but now O\u2019Brien halted. With the curious, disarming friendliness that\nhe always managed to put in to the gesture he resettled his spectacles on his\nnose. Then he went on:\n\u2019What I had really intended to say was that in your article I noticed you\nhad used two words which have become obsolete. But they have only become\nso very recently. Have you seen the tenth edition of the Newspeak Dictionary?\u2019\n\u2019No,\u2019 said Winston. \u2019I didn\u2019t think it had been issued yet. We are still using\nthe ninth in the Records Department.\u2019\n\u2019The tenth edition is not due to appear for some months, I believe. But a\n\n\n\nfew advance copies have been circulated. I have one myself. It might interest\nyou to look at it, perhaps?\u2019\n\u2019Very much so,\u2019 said Winston, immediately seeing where this tended.\n\u2019Some of the new developments are most ingenious. The reduction in the\nnumber of verbs \u2014 that is the point that will appeal to you, I think. Let me\nsee, shall I send a messenger to you with the dictionary? But I am afraid I\ninvariably forget anything of that kind. Perhaps you could pick it up at my flat\nat some time that suited you? Wait. Let me give you my address.\u2019\nThey were standing in front of a telescreen. Somewhat absentmindedly\n\nO\u2019Brien felt two of his pockets and then produced a small leather-covered note-\nbook and a gold ink-pencil. Immediately beneath the telescreen, in such a po-\nsition that anyone who was watching at the other end of the instrument could\n\nread what he was writing, he scribbled an address, tore out the page and handed\nit to Winston.\n\u2019I am usually at home in the evenings,\u2019 he said. \u2019If not, my servant will give\nyou the dictionary.\u2019\nHe was gone, leaving Winston holding the scrap of paper, which this time\nthere was no need to conceal. Nevertheless he carefully memorized what was\nwritten on it, and some hours later dropped it into the memory hole along with\na mass of other papers.\nThey had been talking to one another for a couple of minutes at the most.\nThere was only one meaning that the episode could possibly have. It had\nbeen contrived as a way of letting Winston know O\u2019Brien\u2019s address. This was\nnecessary, because except by direct enquiry it was never possible to discover\nwhere anyone lived. There were no directories of any kind. \u2019If you ever want to\nsee me, this is where I can be found,\u2019 was what O\u2019Brien had been saying to him.\nPerhaps there would even be a message concealed somewhere in the dictionary.\nBut at any rate, one thing was certain. The conspiracy that he had dreamed of\ndid exist, and he had reached the outer edges of it.\nHe knew that sooner or later he would obey O\u2019Brien\u2019s summons. Perhaps\n\ntomorrow, perhaps after a long delay \u2014 he was not certain. What was happen-\ning was only the working-out of a process that had started years ago. The first\n\nstep had been a secret, involuntary thought, the second had been the opening\nof the diary. He had moved from thoughts to words, and now from words to\nactions. The last step was something that would happen in the Ministry of\nLove. He had accepted it. The end was contained in the beginning. But it was\nfrightening: or, more exactly, it was like a foretaste of death, like being a little\nless alive. Even while he was speaking to O\u2019Brien, when the meaning of the\nwords had sunk in, a chilly shuddering feeling had taken possession of his body.\nHe had the sensation of stepping into the dampness of a grave, and it was not\nmuch better because he had always known that the grave was there and waiting\nfor him.\n\n\n\n \n\nWinston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Julia rolled sleepily against\nhim, murmuring something that might have been \u2019What\u2019s the matter?\u2019\n\u2019I dreamt-\u2019 he began, and stopped short. It was too complex to be put into\nwords. There was the dream itself, and there was a memory connected with it\nthat had swum into his mind in the few seconds after waking.\nHe lay back with his eyes shut, still sodden in the atmosphere of the dream.\nIt was a vast, luminous dream in which his whole life seemed to stretch out\nbefore him like a landscape on a summer evening after rain. It had all occurred\ninside the glass paperweight, but the surface of the glass was the dome of the sky,\nand inside the dome everything was flooded with clear soft light in which one\ncould see into interminable distances. The dream had also been comprehended\nby \u2014 indeed, in some sense it had consisted in \u2014 a gesture of the arm made\nby his mother, and made again thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had\nseen on the news film, trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets, before\nthe helicopter blew them both to pieces.\n\u2019Do you know,\u2019 he said, \u2019that until this moment I believed I had murdered\nmy mother?\u2019\n\u2019Why did you murder her?\u2019 said Julia, almost asleep.\n\u2019I didn\u2019t murder her. Not physically.\u2019\nIn the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his mother, and within\na few moments of waking the cluster of small events surrounding it had all\ncome back. It was a memory that he must have deliberately pushed out of his\nconsciousness over many years. He was not certain of the date, but he could\nnot have been less than ten years old, possibly twelve, when it had happened.\nHis father had disappeared some time earlier, how much earlier he could\nnot remember. He remembered better the rackety, uneasy circumstances of the\ntime: the periodical panics about air-raids and the sheltering in Tube stations,\nthe piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proclamations posted at street\ncorners, the gangs of youths in shirts all the same colour, the enormous queues\noutside the bakeries, the intermittent machine-gun fire in the distance \u2014 above\nall, the fact that there was never enough to eat. He remembered long afternoons\nspent with other boys in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking\nout the ribs of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale\nbreadcrust from which they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in\nwaiting for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were\nknown to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad patches\nin the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake.\n\n\n\nWhen his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or any\nviolent grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have become\ncompletely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for\nsomething that she knew must happen. She did everything that was needed \u2014\ncooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece\n\u2014 always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an\nartist\u2019s lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely body seemed\nto relapse naturally into stillness. For hours at a time she would sit almost\nimmobile on the bed, nursing his young sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of\ntwo or three, with a face made simian by thinness. Very occasionally she would\ntake Winston in her arms and press him against her for a long time without\nsaying anything. He was aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that\nthis was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to\nhappen.\nHe remembered the room where they lived, a dark, closesmelling room that\nseemed half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas ring in\nthe fender, and a shelf where food was kept, and on the landing outside there\nwas a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He remembered his\nmother\u2019s statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something in\na saucepan. Above all he remembered his continuous hunger, and the fierce\nsordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly, over and over\nagain, why there was not more food, he would shout and storm at her (he even\nremembered the tones of his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely\nand sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or he would attempt a snivelling note\nof pathos in his efforts to get more than his share. His mother was quite ready\nto give him more than his share. She took it for granted that he, \u2019the boy\u2019,\nshould have the biggest portion; but however much she gave him he invariably\ndemanded more. At every meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to\nremember that his little sister was sick and also needed food, but it was no use.\nHe would cry out with rage when she stopped ladling, he would try to wrench\nthe saucepan and spoon out of her hands, he would grab bits from his sister\u2019s\nplate. He knew that he was starving the other two, but he could not help it;\nhe even felt that he had a right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his belly\nseemed to justify him. Between meals, if his mother did not stand guard, he\nwas constantly pilfering at the wretched store of food on the shelf.\nOne day a chocolate-ration was issued. There had been no such issue for\nweeks or months past. He remembered quite clearly that precious little morsel\nof chocolate. It was a two-ounce slab (they still talked about ounces in those\ndays) between the three of them. It was obvious that it ought to be divided\ninto three equal parts. Suddenly, as though he were listening to somebody else,\nWinston heard himself demanding in a loud booming voice that he should be\ngiven the whole piece. His mother told him not to be greedy. There was a\nlong, nagging argument that went round and round, with shouts, whines, tears,\nremonstrances, bargainings. His tiny sister, clinging to her mother with both\nhands, exactly like a baby monkey, sat looking over her shoulder at him with\nlarge, mournful eyes. In the end his mother broke off three-quarters of the\nchocolate and gave it to Winston, giving the other quarter to his sister. The\nlittle girl took hold of it and looked at it dully, perhaps not knowing what it\nwas. Winston stood watching her for a moment. Then with a sudden swift\nspring he had snatched the piece of chocolate out of his sister\u2019s hand and was\n\n\n\nfleeing for the door.\n\u2019Winston, Winston!\u2019 his mother called after him. \u2019Come back! Give your\nsister back her chocolate!\u2019\nHe stopped, but did not come back. His mother\u2019s anxious eyes were fixed\non his face. Even now he was thinking about the thing, he did not know what\nit was that was on the point of happening. His sister, conscious of having been\nrobbed of something, had set up a feeble wail. His mother drew her arm round\nthe child and pressed its face against her breast. Something in the gesture told\nhim that his sister was dying. He turned and fled down the stairs. with the\nchocolate growing sticky in his hand.\nHe never saw his mother again. After he had devoured the chocolate he felt\nsomewhat ashamed of himself and hung about in the streets for several hours,\nuntil hunger drove him home. When he came back his mother had disappeared.\nThis was already becoming normal at that time. Nothing was gone from the\nroom except his mother and his sister. They had not taken any clothes, not\neven his mother\u2019s overcoat. To this day he did not know with any certainty\nthat his mother was dead. It was perfectly possible that she had merely been\nsent to a forced-labour camp. As for his sister, she might have been removed,\nlike Winston himself, to one of the colonies for homeless children (Reclamation\nCentres, they were called) which had grown up as a result of the civil war, or\nshe might have been sent to the labour camp along with his mother, or simply\nleft somewhere or other to die.\nThe dream was still vivid in his mind, especially the enveloping protecting\ngesture of the arm in which its whole meaning seemed to be contained. His\nmind went back to another dream of two months ago. Exactly as his mother\nhad sat on the dingy whitequilted bed, with the child clinging to her, so she had\nsat in the sunken ship, far underneath him, and drowning deeper every minute,\nbut still looking up at him through the darkening water.\nHe told Julia the story of his mother\u2019s disappearance. Without opening her\neyes she rolled over and settled herself into a more comfortable position.\n\u2019I expect you were a beastly little swine in those days,\u2019 she said indistinctly.\n\u2019All children are swine.\u2019\n\u2019Yes. But the real point of the story-\u2019\nFrom her breathing it was evident that she was going off to sleep again. He\nwould have liked to continue talking about his mother. He did not suppose,\nfrom what he could remember of her, that she had been an unusual woman,\nstill less an intelligent one; and yet she had possessed a kind of nobility, a kind\nof purity, simply because the standards that she obeyed were private ones. Her\nfeelings were her own, and could not be altered from outside. It would not have\noccurred to her that an action which is ineffectual thereby becomes meaningless.\nIf you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give,\nyou still gave him love. When the last of the chocolate was gone, his mother\nhad clasped the child in her arms. It was no use, it changed nothing, it did not\nproduce more chocolate, it did not avert the child\u2019s death or her own; but it\nseemed natural to her to do it. The refugee woman in the boat had also covered\nthe little boy with her arm, which was no more use against the bullets than\na sheet of paper. The terrible thing that the Party had done was to persuade\nyou that mere impulses, mere feelings, were of no account, while at the same\ntime robbing you of all power over the material world. When once you were in\nthe grip of the Party, what you felt or did not feel, what you did or refrained\n\n\n\nfrom doing, made literally no difference. Whatever happened you vanished, and\nneither you nor your actions were ever heard of again. You were lifted clean out\nof the stream of history. And yet to the people of only two generations ago this\nwould not have seemed all-important, because they were not attempting to alter\nhistory. They were governed by private loyalties which they did not question.\nWhat mattered were individual relationships, and a completely helpless gesture,\nan embrace, a tear, a word spoken to a dying man, could have value in itself.\nThe proles, it suddenly occurred to him, had remained in this condition. They\nwere not loyal to a party or a country or an idea, they were loyal to one another.\nFor the first time in his life he did not despise the proles or think of them merely\nas an inert force which would one day spring to life and regenerate the world.\nThe proles had stayed human. They had not become hardened inside. They had\nheld on to the primitive emotions which he himself had to re-learn by conscious\neffort. And in thinking this he remembered, without apparent relevance, how\na few weeks ago he had seen a severed hand lying on the pavement and had\nkicked it into the gutter as though it had been a cabbage-stalk.\n\u2019The proles are human beings,\u2019 he said aloud. \u2019We are not human.\u2019\n\u2019Why not?\u2019 said Julia, who had woken up again.\nHe thought for a little while. \u2019Has it ever occurred to you. he said, \u2019that the\nbest thing for us to do would be simply to walk out of here before it\u2019s too late,\nand never see each other again?\u2019\n\u2019Yes, dear, it has occurred to me, several times. But I\u2019m not going to do it,\nall the same.\u2019\n\u2019We\u2019ve been lucky,\u2019 he said \u2019but it can\u2019t last much longer. You\u2019re young.\nYou look normal and innocent. If you keep clear of people like me, you might\nstay alive for another fifty years.\u2019\n\u2019No. I\u2019ve thought it all out. What you do, I\u2019m going to do. And don\u2019t be\ntoo downhearted. I\u2019m rather good at staying alive.\u2019\n\u2019We may be together for another six months \u2014 a year \u2014 there\u2019s no knowing.\nAt the end we\u2019re certain to be apart. Do you realize how utterly alone we shall\nbe? When once they get hold of us there will be nothing, literally nothing, that\neither of us can do for the other. If I confess, they\u2019ll shoot you, and if I refuse to\nconfess, they\u2019ll shoot you just the same. Nothing that I can do or say, or stop\nmyself from saying, will put off your death for as much as five minutes. Neither\nof us will even know whether the other is alive or dead. We shall be utterly\nwithout power of any kind. The one thing that matters is that we shouldn\u2019t\nbetray one another, although even that can\u2019t make the slightest difference.\u2019\n\u2019If you mean confessing,\u2019 she said, \u2019we shall do that, right enough. Everybody\nalways confesses. You can\u2019t help it. They torture you.\u2019\n\u2019I don\u2019t mean confessing. Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do\ndoesn\u2019t matter: only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving you \u2014\nthat would be the real betrayal.\u2019\nShe thought it over. \u2019They can\u2019t do that,\u2019 she said finally. \u2019It\u2019s the one thing\nthey can\u2019t do. They can make you say anything \u2014 anything \u2014 but they can\u2019t\nmake you believe it. They can\u2019t get inside you.\u2019\n\u2019No,\u2019 he said a little more hopefully, \u2019no; that\u2019s quite true. They can\u2019t get\ninside you. If you can feel that staying human is worth while, even when it can\u2019t\nhave any result whatever, you\u2019ve beaten them.\u2019\nHe thought of the telescreen with its never-sleeping ear. They could spy\nupon you night and day, but if you kept your head you could still outwit them.\n\n\n\nWith all their cleverness they had never mastered the secret of finding out what\nanother human being was thinking. Perhaps that was less true when you were\nactually in their hands. One did not know what happened inside the Ministry\nof Love, but it was possible to guess: tortures, drugs, delicate instruments\nthat registered your nervous reactions, gradual wearing-down by sleeplessness\nand solitude and persistent questioning. Facts, at any rate, could not be kept\nhidden. They could be tracked down by enquiry, they could be squeezed out of\nyou by torture. But if the object was not to stay alive but to stay human, what\ndifference did it ultimately make? They could not alter your feelings: for that\nmatter you could not alter them yourself, even if you wanted to. They could\nlay bare in the utmost detail everything that you had done or said or thought;\nbut the inner heart, whose workings were mysterious even to yourself, remained\nimpregnable.\n\n\n\n \n\nThey had done it, they had done it at last!\n\nThe room they were standing in was long-shaped and softly lit. The tele-\nscreen was dimmed to a low murmur; the richness of the dark-blue carpet gave\n\none the impression of treading on velvet. At the far end of the room O\u2019Brien\nwas sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp, with a mass of papers on\neither side of him. He had not bothered to look up when the servant showed\nJulia and Winston in.\nWinston\u2019s heart was thumping so hard that he doubted whether he would\nbe able to speak. They had done it, they had done it at last, was all he could\nthink. It had been a rash act to come here at all, and sheer folly to arrive\ntogether; though it was true that they had come by different routes and only\nmet on O\u2019Brien\u2019s doorstep. But merely to walk into such a place needed an\neffort of the nerve. It was only on very rare occasions that one saw inside\nthe dwelling-places of the Inner Party, or even penetrated into the quarter of\nthe town where they lived. The whole atmosphere of the huge block of flats,\nthe richness and spaciousness of everything, the unfamiliar smells of good food\nand good tobacco, the silent and incredibly rapid lifts sliding up and down,\nthe white-jacketed servants hurrying to and fro \u2014 everything was intimidating.\nAlthough he had a good pretext for coming here, he was haunted at every step\nby the fear that a black-uniformed guard would suddenly appear from round\nthe corner, demand his papers, and order him to get out. O\u2019Brien\u2019s servant,\n\nhowever, had admitted the two of them without demur. He was a small, dark-\nhaired man in a white jacket, with a diamond-shaped, completely expressionless\n\nface which might have been that of a Chinese. The passage down which he led\nthem was softly carpeted, with cream-papered walls and white wainscoting, all\nexquisitely clean. That too was intimidating. Winston could not remember\never to have seen a passageway whose walls were not grimy from the contact of\nhuman bodies.\nO\u2019Brien had a slip of paper between his fingers and seemed to be studying\nit intently. His heavy face, bent down so that one could see the line of the\nnose, looked both formidable and intelligent. For perhaps twenty seconds he sat\nwithout stirring. Then he pulled the speakwrite towards him and rapped out a\nmessage in the hybrid jargon of the Ministries:\n\n\u2019Items one comma five comma seven approved fullwise stop suggestion con-\ntained item six doubleplus ridiculous verging crimethink cancel stop unproceed\n\nconstructionwise antegetting plusfull estimates machinery overheads stop end\nmessage.\u2019\n\n\n\nHe rose deliberately from his chair and came towards them across the sound-\nless carpet. A little of the official atmosphere seemed to have fallen away from\n\nhim with the Newspeak words, but his expression was grimmer than usual, as\n\nthough he were not pleased at being disturbed. The terror that Winston al-\nready felt was suddenly shot through by a streak of ordinary embarrassment.\n\nIt seemed to him quite possible that he had simply made a stupid mistake. For\n\nwhat evidence had he in reality that O\u2019Brien was any kind of political conspir-\nator? Nothing but a flash of the eyes and a single equivocal remark: beyond\n\nthat, only his own secret imaginings, founded on a dream. He could not even\nfall back on the pretence that he had come to borrow the dictionary, because\nin that case Julia\u2019s presence was impossible to explain. As O\u2019Brien passed the\ntelescreen a thought seemed to strike him. He stopped, turned aside and pressed\na switch on the wall. There was a sharp snap. The voice had stopped.\nJulia uttered a tiny sound, a sort of squeak of surprise. Even in the midst\nof his panic, Winston was too much taken aback to be able to hold his tongue.\n\u2019You can turn it off!\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Yes,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, \u2019we can turn it off. We have that privilege.\u2019\nHe was opposite them now. His solid form towered over the pair of them,\n\nand the expression on his face was still indecipherable. He was waiting, some-\nwhat sternly, for Winston to speak, but about what? Even now it was quite\n\nconceivable that he was simply a busy man wondering irritably why he had\nbeen interrupted. Nobody spoke. After the stopping of the telescreen the room\nseemed deadly silent. The seconds marched past, enormous. With difficulty\nWinston continued to keep his eyes fixed on O\u2019Brien\u2019s. Then suddenly the grim\nface broke down into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. With his\ncharacteristic gesture O\u2019Brien resettled his spectacles on his nose.\n\u2019Shall I say it, or will you?\u2019 he said.\n\u2019I will say it,\u2019 said Winston promptly. \u2019That thing is really turned off?\u2019\n\u2019Yes, everything is turned off. We are alone.\u2019\n\u2019We have come here because-\u2019\nHe paused, realizing for the first time the vagueness of his own motives.\nSince he did not in fact know what kind of help he expected from O\u2019Brien, it\nwas not easy to say why he had come here. He went on, conscious that what\nhe was saying must sound both feeble and pretentious:\n\n\u2019We believe that there is some kind of conspiracy, some kind of secret orga-\nnization working against the Party, and that you are involved in it. We want\n\nto join it and work for it. We are enemies of the Party. We disbelieve in the\nprinciples of Ingsoc. We are thought-criminals. We are also adulterers. I tell\nyou this because we want to put ourselves at your mercy. If you want us to\nincriminate ourselves in any other way, we are ready.\u2019\nHe stopped and glanced over his shoulder, with the feeling that the door\nhad opened. Sure enough, the little yellow-faced servant had come in without\nknocking. Winston saw that he was carrying a tray with a decanter and glasses.\n\u2019Martin is one of us,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien impassively. \u2019Bring the drinks over here,\nMartin. Put them on the round table. Have we enough chairs? Then we may\nas well sit down and talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself, Martin. This is\nbusiness. You can stop being a servant for the next ten minutes.\u2019\nThe little man sat down, quite at his ease, and yet still with a servant-like\nair, the air of a valet enjoying a privilege. Winston regarded him out of the\ncorner of his eye. It struck him that the man\u2019s whole life was playing a part,\n\n\n\nand that he felt it to be dangerous to drop his assumed personality even for a\nmoment. O\u2019Brien took the decanter by the neck and filled up the glasses with\na dark-red liquid. It aroused in Winston dim memories of something seen long\nago on a wall or a hoarding \u2014 a vast bottle composed of electric lights which\nseemed to move up and down and pour its contents into a glass. Seen from the\ntop the stuff looked almost black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby. It\nhad a sour-sweet smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff at it with frank\ncuriosity.\n\u2019It is called wine,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien with a faint smile. \u2019You will have read about\nit in books, no doubt. Not much of it gets to the Outer Party, I am afraid.\u2019\nHis face grew solemn again, and he raised his glass: \u2019I think it is fitting that we\nshould begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To Emmanuel Goldstein.\u2019\nWinston took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine was a thing he\nhad read and dreamed about. Like the glass paperweight or Mr Charrington\u2019s\nhalf-remembered rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic past, the olden\ntime as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts. For some reason he had always\nthought of wine as having an intensely sweet taste, like that of blackberry jam\nand an immediate intoxicating effect. Actually, when he came to swallow it, the\nstuff was distinctly disappointing. The truth was that after years of gin-drinking\nhe could barely taste it. He set down the empty glass.\n\u2019Then there is such a person as Goldstein?\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Yes, there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I do not know.\u2019\n\u2019And the conspiracy \u2014 the organization? Is it real? It is not simply an\ninvention of the Thought Police?\u2019\n\u2019No, it is real. The Brotherhood, we call it. You will never learn much more\nabout the Brotherhood than that it exists and that you belong to it. I will\ncome back to that presently.\u2019 He looked at his wrist-watch. \u2019It is unwise even\nfor members of the Inner Party to turn off the telescreen for more than half an\nhour. You ought not to have come here together, and you will have to leave\nseparately. You, comrade\u2019 \u2014 he bowed his head to Julia \u2014 \u2019will leave first. We\nhave about twenty minutes at our disposal. You will understand that I must\nstart by asking you certain questions. In general terms, what are you prepared\nto do?\u2019\n\u2019Anything that we are capable of,\u2019 said Winston.\nO\u2019Brien had turned himself a little in his chair so that he was facing Winston.\nHe almost ignored Julia, seeming to take it for granted that Winston could speak\nfor her. For a moment the lids flitted down over his eyes. He began asking his\nquestions in a low, expressionless voice, as though this were a routine, a sort of\ncatechism, most of whose answers were known to him already.\n\u2019You are prepared to give your lives?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019You are prepared to commit murder?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019To commit acts of sabotage which may cause the death of hundreds of\ninnocent people?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019To betray your country to foreign powers?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to corrupt the minds of\n\nchildren, to distribute habit-forming drugs, to encourage prostitution, to dissem-\n\n\ninate venereal diseases \u2014 to do anything which is likely to cause demoralization\nand weaken the power of the Party?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to throw sulphuric\nacid in a child\u2019s face \u2014 are you prepared to do that?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019You are prepared to lose your identity and live out the rest of your life as a\nwaiter or a dock-worker?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019You are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we order you to do so?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019You are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never see one another\nagain?\u2019\n\u2019No!\u2019 broke in Julia.\nIt appeared to Winston that a long time passed before he answered. For\na moment he seemed even to have been deprived of the power of speech. His\ntongue worked soundlessly, forming the opening syllables first of one word, then\nof the other, over and over again. Until he had said it, he did not know which\nword he was going to say. \u2019No,\u2019 he said finally.\n\u2019You did well to tell me,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019It is necessary for us to know\neverything.\u2019\nHe turned himself toward Julia and added in a voice with somewhat more\nexpression in it:\n\u2019Do you understand that even if he survives, it may be as a different person?\nWe may be obliged to give him a new identity. His face, his movements, the\nshape of his hands, the colour of his hair \u2014 even his voice would be different.\nAnd you yourself might have become a different person. Our surgeons can\nalter people beyond recognition. Sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes we even\namputate a limb.\u2019\n\nWinston could not help snatching another sidelong glance at Martin\u2019s Mon-\ngolian face. There were no scars that he could see. Julia had turned a shade\n\npaler, so that her freckles were showing, but she faced O\u2019Brien boldly. She\nmurmured something that seemed to be assent.\n\u2019Good. Then that is settled.\u2019\n\nThere was a silver box of cigarettes on the table. With a rather absent-\nminded air O\u2019Brien pushed them towards the others, took one himself, then\n\nstood up and began to pace slowly to and fro, as though he could think better\nstanding. They were very good cigarettes, very thick and well-packed, with an\nunfamiliar silkiness in the paper. O\u2019Brien looked at his wrist-watch again.\n\u2019You had better go back to your Pantry, Martin,\u2019 he said. \u2019I shall switch on\nin a quarter of an hour. Take a good look at these comrades\u2019 faces before you\ngo. You will be seeing them again. I may not.\nExactly as they had done at the front door, the little man\u2019s dark eyes flickered\nover their faces. There was not a trace of friendliness in his manner. He was\nmemorizing their appearance, but he felt no interest in them, or appeared to\nfeel none. It occurred to Winston that a synthetic face was perhaps incapable\nof changing its expression. Without speaking or giving any kind of salutation,\nMartin went out, closing the door silently behind him. O\u2019Brien was strolling up\nand down, one hand in the pocket of his black overalls, the other holding his\ncigarette.\n\n\n\n\u2019You understand,\u2019 he said, \u2019that you will be fighting in the dark. You will\nalways be in the dark. You will receive orders and you will obey them, without\nknowing why. Later I shall send you a book from which you will learn the true\nnature of the society we live in, and the strategy by which we shall destroy it.\nWhen you have read the book, you will be full members of the Brotherhood.\nBut between the general aims that we are fighting for and the immediate tasks\nof the moment, you will never know anything. I tell you that the Brotherhood\nexists, but I cannot tell you whether it numbers a hundred members, or ten\nmillion. From your personal knowledge you will never be able to say that it\nnumbers even as many as a dozen. You will have three or four contacts, who\nwill be renewed from time to time as they disappear. As this was your first\ncontact, it will be preserved. When you receive orders, they will come from\nme. If we find it necessary to communicate with you, it will be through Martin.\nWhen you are finally caught, you will confess. That is unavoidable. But you\nwill have very little to confess, other than your own actions. You will not be\nable to betray more than a handful of unimportant people. Probably you will\nnot even betray me. By that time I may be dead, or I shall have become a\ndifferent person, with a different face.\u2019\nHe continued to move to and fro over the soft carpet. In spite of the bulkiness\nof his body there was a remarkable grace in his movements. It came out even\nin the gesture with which he thrust a hand into his pocket, or manipulated a\ncigarette. More even than of strength, he gave an impression of confidence and\nof an understanding tinged by irony. However much in earnest he might be, he\nhad nothing of the single-mindedness that belongs to a fanatic. When he spoke\nof murder, suicide, venereal disease, amputated limbs, and altered faces, it was\nwith a faint air of persiflage. \u2019This is unavoidable,\u2019 his voice seemed to say;\n\u2019this is what we have got to do, unflinchingly. But this is not what we shall be\ndoing when life is worth living again.\u2019 A wave of admiration, almost of worship,\nflowed out from Winston towards O\u2019Brien. For the moment he had forgotten the\nshadowy figure of Goldstein. When you looked at O\u2019Brien\u2019s powerful shoulders\nand his blunt-featured face, so ugly and yet so civilized, it was impossible to\nbelieve that he could be defeated. There was no stratagem that he was not equal\nto, no danger that he could not foresee. Even Julia seemed to be impressed.\nShe had let her cigarette go out and was listening intently. O\u2019Brien went on:\n\u2019You will have heard rumours of the existence of the Brotherhood. No doubt\nyou have formed your own picture of it. You have imagined, probably, a huge\nunderworld of conspirators, meeting secretly in cellars, scribbling messages on\nwalls, recognizing one another by codewords or by special movements of the\nhand. Nothing of the kind exists. The members of the Brotherhood have no\nway of recognizing one another, and it is impossible for any one member to\nbe aware of the identity of more than a few others. Goldstein himself, if he\nfell into the hands of the Thought Police, could not give them a complete list\nof members, or any information that would lead them to a complete list. No\nsuch list exists. The Brotherhood cannot be wiped out because it is not an\norganization in the ordinary sense. Nothing holds it together except an idea\nwhich is indestructible. You will never have anything to sustain you, except the\nidea. You will get no comradeship and no encouragement. When finally you\nare caught, you will get no help. We never help our members. At most, when\nit is absolutely necessary that someone should be silenced, we are occasionally\nable to smuggle a razor blade into a prisoner\u2019s cell. You will have to get used\n\n\n\nto living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will\nbe caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results\nthat you will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible change will\nhappen within our own lifetime. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the\nfuture. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But\nhow far away that future may be, there is no knowing. It might be a thousand\nyears. At present nothing is possible except to extend the area of sanity little by\nlittle. We cannot act collectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards\nfrom individual to individual, generation after generation. In the face of the\nThought Police there is no other way.\u2019\nHe halted and looked for the third time at his wrist-watch.\n\u2019It is almost time for you to leave, comrade,\u2019 he said to Julia. \u2019Wait. The\ndecanter is still half full.\u2019\nHe filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the stem.\n\u2019What shall it be this time?\u2019 he said, still with the same faint suggestion of\nirony. \u2019To the confusion of the Thought Police? To the death of Big Brother?\nTo humanity? To the future?\u2019\n\u2019To the past,\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019The past is more important,\u2019 agreed O\u2019Brien gravely.\nThey emptied their glasses, and a moment later Julia stood up to go. O\u2019Brien\ntook a small box from the top of a cabinet and handed her a flat white tablet\nwhich he told her to place on her tongue. It was important, he said, not to go\nout smelling of wine: the lift attendants were very observant. As soon as the\ndoor had shut behind her he appeared to forget her existence. He took another\npace or two up and down, then stopped.\n\n\u2019There are details to be settled,\u2019 he said. \u2019I assume that you have a hiding-\nplace of some kind?\u2019\n\nWinston explained about the room over Mr Charrington\u2019s shop.\n\u2019That will do for the moment. Later we will arrange something else for you.\nIt is important to change one\u2019s hiding-place frequently. Meanwhile I shall send\nyou a copy of the book\u2019 \u2014 even O\u2019Brien, Winston noticed, seemed to pronounce\nthe words as though they were in italics- \u2019Goldstein\u2019s book, you understand, as\nsoon as possible. It may be some days before I can get hold of one. There\nare not many in existence, as you can imagine. The Thought Police hunt them\ndown and destroy them almost as fast as we can produce them. It makes very\nlittle difference. The book is indestructible. If the last copy were gone, we could\nreproduce it almost word for word. Do you carry a brief-case to work with you?\u2019\nhe added.\n\u2019As a rule, yes.\u2019\n\u2019What is it like?\u2019\n\u2019Black, very shabby. With two straps.\u2019\n\n\u2019Black, two straps, very shabby \u2014 good. One day in the fairly near future-\nI cannot give a date \u2014 one of the messages among your morning\u2019s work will\n\ncontain a misprinted word, and you will have to ask for a repeat. On the\nfollowing day you will go to work without your brief-case. At some time during\nthe day, in the street, a man will touch you on the arm and say \u201dI think you have\ndropped your brief-case.\u201d The one he gives you will contain a copy of Goldstein\u2019s\nbook. You will return it within fourteen days.\u2019\nThey were silent for a moment.\n\n\n\n\u2019There are a couple of minutes before you need go,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019We shall\nmeet again \u2014 if we do meet again-\u2019\nWinston looked up at him. \u2019In the place where there is no darkness?\u2019 he\nsaid hesitantly.\nO\u2019Brien nodded without appearance of surprise. \u2019In the place where there\nis no darkness,\u2019 he said, as though he had recognized the allusion. \u2019And in\nthe meantime, is there anything that you wish to say before you leave? Any\nmessage? Any question?.\u2019\nWinston thought. There did not seem to be any further question that he\n\nwanted to ask: still less did he feel any impulse to utter high-sounding general-\nities. Instead of anything directly connected with O\u2019Brien or the Brotherhood,\n\nthere came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the dark bedroom where\nhis mother had spent her last days, and the little room over Mr Charrington\u2019s\nshop, and the glass paperweight, and the steel engraving in its rosewood frame.\nAlmost at random he said:\n\u2019Did you ever happen to hear an old rhyme that begins \u201dOranges and lemons,\nsay the bells of St Clement\u2019s\u201d?\u2019\nAgain O\u2019Brien nodded. With a sort of grave courtesy he completed the\nstanza:\n\u2019Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement\u2019s,\nYou owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin\u2019s,\nWhen will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey\nWhen I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.\u2019\n\u2019You knew the last line!\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019Yes, I knew the last line. And now, I am afraid, it is time for you to go.\nBut wait. You had better let me give you one of these tablets.\u2019\nAs Winston stood up O\u2019Brien held out a hand. His powerful grip crushed\nthe bones of Winston\u2019s palm. At the door Winston looked back, but O\u2019Brien\nseemed already to be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting\nwith his hand on the switch that controlled the telescreen. Beyond him Winston\ncould see the writing-table with its green- shaded lamp and the speakwrite and\nthe wire baskets deep-laden with papers. The incident was closed. Within\nthirty seconds, it occurred to him, O\u2019Brien would be back at his interrupted\nand important work on behalf of the Party.\n\n\n\n \n\nWinston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was the right word. It had\n\ncome into his head spontaneously. His body seemed to have not only the weak-\nness of a jelly, but its translucency. He felt that if he held up his hand he would\n\nbe able to see the light through it. All the blood and lymph had been drained\nout of him by an enormous debauch of work, leaving only a frail structure of\nnerves, bones, and skin. All sensations seemed to be magnified. His overalls\nfretted his shoulders, the pavement tickled his feet, even the opening and closing\nof a hand was an effort that made his joints creak.\nHe had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So had everyone else in\nthe Ministry. Now it was all over, and he had literally nothing to do, no Party\nwork of any description, until tomorrow morning. He could spend six hours in\nthe hiding-place and another nine in his own bed. Slowly, in mild afternoon\nsunshine, he walked up a dingy street in the direction of Mr Charrington\u2019s\nshop, keeping one eye open for the patrols, but irrationally convinced that this\n\nafternoon there was no danger of anyone interfering with him. The heavy brief-\ncase that he was carrying bumped against his knee at each step, sending a\n\ntingling sensation up and down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book,\nwhich he had now had in his possession for six days and had not yet opened,\nnor even looked at.\nOn the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the speeches, the\nshouting, the singing, the banners, the posters, the films, the waxworks, the\nrolling of drums and squealing of trumpets, the tramp of marching feet, the\ngrinding of the caterpillars of tanks, the roar of massed planes, the booming\nof guns \u2014 after six days of this, when the great orgasm was quivering to its\nclimax and the general hatred of Eurasia had boiled up into such delirium that\nif the crowd could have got their hands on the , Eurasian war-criminals\nwho were to be publicly hanged on the last day of the proceedings, they would\nunquestionably have torn them to pieces \u2014 at just this moment it had been\nannounced that Oceania was not after all at war with Eurasia. Oceania was at\nwar with Eastasia. Eurasia was an ally.\nThere was, of course, no admission that any change had taken place. Merely\n\nit became known, with extreme suddenness and everywhere at once, that Easta-\nsia and not Eurasia was the enemy. Winston was taking part in a demonstration\n\nin one of the central London squares at the moment when it happened. It was\nnight, and the white faces and the scarlet banners were luridly floodlit. The\nsquare was packed with several thousand people, including a block of about a\n\nthousand schoolchildren in the uniform of the Spies. On a scarlet-draped plat-\n\n\nform an orator of the Inner Party, a small lean man with disproportionately\nlong arms and a large bald skull over which a few lank locks straggled, was\nharanguing the crowd. A little Rumpelstiltskin figure, contorted with hatred,\nhe gripped the neck of the microphone with one hand while the other, enormous\nat the end of a bony arm, clawed the air menacingly above his head. His voice,\n\nmade metallic by the amplifiers, boomed forth an endless catalogue of atroci-\nties, massacres, deportations, lootings, rapings, torture of prisoners, bombing of\n\ncivilians, lying propaganda, unjust aggressions, broken treaties. It was almost\nimpossible to listen to him without being first convinced and then maddened.\nAt every few moments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the voice of the\nspeaker was drowned by a wild beast-like roaring that rose uncontrollably from\nthousands of throats. The most savage yells of all came from the schoolchildren.\nThe speech had been proceeding for perhaps twenty minutes when a messenger\nhurried on to the platform and a scrap of paper was slipped into the speaker\u2019s\nhand. He unrolled and read it without pausing in his speech. Nothing altered\nin his voice or manner, or in the content of what he was saying, but suddenly\nthe names were different. Without words said, a wave of understanding rippled\nthrough the crowd. Oceania was at war with Eastasia! The next moment there\nwas a tremendous commotion. The banners and posters with which the square\nwas decorated were all wrong! Quite half of them had the wrong faces on them.\nIt was sabotage! The agents of Goldstein had been at work! There was a riotous\ninterlude while posters were ripped from the walls, banners torn to shreds and\ntrampled underfoot. The Spies performed prodigies of activity in clambering\nover the rooftops and cutting the streamers that fluttered from the chimneys.\nBut within two or three minutes it was all over. The orator, still gripping the\nneck of the microphone, his shoulders hunched forward, his free hand clawing at\nthe air, had gone straight on with his speech. One minute more, and the feral\nroars of rage were again bursting from the crowd. The Hate continued exactly\nas before, except that the target had been changed.\nThe thing that impressed Winston in looking back was that the speaker had\nswitched from one line to the other actually in midsentence, not only without a\npause, but without even breaking the syntax. But at the moment he had other\nthings to preoccupy him. It was during the moment of disorder while the posters\nwere being torn down that a man whose face he did not see had tapped him\non the shoulder and said, \u2019Excuse me, I think you\u2019ve dropped your brief-case.\u2019\nHe took the brief-case abstractedly, without speaking. He knew that it would\nbe days before he had an opportunity to look inside it. The instant that the\ndemonstration was over he went straight to the Ministry of Truth, though the\ntime was now nearly twenty-three hours. The entire staff of the Ministry had\ndone likewise. The orders already issuing from the telescreen, recalling them to\ntheir posts, were hardly necessary.\nOceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always been at war with\n\nEastasia. A large part of the political literature of five years was now com-\npletely obsolete. Reports and records of all kinds, newspapers, books, pam-\nphlets, films, sound-tracks, photographs \u2014 all had to be rectified at lightning\n\nspeed. Although no directive was ever issued, it was known that the chiefs of the\n\nDepartment intended that within one week no reference to the war with Eura-\nsia, or the alliance with Eastasia, should remain in existence anywhere. The\n\nwork was overwhelming, all the more so because the processes that it involved\ncould not be called by their true names. Everyone in the Records Department\n\nworked eighteen hours in the twenty-four, with two three-hour snatches of sleep.\nMattresses were brought up from the cellars and pitched all over the corridors:\nmeals consisted of sandwiches and Victory Coffee wheeled round on trolleys by\nattendants from the canteen. Each time that Winston broke off for one of his\nspells of sleep he tried to leave his desk clear of work, and each time that he\ncrawled back sticky-eyed and aching, it was to find that another shower of paper\ncylinders had covered the desk like a snowdrift, halfburying the speakwrite and\noverflowing on to the floor, so that the first job was always to stack them into\na neat enough pile to give him room to work. What was worst of all was that\nthe work was by no means purely mechanical. Often it was enough merely to\nsubstitute one name for another, but any detailed report of events demanded\ncare and imagination. Even the geographical knowledge that one needed in\ntransferring the war from one part of the world to another was considerable.\nBy the third day his eyes ached unbearably and his spectacles needed wiping\nevery few minutes. It was like struggling with some crushing physical task,\nsomething which one had the right to refuse and which one was nevertheless\nneurotically anxious to accomplish. In so far as he had time to remember it, he\nwas not troubled by the fact that every word he murmured into the speakwrite,\nevery stroke of his ink-pencil, was a deliberate lie. He was as anxious as anyone\nelse in the Department that the forgery should be perfect. On the morning\nof the sixth day the dribble of cylinders slowed down. For as much as half\nan hour nothing came out of the tube; then one more cylinder, then nothing.\nEverywhere at about the same time the work was easing off. A deep and as\nit were secret sigh went through the Department. A mighty deed, which could\nnever be mentioned, had been achieved. It was now impossible for any human\nbeing to prove by documentary evidence that the war with Eurasia had ever\nhappened. At twelve hundred it was unexpectedly announced that all workers\nin the Ministry were free till tomorrow morning. Winston, still carrying the\nbrief-case containing the book, which had remained between his feet while he\nworked and under his body while he slept, went home, shaved himself, and\nalmost fell asleep in his bath, although the water was barely more than tepid.\nWith a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he climbed the stair above\nMr Charrington\u2019s shop. He was tired, but not sleepy any longer. He opened\nthe window, lit the dirty little oilstove and put on a pan of water for coffee.\nJulia would arrive presently: meanwhile there was the book. He sat down in\nthe sluttish armchair and undid the straps of the brief-case.\nA heavy black volume, amateurishly bound, with no name or title on the\ncover. The print also looked slightly irregular. The pages were worn at the\nedges, and fell apart, easily, as though the book had passed through many\nhands. The inscription on the title-page ran:\nTHE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF\nOLIGARCHICAL COLLECTIVISM\nby\nEmmanuel Goldstein\nWinston began reading:\n I\nIgnorance is Strength\nThroughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic Age,\nthere have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle, and\nthe Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have borne countless\ndifferent names, and their relative numbers, as well as their attitude towards\none another, have varied from age to age: but the essential structure of society\nhas never altered. Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable\nchanges, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will\nalways return to equilibrium, however far it is pushed one way or the other.\nThe aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable...\nWinston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact that he\nwas reading, in comfort and safety. He was alone: no telescreen, no ear at the\nkeyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the page with\nhis hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From somewhere far\naway there floated the faint shouts of children: in the room itself there was no\nsound except the insect voice of the clock. He settled deeper into the arm-chair\nand put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss, it was etemity. Suddenly, as one\nsometimes does with a book of which one knows that one will ultimately read\nand re-read every word, he opened it at a different place and found himself at\n III. He went on reading:\n III\nWar is Peace\nThe splitting up of the world into three great super-states was an event\nwhich could be and indeed was foreseen before the middle of the twentieth\ncentury. With the absorption of Europe by Russia and of the British Empire by\nthe United States, two of the three existing powers, Eurasia and Oceania, were\nalready effectively in being. The third, Eastasia, only emerged as a distinct\nunit after another decade of confused fighting. The frontiers between the three\nsuper-states are in some places arbitrary, and in others they fluctuate according\nto the fortunes of war, but in general they follow geographical lines. Eurasia\ncomprises the whole of the northern part of the European and Asiatic land-\nmass, from Portugal to the Bering Strait. Oceania comprises the Americas, the\n\nAtlantic islands including the British Isles, Australasia, and the southern portion\nof Africa. Eastasia, smaller than the others and with a less definite western\nfrontier, comprises China and the countries to the south of it, the Japanese\nislands and a large but fluctuating portion of Manchuria, Mongolia, and Tibet.\nIn one combination or another, these three super-states are permanently\nat war, and have been so for the past twenty-five years. War, however, is\nno longer the desperate, annihilating struggle that it was in the early decades\nof the twentieth centary. It is a warfare of limited aims between combatants\nwho are unable to destroy one another, have no material cause for fighting and\nare not divided by any genuine ideological difference. This is not to say that\neither the conduct of war, or the prevailing attitude towards it, has become less\nbloodthirsty or more chivalrous. On the contrary, war hysteria is continuous\nand universal in all countries, and such acts as raping, looting, the slaughter\nof children, the reduction of whole populations to slavery, and reprisals against\nprisoners which extend even to boiling and burying alive, are looked upon as\nnormal, and, when they are committed by one\u2019s own side and not by the enemy,\nmeritorious. But in a physical sense war involves very small numbers of people,\nmostly highly-trained specialists, and causes comparatively few casualties. The\nfighting, when there is any, takes place on the vague frontiers whose whereabouts\nthe average man can only guess at, or round the Floating Fortresses which\nguard strategic spots on the sea lanes. In the centres of civilization war means\nno more than a continuous shortage of consumption goods, and the occasional\ncrash of a rocket bomb which may cause a few scores of deaths. War has in fact\nchanged its character. More exactly, the reasons for which war is waged have\nchanged in their order of importance. Motives which were already present to\nsome small extent in the great wars of the early twentieth centuary have now\nbecome dominant and are consciously recognized and acted upon.\nTo understand the nature of the present war \u2014 for in spite of the regrouping\nwhich occurs every few years, it is always the same war \u2014 one must realize in\n\nthe first place that it is impossible for it to be decisive. None of the three super-\nstates could be definitively conquered even by the other two in combination.\n\nThey are too evenly matched, and their natural defences are too formidable.\n\nEurasia is protected by its vast land spaces. Oceania by the width of the At-\nlantic and the Pacific, Eastasia by the fecundity and industriousness of its in-\nhabitants. Secondly, there is no longer, in a material sense, anything to fight\n\nabout. With the establishment of self-contained economies, in which production\nand consumption are geared to one another, the scramble for markets which was\na main cause of previous wars has come to an end, while the competition for raw\nmaterials is no longer a matter of life and death. In any case each of the three\nsuper-states is so vast that it can obtain almost all the materials that it needs\nwithin its own boundaries. In so far as the war has a direct economic purpose,\nit is a war for labour power. Between the frontiers of the super-states, and not\npermanently in the possession of any of them, there lies a rough quadrilateral\nwith its corners at Tangier, Brazzaville, Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing\nwithin it about a fifth of the population of the earth. It is for the possession\nof these thickly-populated regions, and of the northern ice-cap, that the three\npowers are constantly struggling. In practice no one power ever controls the\nwhole of the disputed area. Portions of it are constantly changing hands, and\nit is the chance of seizing this or that fragment by a sudden stroke of treachery\nthat dictates the endless changes of alignment.\nAll of the disputed territories contain valuable minerals, and some of them\nyield important vegetable products such as rubber which in colder climates it\nis necessary to synthesize by comparatively expensive methods. But above all\nthey contain a bottomless reserve of cheap labour. Whichever power controls\nequatorial Africa, or the countries of the Middle East, or Southern India, or\nthe Indonesian Archipelago, disposes also of the bodies of scores or hundreds\n\nof millions of ill-paid and hard-working coolies. The inhabitants of these ar-\neas, reduced more or less openly to the status of slaves, pass continually from\n\nconqueror to conqueror, and are expended like so much coal or oil in the race\nto turn out more armaments, to capture more territory, to control more labour\n\npower, to turn out more armaments, to capture more territory, and so on indefi-\nnitely. It should be noted that the fighting never really moves beyond the edges\n\nof the disputed areas. The frontiers of Eurasia flow back and forth between the\nbasin of the Congo and the northern shore of the Mediterranean; the islands of\nthe Indian Ocean and the Pacific are constantly being captured and recaptured\nby Oceania or by Eastasia; in Mongolia the dividing line between Eurasia and\nEastasia is never stable; round the Pole all three powers lay claim to enormous\n\nterritories which in fact are largely unihabited and unexplored: but the bal-\nance of power always remains roughly even, and the territory which forms the\n\nheartland of each super-state always remains inviolate. Moreover, the labour of\nthe exploited peoples round the Equator is not really necessary to the world\u2019s\neconomy. They add nothing to the wealth of the world, since whatever they\nproduce is used for purposes of war, and the object of waging a war is always\nto be in a better position in which to wage another war. By their labour the\nslave populations allow the tempo of continuous warfare to be speeded up. But\nif they did not exist, the structure of world society, and the process by which it\nmaintains itself, would not be essentially different.\nThe primary aim of modern warfare (in accordance with the principles of\ndoublethink, this aim is simultaneously recognized and not recognized by the\ndirecting brains of the Inner Party) is to use up the products of the machine\n\nwithout raising the general standard of living. Ever since the end of the nine-\nteenth century, the problem of what to do with the surplus of consumption goods\n\nhas been latent in industrial society. At present, when few human beings even\nhave enough to eat, this problem is obviously not urgent, and it might not have\nbecome so, even if no artificial processes of destruction had been at work. The\nworld of today is a bare, hungry, dilapidated place compared with the world that\nexisted before , and still more so if compared with the imaginary future to\nwhich the people of that period looked forward. In the early twentieth century,\nthe vision of a future society unbelievably rich, leisured, orderly, and efficient\n\u2014 a glittering antiseptic world of glass and steel and snow-white concrete \u2014\n\nwas part of the consciousness of nearly every literate person. Science and tech-\nnology were developing at a prodigious speed, and it seemed natural to assume\n\nthat they would go on developing. This failed to happen, partly because of the\nimpoverishment caused by a long series of wars and revolutions, partly because\nscientific and technical progress depended on the empirical habit of thought,\nwhich could not survive in a strictly regimented society. As a whole the world\nis more primitive today than it was fifty years ago. Certain backward areas\nhave advanced, and various devices, always in some way connected with warfare\nand police espionage, have been developed, but experiment and invention have\nlargely stopped, and the ravages of the atomic war of the nineteen-fifties have\nnever been fully repaired. Nevertheless the dangers inherent in the machine are\nstill there. From the moment when the machine first made its appearance it was\nclear to all thinking people that the need for human drudgery, and therefore to\na great extent for human inequality, had disappeared. If the machine were used\ndeliberately for that end, hunger, overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and disease could be\neliminated within a few generations. And in fact, without being used for any\nsuch purpose, but by a sort of automatic process \u2014 by producing wealth which\nit was sometimes impossible not to distribute \u2014 the machine did raise the living\nstandards of the average humand being very greatly over a period of about fifty\nyears at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries.\nBut it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth threatened the\ndestruction \u2014 indeed, in some sense was the destruction \u2014 of a hierarchical\nsociety. In a world in which everyone worked short hours, had enough to eat,\nlived in a house with a bathroom and a refrigerator, and possessed a motor-car\nor even an aeroplane, the most obvious and perhaps the most important form\nof inequality would already have disappeared. If it once became general, wealth\nwould confer no distinction. It was possible, no doubt, to imagine a society\nin which wealth, in the sense of personal possessions and luxuries, should be\nevenly distributed, while power remained in the hands of a small privileged\ncaste. But in practice such a society could not long remain stable. For if leisure\nand security were enjoyed by all alike, the great mass of human beings who\nare normally stupefied by poverty would become literate and would learn to\nthink for themselves; and when once they had done this, they would sooner\nor later realize that the privileged minority had no function, and they would\nsweep it away. In the long run, a hierarchical society was only possible on\na basis of poverty and ignorance. To return to the agricultural past, as some\nthinkers about the beginning of the twentieth century dreamed of doing, was not\na practicable solution. It conflicted with the tendency towards mechanization\nwhich had become quasi-instinctive throughout almost the whole world, and\nmoreover, any country which remained industrially backward was helpless in\na military sense and was bound to be dominated, directly or indirectly, by its\nmore advanced rivals.\nNor was it a satisfactory solution to keep the masses in poverty by restricting\nthe output of goods. This happened to a great extent during the final phase\nof capitalism, roughly between  and . The economy of many countries\nwas allowed to stagnate, land went out of cultivation, capital equipment was\nnot added to, great blocks of the population were prevented from working and\nkept half alive by State charity. But this, too, entailed military weakness, and\nsince the privations it inflicted were obviously unnecessary, it made opposition\ninevitable. The problem was how to keep the wheels of industry turning without\nincreasing the real wealth of the world. Goods must be produced, but they\nmust not be distributed. And in practice the only way of achieving this was by\ncontinuous warfare.\nThe essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human lives, but of\nthe products of human labour. War is a way of shattering to pieces, or pouring\ninto the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths of the sea, materials which might\notherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, and hence, in the long\nrun, too intelligent. Even when weapons of war are not actually destroyed,\ntheir manufacture is still a convenient way of expending labour power without\nproducing anything that can be consumed. A Floating Fortress, for example,\nhas locked up in it the labour that would build several hundred cargo-ships.\nUltimately it is scrapped as obsolete, never having brought any material benefit\nto anybody, and with further enormous labours another Floating Fortress is\nbuilt. In principle the war effort is always so planned as to eat up any surplus\nthat might exist after meeting the bare needs of the population. In practice the\nneeds of the population are always underestimated, with the result that there\nis a chronic shortage of half the necessities of life; but this is looked on as an\nadvantage. It is deliberate policy to keep even the favoured groups somewhere\nnear the brink of hardship, because a general state of scarcity increases the\nimportance of small privileges and thus magnifies the distinction between one\ngroup and another. By the standards of the early twentieth century, even a\nmember of the Inner Party lives an austere, laborious kind of life. Nevertheless,\nthe few luxuries that he does enjoy his large, well-appointed flat, the better\ntexture of his clothes, the better quality of his food and drink and tobacco, his\ntwo or three servants, his private motor-car or helicopter \u2014 set him in a different\nworld from a member of the Outer Party, and the members of the Outer Party\nhave a similar advantage in comparison with the submerged masses whom we\ncall \u2019the proles\u2019. The social atmosphere is that of a besieged city, where the\npossession of a lump of horseflesh makes the difference between wealth and\npoverty. And at the same time the consciousness of being at war, and therefore\nin danger, makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste seem the natural,\nunavoidable condition of survival.\nWar, it will be seen, accomplishes the necessary destruction, but accom-\nplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way. In principle it would be quite\n\nsimple to waste the surplus labour of the world by building temples and pyra-\nmids, by digging holes and filling them up again, or even by producing vast\n\nquantities of goods and then setting fire to them. But this would provide only\nthe economic and not the emotional basis for a hierarchical society. What is\nconcerned here is not the morale of masses, whose attitude is unimportant so\nlong as they are kept steadily at work, but the morale of the Party itself. Even\nthe humblest Party member is expected to be competent, industrious, and even\nintelligent within narrow limits, but it is also necessary that he should be a\n\ncredulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing moods are fear, hatred, adula-\ntion, and orgiastic triumph. In other words it is necessary that he should have\n\nthe mentality appropriate to a state of war. It does not matter whether the\nwar is actually happening, and, since no decisive victory is possible, it does not\nmatter whether the war is going well or badly. All that is needed is that a state\nof war should exist. The splitting of the intelligence which the Party requires\nof its members, and which is more easily achieved in an atmosphere of war, is\nnow almost universal, but the higher up the ranks one goes, the more marked it\nbecomes. It is precisely in the Inner Party that war hysteria and hatred of the\nenemy are strongest. In his capacity as an administrator, it is often necessary\nfor a member of the Inner Party to know that this or that item of war news is\n\nuntruthful, and he may often be aware that the entire war is spurious and is ei-\nther not happening or is being waged for purposes quite other than the declared\n\nones: but such knowledge is easily neutralized by the technique of doublethink.\nMeanwhile no Inner Party member wavers for an instant in his mystical belief\nthat the war is real, and that it is bound to end victoriously, with Oceania the\nundisputed master of the entire world.\nAll members of the Inner Party believe in this coming conquest as an article\n\nof faith. It is to be achieved either by gradually acquiring more and more ter-\nritory and so building up an overwhelming preponderance of power, or by the\n\ndiscovery of some new and unanswerable weapon. The search for new weapons\ncontinues unceasingly, and is one of the very few remaining activities in which\nthe inventive or speculative type of mind can find any outlet. In Oceania at the\npresent day, Science, in the old sense, has almost ceased to exist. In Newspeak\nthere is no word for \u2019Science\u2019. The empirical method of thought, on which all\nthe scientific achievements of the past were founded, is opposed to the most\n\nfundamental principles of Ingsoc. And even technological progress only hap-\npens when its products can in some way be used for the diminution of human\n\nliberty. In all the useful arts the world is either standing still or going back-\nwards. The fields are cultivated with horse-ploughs while books are written by\n\nmachinery. But in matters of vital importance \u2014 meaning, in effect, war and\n\npolice espionage \u2014 the empirical approach is still encouraged, or at least toler-\nated. The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole surface of the earth\n\nand to extinguish once and for all the possibility of independent thought. There\nare therefore two great problems which the Party is concerned to solve. One is\nhow to discover, against his will, what another human being is thinking, and\nthe other is how to kill several hundred million people in a few seconds without\ngiving warning beforehand. In so far as scientific research still continues, this\nis its subject matter. The scientist of today is either a mixture of psychologist\nand inquisitor, studying with real ordinary minuteness the meaning of facial\nexpressions, gestures, and tones of voice, and testing the truth-producing ef-\nfects of drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis, and physical torture; or he is chemist,\n\nphysicist, or biologist concerned only with such branches of his special subject\nas are relevant to the taking of life. In the vast laboratories of the Ministry of\nPeace, and in the experimental stations hidden in the Brazilian forests, or in the\nAustralian desert, or on lost islands of the Antarctic, the teams of experts are\nindefatigably at work. Some are concerned simply with planning the logistics\nof future wars; others devise larger and larger rocket bombs, more and more\npowerful explosives, and more and more impenetrable armour- plating; others\n\nsearch for new and deadlier gases, or for soluble poisons capable of being pro-\nduced in such quantities as to destroy the vegetation of whole continents, or for\n\nbreeds of disease germs immunized against all possible antibodies; others strive\nto produce a vehicle that shall bore its way under the soil like a submarine\nunder the water, or an aeroplane as independent of its base as a sailing-ship;\nothers explore even remoter possibilities such as focusing the sun\u2019s rays through\nlenses suspended thousands of kilometres away in space, or producing artificial\nearthquakes and tidal waves by tapping the heat at the earth\u2019s centre.\nBut none of these projects ever comes anywhere near realization, and none\nof the three super-states ever gains a significant lead on the others. What is\nmore remarkable is that all three powers already possess, in the atomic bomb,\na weapon far more powerful than any that their present researches are likely to\ndiscover. Although the Party, according to its habit, claims the invention for\nitself, atomic bombs first appeared as early as the nineteen-forties, and were\nfirst used on a large scale about ten years later. At that time some hundreds of\nbombs were dropped on industrial centres, chiefly in European Russia, Western\nEurope, and North America. The effect was to convince the ruling groups of\nall countries that a few more atomic bombs would mean the end of organized\n\nsociety, and hence of their own power. Thereafter, although no formal agree-\nment was ever made or hinted at, no more bombs were dropped. All three\n\npowers merely continue to produce atomic bombs and store them up against\nthe decisive opportunity which they all believe will come sooner or later. And\nmeanwhile the art of war has remained almost stationary for thirty or forty\nyears. Helicopters are more used than they were formerly, bombing planes have\nbeen largely superseded by self-propelled projectiles, and the fragile movable\n\nbattleship has given way to the almost unsinkable Floating Fortress; but other-\nwise there has been little development. The tank, the submarine, the torpedo,\n\nthe machine gun, even the rifle and the hand grenade are still in use. And\nin spite of the endless slaughters reported in the Press and on the telescreens,\nthe desperate battles of earlier wars, in which hundreds of thousands or even\nmillions of men were often killed in a few weeks, have never been repeated.\nNone of the three super-states ever attempts any manoeuvre which involves\nthe risk of serious defeat. When any large operation is undertaken, it is usually\n\na surprise attack against an ally. The strategy that all three powers are follow-\ning, or pretend to themselves that they are following, is the same. The plan is,\n\nby a combination of fighting, bargaining, and well-timed strokes of treachery, to\nacquire a ring of bases completely encircling one or other of the rival states, and\nthen to sign a pact of friendship with that rival and remain on peaceful terms\nfor so many years as to lull suspicion to sleep. During this time rockets loaded\nwith atomic bombs can be assembled at all the strategic spots; finally they will\nall be fired simultaneously, with effects so devastating as to make retaliation\nimpossible. It will then be time to sign a pact of friendship with the remain-\ning world-power, in preparation for another attack. This scheme, it is hardly\n\nnecessary to say, is a mere daydream, impossible of realization. Moreover, no\nfighting ever occurs except in the disputed areas round the Equator and the\nPole: no invasion of enemy territory is ever undertaken. This explains the fact\nthat in some places the frontiers between the superstates are arbitrary. Eurasia,\nfor example, could easily conquer the British Isles, which are geographically\npart of Europe, or on the other hand it would be possible for Oceania to push\nits frontiers to the Rhine or even to the Vistula. But this would violate the\nprinciple, followed on all sides though never formulated, of cultural integrity. If\nOceania were to conquer the areas that used once to be known as France and\nGermany, it would be necessary either to exterminate the inhabitants, a task of\ngreat physical difficulty, or to assimilate a population of about a hundred million\npeople, who, so far as technical development goes, are roughly on the Oceanic\n\nlevel. The problem is the same for all three super-states. It is absolutely neces-\nsary to their structure that there should be no contact with foreigners, except,\n\nto a limited extent, with war prisoners and coloured slaves. Even the official\nally of the moment is always regarded with the darkest suspicion. War prisoners\n\napart, the average citizen of Oceania never sets eyes on a citizen of either Eura-\nsia or Eastasia, and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If he\n\nwere allowed contact with foreigners he would discover that they are creatures\nsimilar to himself and that most of what he has been told about them is lies.\nThe sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the fear, hatred, and\nself-righteousness on which his morale depends might evaporate. It is therefore\nrealized on all sides that however often Persia, or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon\nmay change hands, the main frontiers must never be crossed by anything except\nbombs.\nUnder this lies a fact never mentioned aloud, but tacitly understood and\nacted upon: namely, that the conditions of life in all three super-states are very\nmuch the same. In Oceania the prevailing philosophy is called Ingsoc, in Eurasia\n\nit is called Neo-Bolshevism, and in Eastasia it is called by a Chinese name usu-\nally translated as Death-Worship, but perhaps better rendered as Obliteration\n\nof the Self. The citizen of Oceania is not allowed to know anything of the tenets\nof the other two philosophies, but he is taught to execrate them as barbarous\noutrages upon morality and common sense. Actually the three philosophies\nare barely distinguishable, and the social systems which they support are not\ndistinguishable at all. Everywhere there is the same pyramidal structure, the\n\nsame worship of semi-divine leader, the same economy existing by and for con-\ntinuous warfare. It follows that the three super-states not only cannot conquer\n\none another, but would gain no advantage by doing so. On the contrary, so\nlong as they remain in conflict they prop one another up, like three sheaves of\ncorn. And, as usual, the ruling groups of all three powers are simultaneously\naware and unaware of what they are doing. Their lives are dedicated to world\nconquest, but they also know that it is necessary that the war should continue\neverlastingly and without victory. Meanwhile the fact that there is no danger\nof conquest makes possible the denial of reality which is the special feature of\nIngsoc and its rival systems of thought. Here it is necessary to repeat what has\nbeen said earlier, that by becoming continuous war has fundamentally changed\nits character.\nIn past ages, a war, almost by definition, was something that sooner or later\ncame to an end, usually in unmistakable victory or defeat. In the past, also,\nwar was one of the main instruments by which human societies were kept in\ntouch with physical reality. All rulers in all ages have tried to impose a false\nview of the world upon their followers, but they could not afford to encourage\nany illusion that tended to impair military efficiency. So long as defeat meant\nthe loss of independence, or some other result generally held to be undesirable,\nthe precautions against defeat had to be serious. Physical facts could not be\nignored. In philosophy, or religion, or ethics, or politics, two and two might\nmake five, but when one was designing a gun or an aeroplane they had to make\nfour. Inefficient nations were always conquered sooner or later, and the struggle\nfor efficiency was inimical to illusions. Moreover, to be efficient it was necessary\nto be able to learn from the past, which meant having a fairly accurate idea of\nwhat had happened in the past. Newspapers and history books were, of course,\nalways coloured and biased, but falsification of the kind that is practised today\nwould have been impossible. War was a sure safeguard of sanity, and so far\nas the ruling classes were concerned it was probably the most important of all\nsafeguards. While wars could be won or lost, no ruling class could be completely\nirresponsible.\nBut when war becomes literally continuous, it also ceases to be dangerous.\nWhen war is continuous there is no such thing as military necessity. Technical\nprogress can cease and the most palpable facts can be denied or disregarded. As\nwe have seen, researches that could be called scientific are still carried out for\nthe purposes of war, but they are essentially a kind of daydreaming, and their\nfailure to show results is not important. Efficiency, even military efficiency, is\nno longer needed. Nothing is efficient in Oceania except the Thought Police.\nSince each of the three super-states is unconquerable, each is in effect a separate\nuniverse within which almost any perversion of thought can be safely practised.\nReality only exerts its pressure through the needs of everyday life \u2014 the need\nto eat and drink, to get shelter and clothing, to avoid swallowing poison or\nstepping out of top-storey windows, and the like. Between life and death, and\nbetween physical pleasure and physical pain, there is still a distinction, but that\nis all. Cut off from contact with the outer world, and with the past, the citizen\nof Oceania is like a man in interstellar space, who has no way of knowing which\ndirection is up and which is down. The rulers of such a state are absolute, as\nthe Pharaohs or the Caesars could not be. They are obliged to prevent their\nfollowers from starving to death in numbers large enough to be inconvenient,\nand they are obliged to remain at the same low level of military technique as\ntheir rivals; but once that minimum is achieved, they can twist reality into\nwhatever shape they choose.\nThe war, therefore, if we judge it by the standards of previous wars, is\nmerely an imposture. It is like the battles between certain ruminant animals\nwhose horns are set at such an angle that they are incapable of hurting one\nanother. But though it is unreal it is not meaningless. It eats up the surplus of\nconsumable goods, and it helps to preserve the special mental atmosphere that a\nhierarchical society needs. War, it will be seen, is now a purely internal affair. In\nthe past, the ruling groups of all countries, although they might recognize their\ncommon interest and therefore limit the destructiveness of war, did fight against\none another, and the victor always plundered the vanquished. In our own day\nthey are not fighting against one another at all. The war is waged by each\nruling group against its own subjects, and the object of the war is not to make\nor prevent conquests of territory, but to keep the structure of society intact.\nThe very word \u2019war\u2019, therefore, has become misleading. It would probably be\naccurate to say that by becoming continuous war has ceased to exist. The\npeculiar pressure that it exerted on human beings between the Neolithic Age\nand the early twentieth century has disappeared and been replaced by something\nquite different. The effect would be much the same if the three super-states,\ninstead of fighting one another, should agree to live in perpetual peace, each\ninviolate within its own boundaries. For in that case each would still be a\nself-contained universe, freed for ever from the sobering influence of external\ndanger. A peace that was truly permanent would be the same as a permanent\nwar. This \u2014 although the vast majority of Party members understand it only\nin a shallower sense \u2014 is the inner meaning of the Party slogan: War is Peace.\nWinston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in remote distance a\nrocket bomb thundered. The blissful feeling of being alone with the forbidden\nbook, in a room with no telescreen, had not worn off. Solitude and safety\nwere physical sensations, mixed up somehow with the tiredness of his body,\nthe softness of the chair, the touch of the faint breeze from the window that\nplayed upon his cheek. The book fascinated him, or more exactly it reassured\nhim. In a sense it told him nothing that was new, but that was part of the\nattraction. It said what he would have said, if it had been possible for him to\nset his scattered thoughts in order. It was the product of a mind similar to\nhis own, but enormously more powerful, more systematic, less fear-ridden. The\nbest books, he perceived, are those that tell you what you know already. He\nhad just turned back to  I when he heard Julia\u2019s footstep on the stair\nand started out of his chair to meet her. She dumped her brown tool-bag on\nthe floor and flung herself into his arms. It was more than a week since they\nhad seen one another.\n\u2019I\u2019ve got the book,\u2019 he said as they disentangled themselves.\n\u2019Oh, you\u2019ve got it? Good,\u2019 she said without much interest, and almost\nimmediately knelt down beside the oilstove to make the coffee.\nThey did not return to the subject until they had been in bed for half an\nhour. The evening was just cool enough to make it worth while to pull up the\ncounterpane. From below came the familiar sound of singing and the scrape\nof boots on the flagstones. The brawny red-armed woman whom Winston had\nseen there on his first visit was almost a fixture in the yard. There seemed to be\nno hour of daylight when she was not marching to and fro between the washtub\nand the line, alternately gagging herself with clothes pegs and breaking forth\ninto lusty song. Julia had settled down on her side and seemed to be already\non the point of falling asleep. He reached out for the book, which was lying on\nthe floor, and sat up against the bedhead.\n\u2019We must read it,\u2019 he said. \u2019You too. All members of the Brotherhood have\nto read it.\u2019\n\u2019You read it,\u2019 she said with her eyes shut. \u2019Read it aloud. That\u2019s the best\nway. Then you can explain it to me as you go.\u2019\nThe clock\u2019s hands said six, meaning eighteen. They had three or four hours\nahead of them. He propped the book against his knees and began reading:\n I\nIgnorance is Strength\nThroughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic Age,\nthere have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle, and\nthe Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have borne countless\ndifferent names, and their relative numbers, as well as their attitude towards\none another, have varied from age to age: but the essential structure of society\nhas never altered. Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable\nchanges, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will\nalways return to equilibnum, however far it is pushed one way or the other\n\u2019Julia, are you awake?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019Yes, my love, I\u2019m listening. Go on. It\u2019s marvellous.\u2019\nHe continued reading:\nThe aims of these three groups are entirely irreconcilable. The aim of the\nHigh is to remain where they are. The aim of the Middle is to change places\nwith the High. The aim of the Low, when they have an aim \u2014 for it is an\nabiding characteristic of the Low that they are too much crushed by drudgery\nto be more than intermittently conscious of anything outside their daily lives \u2014\nis to abolish all distinctions and create a society in which all men shall be equal.\nThus throughout history a struggle which is the same in its main outlines recurs\nover and over again. For long periods the High seem to be securely in power,\nbut sooner or later there always comes a moment when they lose either their\nbelief in themselves or their capacity to govern efficiently, or both. They are\nthen overthrown by the Middle, who enlist the Low on their side by pretending\nto them that they are fighting for liberty and justice. As soon as they have\nreached their objective, the Middle thrust the Low back into their old position\nof servitude, and themselves become the High. Presently a new Middle group\nsplits off from one of the other groups, or from both of them, and the struggle\nbegins over again. Of the three groups, only the Low are never even temporarily\nsuccessful in achieving their aims. It would be an exaggeration to say that\nthroughout history there has been no progress of a material kind. Even today,\nin a period of decline, the average human being is physically better off than he\nwas a few centuries ago. But no advance in wealth, no softening of manners,\nno reform or revolution has ever brought human equality a millimetre nearer.\nFrom the point of view of the Low, no historic change has ever meant much\nmore than a change in the name of their masters.\nBy the late nineteenth century the recurrence of this pattern had become\nobvious to many observers. There then rose schools of thinkers who interpreted\n\nhistory as a cyclical process and claimed to show that inequality was the unalter-\nable law of human life. This doctrine, of course, had always had its adherents,\n\nbut in the manner in which it was now put forward there was a significant\nchange. In the past the need for a hierarchical form of society had been the\ndoctrine specifically of the High. It had been preached by kings and aristocrats\nand by the priests, lawyers, and the like who were parasitical upon them, and it\nhad generally been softened by promises of compensation in an imaginary world\n\nbeyond the grave. The Middle, so long as it was struggling for power, had al-\nways made use of such terms as freedom, justice, and fraternity. Now, however,\n\nthe concept of human brotherhood began to be assailed by people who were not\nyet in positions of command, but merely hoped to be so before long. In the\npast the Middle had made revolutions under the banner of equality, and then\nhad established a fresh tyranny as soon as the old one was overthrown. The\nnew Middle groups in effect proclaimed their tyranny beforehand. Socialism,\na theory which appeared in the early nineteenth century and was the last link\nin a chain of thought stretching back to the slave rebellions of antiquity, was\nstill deeply infected by the Utopianism of past ages. But in each variant of So-\ncialism that appeared from about  onwards the aim of establishing liberty\n\nand equality was more and more openly abandoned. The new movements which\nappeared in the middle years of the century, Ingsoc in Oceania, Neo-Bolshevism\n\nin Eurasia, Death-Worship, as it is commonly called, in Eastasia, had the con-\nscious aim of perpetuating unfreedom and inequality. These new movements,\n\nof course, grew out of the old ones and tended to keep their names and pay lip-\nservice to their ideology. But the purpose of all of them was to arrest progress\n\nand freeze history at a chosen moment. The familiar pendulum swing was to\nhappen once more, and then stop. As usual, the High were to be turned out\nby the Middle, who would then become the High; but this time, by conscious\nstrategy, the High would be able to maintain their position permanently.\nThe new doctrines arose partly because of the accumulation of historical\nknowledge, and the growth of the historical sense, which had hardly existed\n\nbefore the nineteenth century. The cyclical movement of history was now in-\ntelligible, or appeared to be so; and if it was intelligible, then it was alterable.\n\nBut the principal, underlying cause was that, as early as the beginning of the\ntwentieth century, human equality had become technically possible. It was still\ntrue that men were not equal in their native talents and that functions had\nto be specialized in ways that favoured some individuals against others; but\nthere was no longer any real need for class distinctions or for large differences\nof wealth. In earlier ages, class distinctions had been not only inevitable but\n\ndesirable. Inequality was the price of civilization. With the development of ma-\nchine production, however, the case was altered. Even if it was still necessary\n\nfor human beings to do different kinds of work, it was no longer necessary for\nthem to live at different social or economic levels. Therefore, from the point of\nview of the new groups who were on the point of seizing power, human equality\nwas no longer an ideal to be striven after, but a danger to be averted. In more\nprimitive ages, when a just and peaceful society was in fact not possible, it had\nbeen fairly easy to believe it. The idea of an earthly paradise in which men\nshould live together in a state of brotherhood, without laws and without brute\nlabour, had haunted the human imagination for thousands of years. And this\nvision had had a certain hold even on the groups who actually profited by each\nhistorical change. The heirs of the French, English, and American revolutions\nhad partly believed in their own phrases about the rights of man, freedom of\n\nspeech, equality before the law, and the like, and have even allowed their con-\nduct to be influenced by them to some extent. But by the fourth decade of\n\nthe twentieth century all the main currents of political thought were authori-\ntarian. The earthly paradise had been discredited at exactly the moment when\n\nit became realizable. Every new political theory, by whatever name it called\nitself, led back to hierarchy and regimentation. And in the general hardening\n\nof outlook that set in round about , practices which had been long aban-\ndoned, in some cases for hundreds of years \u2014 imprisonment without trial, the\n\nuse of war prisoners as slaves, public executions, torture to extract confessions,\nthe use of hostages, and the deportation of whole populations-not only became\ncommon again, but were tolerated and even defended by people who considered\nthemselves enlightened and progressive.\nIt was only after a decade of national wars, civil wars, revolutions, and\ncounter-revolutions in all parts of the world that Ingsoc and its rivals emerged\nas fully worked-out political theories. But they had been foreshadowed by the\nvarious systems, generally called totalitarian, which had appeared earlier in\nthe century, and the main outlines of the world which would emerge from the\nprevailing chaos had long been obvious. What kind of people would control this\nworld had been equally obvious. The new aristocracy was made up for the most\npart of bureaucrats, scientists, technicians, trade-union organizers, publicity\nexperts, sociologists, teachers, journalists, and professional politicians. These\npeople, whose origins lay in the salaried middle class and the upper grades of\nthe working class, had been shaped and brought together by the barren world\nof monopoly industry and centralized government. As compared with their\nopposite numbers in past ages, they were less avaricious, less tempted by luxury,\nhungrier for pure power, and, above all, more conscious of what they were doing\nand more intent on crushing opposition. This last difference was cardinal. By\n\ncomparison with that existing today, all the tyrannies of the past were half-\nhearted and inefficient. The ruling groups were always infected to some extent\n\nby liberal ideas, and were content to leave loose ends everywhere, to regard only\nthe overt act and to be uninterested in what their subjects were thinking. Even\nthe Catholic Church of the Middle Ages was tolerant by modern standards. Part\nof the reason for this was that in the past no government had the power to keep\nits citizens under constant surveillance. The invention of print, however, made\nit easier to manipulate public opinion, and the film and the radio carried the\nprocess further. With the development of television, and the technical advance\nwhich made it possible to receive and transmit simultaneously on the same\ninstrument, private life came to an end. Every citizen, or at least every citizen\nimportant enough to be worth watching, could be kept for twentyfour hours a\nday under the eyes of the police and in the sound of official propaganda, with all\nother channels of communication closed. The possibility of enforcing not only\ncomplete obedience to the will of the State, but complete uniformity of opinion\non all subjects, now existed for the first time.\nAfter the revolutionary period of the fifties and sixties, society regrouped\nitself, as always, into High, Middle, and Low. But the new High group, unlike all\nits forerunners, did not act upon instinct but knew what was needed to safeguard\nits position. It had long been realized that the only secure basis for oligarchy\nis collectivism. Wealth and privilege are most easily defended when they are\npossessed jointly. The so-called \u2019abolition of private property\u2019 which took place\nin the middle years of the century meant, in effect, the concentration of property\nin far fewer hands than before: but with this difference, that the new owners\nwere a group instead of a mass of individuals. Individually, no member of the\nParty owns anything, except petty personal belongings. Collectively, the Party\nowns everything in Oceania, because it controls everything, and disposes of the\nproducts as it thinks fit. In the years following the Revolution it was able to step\ninto this commanding position almost unopposed, because the whole process was\nrepresented as an act of collectivization. It had always been assumed that if the\ncapitalist class were expropriated, Socialism must follow: and unquestionably\nthe capitalists had been expropriated. Factories, mines, land, houses, transport\n\u2014 everything had been taken away from them: and since these things were no\nlonger private property, it followed that they must be public property. Ingsoc,\nwhich grew out of the earlier Socialist movement and inherited its phraseology,\nhas in fact carried out the main item in the Socialist programme; with the\nresult, foreseen and intended beforehand, that economic inequality has been\nmade permanent.\nBut the problems of perpetuating a hierarchical society go deeper than this.\nThere are only four ways in which a ruling group can fall from power. Either\nit is conquered from without, or it governs so inefficiently that the masses are\nstirred to revolt, or it allows a strong and discontented Middle group to come\ninto being, or it loses its own self-confidence and willingness to govern. These\ncauses do not operate singly, and as a rule all four of them are present in some\ndegree. A ruling class which could guard against all of them would remain in\npower permanently. Ultimately the determining factor is the mental attitude of\nthe ruling class itself.\n\nAfter the middle of the present century, the first danger had in reality dis-\nappeared. Each of the three powers which now divide the world is in fact\n\nunconquerable, and could only become conquerable through slow demographic\nchanges which a government with wide powers can easily avert. The second\ndanger, also, is only a theoretical one. The masses never revolt of their own\naccord, and they never revolt merely because they are oppressed. Indeed, so\nlong as they are not permitted to have standards of comparison, they never\neven become aware that they are oppressed. The recurrent economic crises of\npast times were totally unnecessary and are not now permitted to happen, but\nother and equally large dislocations can and do happen without having political\nresults, because there is no way in which discontent can become articulate. As\nfcr the problem of overproduction, which has been latent in our society since\nthe development of machine technique, it is solved by the device of continuous\nwarfare (see  III), which is also useful in keying up public morale to the\nnecessary pitch. From the point of view of our present rulers, therefore, the only\ngenuine dangers are the splitting-off of a new group of able, under-employed,\npower-hungry people, and the growth of liberalism and scepticism in their own\n\nranks. The problem, that is to say, is educational. It is a problem of continu-\nously moulding the consciousness both of the directing group and of the larger\n\nexecutive group that lies immediately below it. The consciousness of the masses\nneeds only to be influenced in a negative way.\nGiven this background, one could infer, if one did not know it already,\nthe general structure of Oceanic society. At the apex of the pyramid comes\nBig Brother. Big Brother is infallible and all-powerful. Every success, every\nachievement, every victory, every scientific discovery, all knowledge, all wisdom,\n\nall happiness, all virtue, are held to issue directly from his leadership and in-\nspiration. Nobody has ever seen Big Brother. He is a face on the hoardings, a\n\nvoice on the telescreen. We may be reasonably sure that he will never die, and\nthere is already considerable uncertainty as to when he was born. Big Brother is\nthe guise in which the Party chooses to exhibit itself to the world. His function\nis to act as a focusing point for love, fear, and reverence, emotions which are\nmore easily felt towards an individual than towards an organization. Below Big\nBrother comes the Inner Party. its numbers limited to six millions, or something\nless than  per cent of the population of Oceania. Below the Inner Party comes\nthe Outer Party, which, if the Inner Party is described as the brain of the State,\nmay be justly likened to the hands. Below that come the dumb masses whom\nwe habitually refer to as \u2019the proles\u2019, numbering perhaps  per cent of the\npopulation. In the terms of our earlier classification, the proles are the Low: for\nthe slave population of the equatorial lands who pass constantly from conqueror\nto conqueror, are not a permanent or necessary part of the structure.\nIn principle, membership of these three groups is not hereditary. The child\nof Inner Party parents is in theory not born into the Inner Party. Admission to\neither branch of the Party is by examination, taken at the age of sixteen. Nor\nis there any racial discrimination, or any marked domination of one province\nby another. Jews, Negroes, South Americans of pure Indian blood are to be\nfound in the highest ranks of the Party, and the administrators of any area\nare always drawn from the inhabitants of that area. In no part of Oceania\ndo the inhabitants have the feeling that they are a colonial population ruled\nfrom a distant capital. Oceania has no capital, and its titular head is a person\nwhose whereabouts nobody knows. Except that English is its chief lingua franca\nand Newspeak its official language, it is not centralized in any way. Its rulers\nare not held together by blood-ties but by adherence to a common doctrine.\nIt is true that our society is stratified, and very rigidly stratified, on what at\nfirst sight appear to be hereditary lines. There is far less to- and-fro movement\n\nbetween the different groups than happened under capitalism or even in the pre-\nindustrial age. Between the two branches of the Party there is a certain amount\n\nof interchange, but only so much as will ensure that weaklings are excluded\nfrom the Inner Party and that ambitious members of the Outer Party are made\nharmless by allowing them to rise. Proletarians, in practice, are not allowed\nto graduate into the Party. The most gifted among them, who might possibly\nbecome nuclei of discontent, are simply marked down by the Thought Police\nand eliminated. But this state of affairs is not necessarily permanent, nor is it\na matter of principle. The Party is not a class in the old sense of the word. It\ndoes not aim at transmitting power to its own children, as such; and if there\nwere no other way of keeping the ablest people at the top, it would be perfectly\nprepared to recruit an entire new generation from the ranks of the proletariat.\nIn the crucial years, the fact that the Party was not a hereditary body did a\ngreat deal to neutralize opposition. The older kind of Socialist, who had been\ntrained to fight against something called \u2019class privilege\u2019 assumed that what\nis not hereditary cannot be permanent. He did not see that the continuity of\nan oligarchy need not be physical, nor did he pause to reflect that hereditary\naristocracies have always been shortlived, whereas adoptive organizations such\nas the Catholic Church have sometimes lasted for hundreds or thousands of\nyears. The essence of oligarchical rule is not father-to-son inheritance, but the\npersistence of a certain world-view and a certain way of life, imposed by the dead\nupon the living. A ruling group is a ruling group so long as it can nominate\nits successors. The Party is not concerned with perpetuating its blood but\nwith perpetuating itself. Who wields power is not important, provided that the\nhierarchical structure remains always the same.\nAll the beliefs, habits, tastes, emotions, mental attitudes that characterize\nour time are really designed to sustain the mystique of the Party and prevent\nthe true nature of present-day society from being perceived. Physical rebellion,\nor any preliminary move towards rebellion, is at present not possible. From the\nproletarians nothing is to be feared. Left to themselves, they will continue from\ngeneration to generation and from century to century, working, breeding, and\ndying, not only without any impulse to rebel, but without the power of grasping\nthat the world could be other than it is. They could only become dangerous\nif the advance of industrial technique made it necessary to educate them more\nhighly; but, since military and commercial rivalry are no longer important, the\nlevel of popular education is actually declining. What opinions the masses hold,\nor do not hold, is looked on as a matter of indifference. They can be granted\nintellectual liberty because they have no intellect. In a Party member, on the\nother hand, not even the smallest deviation of opinion on the most unimportant\nsubject can be tolerated.\nA Party member lives from birth to death under the eye of the Thought\n\nPolice. Even when he is alone he can never be sure that he is alone. Wher-\never he may be, asleep or awake, working or resting, in his bath or in bed, he\n\ncan be inspected without warning and without knowing that he is being in-\nspected. Nothing that he does is indifferent. His friendships, his relaxations,\n\nhis behaviour towards his wife and children, the expression of his face when\nhe is alone, the words he mutters in sleep, even the characteristic movements\nof his body, are all jealously scrutinized. Not only any actual misdemeanour,\n\nbut any eccentricity, however small, any change of habits, any nervous man-\nnerism that could possibly be the symptom of an inner struggle, is certain to\n\nbe detected. He has no freedom of choice in any direction whatever. On the\nother hand his actions are not regulated by law or by any clearly formulated\ncode of behaviour. In Oceania there is no law. Thoughts and actions which,\nwhen detected, mean certain death are not formally forbidden, and the endless\npurges, arrests, tortures, imprisonments, and vaporizations are not inflicted as\npunishment for crimes which have actually been committed, but are merely the\nwiping-out of persons who might perhaps commit a crime at some time in the\nfuture. A Party member is required to have not only the right opinions, but the\nright instincts. Many of the beliefs and attitudes demanded of him are never\nplainly stated, and could not be stated without laying bare the contradictions\n\ninherent in Ingsoc. If he is a person naturally orthodox (in Newspeak a good-\nthinker), he will in all circumstances know, without taking thought, what is\n\nthe true belief or the desirable emotion. But in any case an elaborate mental\ntraining, undergone in childhood and grouping itself round the Newspeak words\ncrimestop, blackwhite, and doublethink, makes him unwilling and unable to\nthink too deeply on any subject whatever.\nA Party member is expected to have no private emotions and no respites from\nenthusiasm. He is supposed to live in a continuous frenzy of hatred of foreign\nenemies and internal traitors, triumph over victories, and self-abasement before\nthe power and wisdom of the Party. The discontents produced by his bare,\nunsatisfying life are deliberately turned outwards and dissipated by such devices\nas the Two Minutes Hate, and the speculations which might possibly induce a\nsceptical or rebellious attitude are killed in advance by his early acquired inner\ndiscipline. The first and simplest stage in the discipline, which can be taught\neven to young children, is called, in Newspeak, crimestop. Crimestop means\nthe faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any\ndangerous thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing\nto perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they\nare inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of thought\nwhich is capable of leading in a heretical direction. Crimestop, in short, means\nprotective stupidity. But stupidity is not enough. On the contrary, orthodoxy\nin the full sense demands a control over one\u2019s own mental processes as complete\nas that of a contortionist over his body. Oceanic society rests ultimately on the\nbelief that Big Brother is omnipotent and that the Party is infallible. But since\nin reality Big Brother is not omnipotent and the party is not infallible, there is\nneed for an unwearying, moment-to-moment flexibility in the treatment of facts.\nThe keyword here is blackwhite. Like so many Newspeak words, this word has\ntwo mutually contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it means the\nhabit of impudently claiming that black is white, in contradiction of the plain\nfacts. Applied to a Party member, it means a loyal willingness to say that black\nis white when Party discipline demands this. But it means also the ability to\nbelieve that black is white, and more, to know that black is white, and to forget\nthat one has ever believed the contrary. This demands a continuous alteration\nof the past, made possible by the system of thought which really embraces all\nthe rest, and which is known in Newspeak as doublethink.\n\nThe alteration of the past is necessary for two reasons, one of which is sub-\nsidiary and, so to speak, precautionary. The subsidiary reason is that the Party\n\nmember, like the proletarian, tolerates present-day conditions partly because\nhe has no standards of comparison. He must be cut off from the past, just as\nhe must be cut off from foreign countries, because it is necessary for him to\nbelieve that he is better off than his ancestors and that the average level of\nmaterial comfort is constantly rising. But by far the more important reason\nfor the readjustment of the past is the need to safeguard the infallibility of the\nParty. It is not merely that speeches, statistics, and records of every kind must\nbe constantly brought up to date in order to show that the predictions of the\nParty were in all cases right. It is also that no change in doctrine or in political\nalignment can ever be admitted. For to change one\u2019s mind, or even one\u2019s policy,\nis a confession of weakness. If, for example, Eurasia or Eastasia (whichever it\n\nmay be) is the enemy today, then that country must always have been the en-\nemy. And if the facts say otherwise then the facts must be altered. Thus history\n\nis continuously rewritten. This day-to-day falsification of the past, carried out\nby the Ministry of Truth, is as necessary to the stability of the regime as the\nwork of repression and espionage carried out by the Ministry of Love.\nThe mutability of the past is the central tenet of Ingsoc. Past events, it is\nargued, have no objective existence, but survive only in written records and in\nhuman memories. The past is whatever the records and the memories agree\nupon. And since the Party is in full control of all records and in equally full\ncontrol of the minds of its members, it follows that the past is whatever the Party\nchooses to make it. It also follows that though the past is alterable, it never has\nbeen altered in any specific instance. For when it has been recreated in whatever\nshape is needed at the moment, then this new version is the past, and no different\npast can ever have existed. This holds good even when, as often happens, the\nsame event has to be altered out of recognition several times in the course of a\nyear. At all times the Party is in possession of absolute truth, and clearly the\nabsolute can never have been different from what it is now. It will be seen that\nthe control of the past depends above all on the training of memory. To make\nsure that all written records agree with the orthodoxy of the moment is merely\na mechanical act. But it is also necessary to remember that events happened\nin the desired manner. And if it is necessary to rearrange one\u2019s memories or to\ntamper with written records, then it is necessary to forget that one has done\nso. The trick of doing this can be learned like any other mental technique.\nIt is learned by the majority of Party members, and certainly by all who are\nintelligent as well as orthodox. In Oldspeak it is called, quite frankly, \u2019reality\ncontrol\u2019. In Newspeak it is called doublethink, though doublethink comprises\nmuch else as well.\nDoublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one\u2019s\nmind simultaneously, and accepting both of them. The Party intellectual knows\nin which direction his memories must be altered; he therefore knows that he is\nplaying tricks with reality; but by the exercise of doublethink he also satisfies\nhimself that reality is not violated. The process has to be conscious, or it would\nnot be carried out with sufficient precision, but it also has to be unconscious,\nor it would bring with it a feeling of falsity and hence of guilt. Doublethink\nlies at the very heart of Ingsoc, since the essential act of the Party is to use\n\nconscious deception while retaining the firmness of purpose that goes with com-\nplete honesty. To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget\n\nany fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary\nagain, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny\nthe existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality\nwhich one denies \u2014 all this is indispensably necessary. Even in using the word\ndoublethink it is necessary to exercise doublethink. For by using the word one\nadmits that one is tampering with reality; by a fresh act of doublethink one\nerases this knowledge; and so on indefinitely, with the lie always one leap ahead\nof the truth. Ultimately it is by means of doublethink that the Party has been\nable \u2014 and may, for all we know, continue to be able for thousands of years \u2014\nto arrest the course of history.\n\nAll past oligarchies have fallen from power either because they ossified or be-\ncause they grew soft. Either they became stupid and arrogant, failed to adjust\n\nthemselves to changing circumstances, and were overthrown; or they became\nliberal and cowardly, made concessions when they should have used force, and\n\nonce again were overthrown. They fell, that is to say, either through conscious-\nness or through unconsciousness. It is the achievement of the Party to have\n\nproduced a system of thought in which both conditions can exist simultane-\nously. And upon no other intellectual basis could the dominion of the Party be\n\nmade permanent. If one is to rule, and to continue ruling, one must be able to\ndislocate the sense of reality. For the secret of rulership is to combine a belief\nin one\u2019s own infallibility with the Power to learn from past mistakes.\nIt need hardly be said that the subtlest practitioners of doublethink are those\nwho invented doublethink and know that it is a vast system of mental cheating.\nIn our society, those who have the best knowledge of what is happening are also\nthose who are furthest from seeing the world as it is. In general, the greater the\nunderstanding, the greater the delusion; the more intelligent, the less sane. One\nclear illustration of this is the fact that war hysteria increases in intensity as one\nrises in the social scale. Those whose attitude towards the war is most nearly\nrational are the subject peoples of the disputed territories. To these people the\nwar is simply a continuous calamity which sweeps to and fro over their bodies\nlike a tidal wave. Which side is winning is a matter of complete indifference to\nthem. They are aware that a change of overlordship means simply that they will\nbe doing the same work as before for new masters who treat them in the same\nmanner as the old ones. The slightly more favoured workers whom we call \u2019the\nproles\u2019 are only intermittently conscious of the war. When it is necessary they\ncan be prodded into frenzies of fear and hatred, but when left to themselves they\nare capable of forgetting for long periods that the war is happening. It is in the\nranks of the Party, and above all of the Inner Party, that the true war enthusiasm\nis found. World-conquest is believed in most firmly by those who know it to\nbe impossible. This peculiar linking-together of opposites \u2014 knowledge with\nignorance, cynicism with fanaticism-is one of the chief distinguishing marks of\nOceanic society. The official ideology abounds with contradictions even when\nthere is no practical reason for them. Thus, the Party rejects and vilifies every\nprinciple for which the Socialist movement originally stood, and it chooses to\ndo this in the name of Socialism. It preaches a contempt for the working class\nunexampled for centuries past, and it dresses its members in a uniform which\nwas at one time peculiar to manual workers and was adopted for that reason. It\nsystematically undermines the solidarity of the family, and it calls its leader by a\nname which is a direct appeal to the sentiment of family loyalty. Even the names\nof the four Ministries by which we are governed exhibit a sort of impudence in\ntheir deliberate reversal of the facts. The Ministry of Peace concerns itself with\nwar, the Ministry of Truth with lies, the Ministry of Love with torture and the\nMinistry of Plenty with starvation. These contradictions are not accidental,\nnor do they result from ordinary hypocrisy; they are deliberate exercises in\ndoublethink. For it is only by reconciling contradictions that power can be\nretained indefinitely. In no other way could the ancient cycle be broken. If\nhuman equality is to be for ever averted \u2014 if the High, as we have called them,\nare to keep their places permanently \u2014 then the prevailing mental condition\nmust be controlled insanity.\nBut there is one question which until this moment we have almost ignored.\nIt is; why should human equality be averted? Supposing that the mechanics\nof the process have been rightly described, what is the motive for this huge,\naccurately planned effort to freeze history at a particular moment of time?\nHere we reach the central secret. As we have seen. the mystique of the\nParty, and above all of the Inner Party, depends upon doublethink. But deeper\nthan this lies the original motive, the never-questioned instinct that first led to\nthe seizure of power and brought doublethink, the Thought Police, continuous\nwarfare, and all the other necessary paraphernalia into existence afterwards.\nThis motive really consists ... Winston became aware of silence, as one becomes\naware of a new sound. It seemed to him that Julia had been very still for some\ntime past. She was lying on her side, naked from the waist upwards, with her\ncheek pillowed on her hand and one dark lock tumbling across her eyes. Her\nbreast rose and fell slowly and regularly.\n\u2019Julia.\nNo answer.\n\u2019Julia, are you awake?\u2019\nNo answer. She was asleep. He shut the book, put it carefully on the floor,\nlay down, and pulled the coverlet over both of them.\nHe had still, he reflected, not learned the ultimate secret. He understood\n\nhow; he did not understand why.  I, like  III, had not actu-\nally told him anything that he did not know, it had merely systematized the\n\nknowledge that he possessed already. But after reading it he knew better than\nbefore that he was not mad. Being in a minority, even a minority of one, did\nnot make you mad. There was truth and there was untruth, and if you clung\nto the truth even against the whole world, you were not mad. A yellow beam\nfrom the sinking sun slanted in through the window and fell across the pillow.\nHe shut his eyes. The sun on his face and the girl\u2019s smooth body touching his\nown gave him a strong, sleepy, confident feeling. He was safe, everything was\nall right. He fell asleep murmuring \u2019Sanity is not statistical,\u2019 with the feeling\nthat this remark contained in it a profound wisdom. When he woke it was with\nthe sensation of having slept for a long time, but a glance at the old-fashioned\nclock told him that it was only twenty-thirty. He lay dozing for a while; then\nthe usual deep-lunged singing struck up from the yard below;\n\u2019It was only an \u2019opeless fancy,\nIt passed like an Ipril dye,\nBut a look an\u2019 a word an\u2019 the dreams they stirred\nThey \u2019ave stolen my \u2019eart awye!\u2019\nThe driveling song seemed to have kept its popularity. You still heard it\nall over the place. It had outlived the Hate Song. Julia woke at the sound,\nstretched herself luxuriously, and got out of bed.\n\u2019I\u2019m hungry,\u2019 she said. \u2019Let\u2019s make some more coffee. Damn! The stove\u2019s\ngone out and the water\u2019s cold.\u2019 She picked the stove up and shook it. \u2019There\u2019s\nno oil in it.\u2019\n\u2019We can get some from old Charrington, I expect.\u2019\n\u2019The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I\u2019m going to put my clothes on,\u2019\nshe added. \u2019It seems to have got colder.\u2019\nWinston also got up and dressed himself. The indefatigable voice sang on:\n\u2019They sye that time \u2019eals all things,\nThey sye you can always forget;\nBut the smiles an\u2019 the tears acrorss the years\nThey twist my \u2019eart-strings yet!\u2019\nAs he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across to the window. The\nsun must have gone down behind the houses; it was not shining into the yard any\nlonger. The flagstones were wet as though they had just been washed, and he\nhad the feeling that the sky had been washed too, so fresh and pale was the blue\nbetween the chimney-pots. Tirelessly the woman marched to and fro, corking\nand uncorking herself, singing and falling silent, and pegging out more diapers,\nand more and yet more. He wondered whether she took in washing for a living or\nwas merely the slave of twenty or thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to\nhis side; together they gazed down with a sort of fascination at the sturdy figure\nbelow. As he looked at the woman in her characteristic attitude, her thick arms\nreaching up for the line, her powerful mare-like buttocks protruded, it struck\nhim for the first time that she was beautiful. It had never before occurred to\nhim that the body of a woman of fifty, blown up to monstrous dimensions by\nchildbearing, then hardened, roughened by work till it was coarse in the grain\nlike an over-ripe turnip, could be beautiful. But it was so, and after all, he\nthought, why not? The solid, contourless body, like a block of granite, and the\nrasping red skin, bore the same relation to the body of a girl as the rose-hip to\nthe rose. Why should the fruit be held inferior to the flower?\n\u2019She\u2019s beautiful,\u2019 he murmured.\n\u2019She\u2019s a metre across the hips, easily,\u2019 said Julia.\n\u2019That is her style of beauty,\u2019 said Winston.\nHe held Julia\u2019s supple waist easily encircled by his arm. From the hip to\nthe knee her flank was against his. Out of their bodies no child would ever\ncome. That was the one thing they could never do. Only by word of mouth,\nfrom mind to mind, could they pass on the secret. The woman down there\nhad no mind, she had only strong arms, a warm heart, and a fertile belly. He\nwondered how many children she had given birth to. It might easily be fifteen.\nShe had had her momentary flowering, a year, perhaps, of wild-rose beauty and\nthen she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized fruit and grown hard and red\nand coarse, and then her life had been laundering, scrubbing, darning, cooking,\nsweeping, polishing, mending, scrubbing, laundering, first for children, then for\ngrandchildren, over thirty unbroken years. At the end of it she was still singing.\nThe mystical reverence that he felt for her was somehow mixed up with the\naspect of the pale, cloudless sky, stretching away behind the chimney-pots into\ninterminable distance. It was curious to think that the sky was the same for\neverybody, in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under the sky\nwere also very much the same \u2014 everywhere, all over the world, hundreds of\nthousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant of one another\u2019s\nexistence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the\nsame \u2014 people who had never learned to think but who were storing up in\ntheir hearts and bellies and muscles the power that would one day overturn the\nworld. If there was hope, it lay in the proles! Without having read to the end\nof the book, he knew that that must be Goldstein\u2019s final message. The future\nbelonged to the proles. And could he be sure that when their time came the\nworld they constructed would not be just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as\nthe world of the Party? Yes, because at the least it would be a world of sanity.\nWhere there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later it would happen,\nstrength would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal, you could\nnot doubt it when you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end\ntheir awakening would come. And until that happened, though it might be a\nthousand years, they would stay alive against all the odds, like birds, passing\non from body to body the vitality which the Party did not share and could not\nkill.\n\u2019Do you remember,\u2019 he said, \u2019the thrush that sang to us, that first day, at\nthe edge of the wood?\u2019\n\u2019He wasn\u2019t singing to us,\u2019 said Julia. \u2019He was singing to please himself. Not\neven that. He was just singing.\u2019\nThe birds sang, the proles sang. the Party did not sing. All round the world,\nin London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden\nlands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villages of the\nendless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and Japan \u2014 everywhere stood\nthe same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing,\ntoiling from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty loins a race of\nconscious beings must one day come. You were the dead, theirs was the future.\nBut you could share in that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive\nthe body, and passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two make four.\n\u2019We are the dead,\u2019 he said.\n\u2019We are the dead,\u2019 echoed Julia dutifully.\n\u2019You are the dead,\u2019 said an iron voice behind them.\nThey sprang apart. Winston\u2019s entrails seemed to have turned into ice. He\ncould see the white all round the irises of Julia\u2019s eyes. Her face had turned a\nmilky yellow. The smear of rouge that was still on each cheekbone stood out\nsharply, almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath.\n\u2019You are the dead,\u2019 repeated the iron voice.\n\u2019It was behind the picture,\u2019 breathed Julia.\n\u2019It was behind the picture,\u2019 said the voice. \u2019Remain exactly where you are.\nMake no movement until you are ordered.\u2019\nIt was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except stand\ngazing into one another\u2019s eyes. To run for life, to get out of the house before\nit was too late \u2014 no such thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey\nthe iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had been\nturned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture had fallen to the floor\nuncovering the telescreen behind it.\n\u2019Now they can see us,\u2019 said Julia.\n\u2019 Now we can see you,\u2019 said the voice. \u2019 Stand out in the middle of the room.\nStand back to back. Clasp your hands behind your heads. Do not touch one\nanother.\u2019\nThey were not touching, but it seemed to him that he could feel Julia\u2019s body\nshaking. Or perhaps it was merely the shaking of his own. He could just stop\nhis teeth from chattering, but his knees were beyond his control. There was a\nsound of trampling boots below, inside the house and outside. The yard seemed\nto be full of men. Something was being dragged across the stones. The woman\u2019s\nsinging had stopped abruptly. There was a long, rolling clang, as though the\nwashtub had been flung across the yard, and then a confusion of angry shouts\nwhich ended in a yell of pain.\n\u2019The house is surrounded,\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019The house is surrounded,\u2019 said the voice.\nHe heard Julia snap her teeth together. \u2019I suppose we may as well say\ngood-bye,\u2019 she said.\n\u2019You may as well say good-bye,\u2019 said the voice. And then another quite\ndifferent voice, a thin, cultivated voice which Winston had the impression of\nhaving heard before, struck in; \u2019And by the way, while we are on the subject,\n\u201dHere comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your\nhead\u201d!\u2019\nSomething crashed on to the bed behind Winston\u2019s back. The head of a\n\nladder had been thrust through the window and had burst in the frame. Some-\none was climbing through the window. There was a stampede of boots up the\n\nstairs. The room was full of solid men in black uniforms, with iron-shod boots\non their feet and truncheons in their hands.\nWinston was not trembling any longer. Even his eyes he barely moved. One\nthing alone mattered; to keep still, to keep still and not give them an excuse\nto hit you! A man with a smooth prize-fighter\u2019s jowl in which the mouth was\nonly a slit paused opposite him balancing his truncheon meditatively between\nthumb and forefinger. Winston met his eyes. The feeling of nakedness, with\none\u2019s hands behind one\u2019s head and one\u2019s face and body all exposed, was almost\nunbearable. The man protruded the tip of a white tongue, licked the place\nwhere his lips should have been, and then passed on. There was another crash.\nSomeone had picked up the glass paperweight from the table and smashed it to\npieces on the hearth-stone.\nThe fragment of coral, a tiny crinkle of pink like a sugar rosebud from a cake,\nrolled across the mat. How small, thought Winston, how small it always was!\nThere was a gasp and a thump behind him, and he received a violent kick on\nthe ankle which nearly flung him off his balance. One of the men had smashed\nhis fist into Julia\u2019s solar plexus, doubling her up like a pocket ruler. She was\nthrashing about on the floor, fighting for breath. Winston dared not turn his\nhead even by a millimetre, but sometimes her livid, gasping face came within\nthe angle of his vision. Even in his terror it was as though he could feel the pain\nin his own body, the deadly pain which nevertheless was less urgent than the\nstruggle to get back her breath. He knew what it was like; the terrible, agonizing\npain which was there all the while but could not be suffered yet, because before\nall else it was necessary to be able to breathe. Then two of the men hoisted\nher up by knees and shoulders, and carried her out of the room like a sack.\nWinston had a glimpse of her face, upside down, yellow and contorted, with the\neyes shut, and still with a smear of rouge on either cheek; and that was the last\nhe saw of her.\nHe stood dead still. No one had hit him yet. Thoughts which came of their\nown accord but seemed totally uninteresting began to flit through his mind. He\nwondered whether they had got Mr Charrington. He wondered what they had\ndone to the woman in the yard. He noticed that he badly wanted to urinate,\nand felt a faint surprise, because he had done so only two or three hours ago.\nHe noticed that the clock on the mantelpiece said nine, meaning twenty-one.\nBut the light seemed too strong. Would not the light be fading at twenty-one\nhours on an August evening? He wondered whether after all he and Julia had\nmistaken the time \u2014 had slept the clock round and thought it was twenty-thirty\nwhen really it was nought eight-thirty on the following morning. But he did not\npursue the thought further. It was not interesting.\nThere ws another, lighter step in the passage. Mr Charrington came into\nthe room. The demeanour of the black-uniformed men suddenly became more\nsubdued. Something had also changed in Mr Charrington\u2019s appearance. His\neye fell on the fragments of the glass paperweight.\n\u2019Pick up those pieces,\u2019 he said sharply.\nA man stooped to obey. The cockney accent had disappeared; Winston\nsuddenly realized whose voice it was that he had heard a few moments ago on\nthe telescreen. Mr Charrington was still wearing his old velvet jacket, but his\nhair, which had been almost white, had turned black. Also he was not wearing\nhis spectacles. He gave Winston a single sharp glance, as though verifying his\nidentity, and then paid no more attention to him. He was still recognizable,\nbut he was not the same person any longer. His body had straightened, and\nseemed to have grown bigger. His face had undergone only tiny changes that\nhad nevertheless worked a complete transformation. The black eyebrows were\nless bushy, the wrinkles were gone, the whole lines of the face seemed to have\naltered; even the nose seemed shorter. It was the alert, cold face of a man of\nabout five-and-thirty. It occurred to Winston that for the first time in his life\nhe was looking, with knowledge, at a member of the Thought Police.\n\n \n\nHe did not know where he was. Presumably he was in the Ministry of Love,\nbut there was no way of making certain. He was in a high-ceilinged windowless\ncell with walls of glittering white porcelain. Concealed lamps flooded it with\ncold light, and there was a low, steady humming sound which he supposed had\nsomething to do with the air supply. A bench, or shelf, just wide enough to sit\non ran round the wall, broken only by the door and, at the end opposite the\ndoor, a lavatory pan with no wooden seat. There were four telescreens, one in\neach wall.\nThere was a dull aching in his belly. It had been there ever since they had\nbundled him into the closed van and driven him away. But he was also hungry,\nwith a gnawing, unwholesome kind of hunger. It might be twenty-four hours\nsince he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did not know, probably never\nwould know, whether it had been morning or evening when they arrested him.\nSince he was arrested he had not been fed.\nHe sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his hands crossed on his\nknee. He had already learned to sit still. If you made unexpected movements\nthey yelled at you from the telescreen. But the craving for food was growing\nupon him. What he longed for above all was a piece of bread. He had an idea\nthat there were a few breadcrumbs in the pocket of his overalls. It was even\npossible \u2014 he thought this because from time to time something seemed to\ntickle his leg \u2014 that there might be a sizeable bit of crust there. In the end the\ntemptation to find out overcame his fear; he slipped a hand into his pocket.\n\u2019Smith!\u2019 yelled a voice from the telescreen. \u2019 Smith W.! Hands out of\npockets in the cells!\u2019\nHe sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Before being brought here\nhe had been taken to another place which must have been an ordinary prison\nor a temporary lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know how long he\nhad been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and no daylight it was\nhard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evil-smelling place. They had put him\ninto a cell similar to the one he was now in, but filthily dirty and at all times\ncrowded by ten or fifteen people. The majority of them were common criminals,\nbut there were a few political prisoners among them. He had sat silent against\nthe wall, jostled by dirty bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his\nbelly to take much interest in his surroundings, but still noticing the astonishing\ndifference in demeanour between the Party prisoners and the others. The Party\nprisoners were always silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals seemed\nto care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards, fought back\nfiercely when their belongings were impounded, wrote obscene words on the\nfloor, ate smuggled food which they produced from mysterious hiding-places in\ntheir clothes, and even shouted down the telescreen when it tried to restore\norder. On the other hand some of them seemed to be on good terms with\nthe guards, called them by nicknames, and tried to wheedle cigarettes through\nthe spyhole in the door. The guards, too, treated the common criminals with\na certain forbearance, even when they had to handle them roughly. There\nwas much talk about the forced-labour camps to which most of the prisoners\nexpected to be sent. It was \u2019all right\u2019 in the camps, he gathered, so long as you\nhad good contacts and knew the ropes. There was bribery, favouritism, and\nracketeering of every kind, there was homosexuality and prostitution, there was\neven illicit alcohol distilled from potatoes. The positions of trust were given\nonly to the common criminals, especially the gangsters and the murderers, who\nformed a sort of aristocracy. All the dirty jobs were done by the politicals.\n\nThere was a constant come-and-go of prisoners of every description: drug-\npeddlers, thieves, bandits, black-marketeers, drunks, prostitutes. Some of the\n\ndrunks were so violent that the other prisoners had to combine to suppress\nthem. An enormous wreck of a woman, aged about sixty, with great tumbling\nbreasts and thick coils of white hair which had come down in her struggles,\nwas carried in, kicking and shouting, by four guards, who had hold of her one\nat each corner. They wrenched off the boots with which she had been trying\nto kick them, and dumped her down across Winston\u2019s lap, almost breaking his\nthigh-bones. The woman hoisted herself upright and followed them out with a\nyell of \u2019F\u2014 bastards!\u2019 Then, noticing that she was sitting on something uneven,\nshe slid off Winston\u2019s knees on to the bench.\n\u2019Beg pardon, dearie,\u2019 she said. \u2019I wouldn\u2019t \u2019a sat on you, only the buggers\nput me there. They dono \u2019ow to treat a lady, do they?\u2019 She paused, patted her\nbreast, and belched. \u2019Pardon,\u2019 she said, \u2019I ain\u2019t meself, quite.\u2019\nShe leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor.\n\u2019Thass better,\u2019 she said, leaning back with closed eyes. \u2019Never keep it down,\nthass what I say. Get it up while it\u2019s fresh on your stomach, like.\u2019\n\nShe revived, turned to have another look at Winston and seemed immedi-\nately to take a fancy to him. She put a vast arm round his shoulder and drew\n\nhim towards her, breathing beer and vomit into his face.\n\u2019Wass your name, dearie?\u2019 she said.\n\u2019Smith,\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019Smith?\u2019 said the woman. \u2019Thass funny. My name\u2019s Smith too. Why,\u2019 she\nadded sentimentally, \u2019I might be your mother!\u2019\nShe might, thought Winston, be his mother. She was about the right age\nand physique, and it was probable that people changed somewhat after twenty\nyears in a forced-labour camp.\nNo one else had spoken to him. To a surprising extent the ordinary criminals\nignored the Party prisoners. \u2019The polits,\u2019 they called them, with a sort of\nuninterested contempt. The Party prisoners seemed terrified of speaking to\nanybody, and above all of speaking to one another. Only once, when two Party\nmembers, both women, were pressed close together on the bench, he overheard\namid the din of voices a few hurriedly-whispered words; and in particular a\nreference to something called \u2019room one-oh-one\u2019, which he did not understand.\nIt might be two or three hours ago that they had brought him here. The dull\npain in his belly never went away, but sometimes it grew better and sometimes\nworse, and his thoughts expanded or contracted accordingly. When it grew\nworse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his desire for food. When it\ngrew better, panic took hold of him. There were moments when he foresaw the\nthings that would happen to him with such actuality that his heart galloped\nand his breath stopped. He felt the smash of truncheons on his elbows and\niron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself grovelling on the floor, screaming\nfor mercy through broken teeth. He hardly thought of Julia. He could not fix\nhis mind on her. He loved her and would not betray her; but that was only\na fact, known as he knew the rules of arithmetic. He felt no love for her, and\nhe hardly even wondered what was happening to her. He thought oftener of\nO\u2019Brien, with a flickering hope. O\u2019Brien might know that he had been arrested.\nThe Brotherhood, he had said, never tried to save its members. But there was\nthe razor blade; they would send the razor blade if they could. There would\nbe perhaps five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell. The blade\nwould bite into him with a sort of burning coldness, and even the fingers that\nheld it would be cut to the bone. Everything came back to his sick body, which\nshrank trembling from the smallest pain. He was not certain that he would use\nthe razor blade even if he got the chance. It was more natural to exist from\nmoment to moment, accepting another ten minutes\u2019 life even with the certainty\nthat there was torture at the end of it.\nSometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain bricks in the walls\nof the cell. It should have been easy, but he always lost count at some point\nor another. More often he wondered where he was, and what time of day it\nwas. At one moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight outside, and\nat the next equally certain that it was pitch darkness. In this place, he knew\ninstinctively, the lights would never be turned out. It was the place with no\ndarkness: he saw now why O\u2019Brien had seemed to recognize the allusion. In\nthe Ministry of Love there were no windows. His cell might be at the heart of\nthe building or against its outer wall; it might be ten floors below ground, or\nthirty above it. He moved himself mentally from place to place, and tried to\ndetermine by the feeling of his body whether he was perched high in the air or\nburied deep underground.\nThere was a sound of marching boots outside. The steel door opened with a\nclang. A young officer, a trim black-uniformed figure who seemed to glitter all\nover with polished leather, and whose pale, straight-featured face was like a wax\nmask, stepped smartly through the doorway. He motioned to the guards outside\nto bring in the prisoner they were leading. The poet Ampleforth shambled into\nthe cell. The door clanged shut again.\nAmpleforth made one or two uncertain movements from side to side, as\nthough having some idea that there was another door to go out of, and then\nbegan to wander up and down the cell. He had not yet noticed Winston\u2019s\npresence. His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre above the\nlevel of Winston\u2019s head. He was shoeless; large, dirty toes were sticking out of\nthe holes in his socks. He was also several days away from a shave. A scrubby\nbeard covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air of ruffianism that\nwent oddly with his large weak frame and nervous movements.\n\nWinston roused hirnself a little from his lethargy. He must speak to Am-\npleforth, and risk the yell from the telescreen. It was even conceivable that\n\nAmpleforth was the bearer of the razor blade.\n\u2019Ampleforth,\u2019 he said.\n\n\n\nThere was no yell from the telescreen. Ampleforth paused, mildly startled.\nHis eyes focused themselves slowly on Winston.\n\u2019Ah, Smith!\u2019 he said. \u2019You too!\u2019\n\u2019What are you in for?\u2019\n\u2019To tell you the truth \u2014 \u2019 He sat down awkwardly on the bench opposite\nWinston. \u2019There is only one offence, is there not?\u2019 he said.\n\u2019And have you committed it?\u2019\n\u2019Apparently I have.\u2019\nHe put a hand to his forehead and pressed his temples for a moment, as\nthough trying to remember something.\n\u2019These things happen,\u2019 he began vaguely. \u2019I have been able to recall one\ninstance \u2014 a possible instance. It was an indiscretion, undoubtedly. We were\nproducing a definitive edition of the poems of Kipling. I allowed the word \u201dGod\u201d\nto remain at the end of a line. I could not help it!\u2019 he added almost indignantly,\nraising his face to look at Winston. \u2019It was impossible to change the line. The\nrhyme was \u201drod\u201d. Do you realize that there are only twelve rhymes to \u201drod\u201d\nin the entire language? For days I had racked my brains. There was no other\nrhyme.\u2019\nThe expression on his face changed. The annoyance passed out of it and for\na moment he looked almost pleased. A sort of intellectual warmth, the joy of\nthe pedant who has found out some useless fact, shone through the dirt and\nscrubby hair.\n\u2019Has it ever occurred to you,\u2019 he said, \u2019that the whole history of English\npoetry has been determined by the fact that the English language lacks rhymes?\u2019\nNo, that particular thought had never occurred to Winston. Nor, in the\ncircumstances, did it strike him as very important or interesting.\n\u2019Do you know what time of day it is?\u2019 he said.\nAmpleforth looked startled again. \u2019I had hardly thought about it. They\narrested me \u2014 it could be two days ago \u2014 perhaps three.\u2019 His eyes flitted round\nthe walls, as though he half expected to find a window somewhere. \u2019There is\nno difference between night and day in this place. I do not see how one can\ncalculate the time.\u2019\nThey talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without apparent reason,\na yell from the telescreen bade them be silent. Winston sat quietly, his hands\ncrossed. Ampleforth, too large to sit in comfort on the narrow bench, fidgeted\nfrom side to side, clasping his lank hands first round one knee, then round\nthe other. The telescreen barked at him to keep still. Time passed. Twenty\nminutes, an hour \u2014 it was difficult to judge. Once more there was a sound of\nboots outside. Winston\u2019s entrails contracted. Soon, very soon, perhaps in five\nminutes, perhaps now, the tramp of boots would mean that his own turn had\ncome.\nThe door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped into the cell. With\na brief movement of the hand he indicated Ampleforth.\n\u2019Room ,\u2019 he said.\n\nAmpleforth marched clumsily out between the guards, his face vaguely per-\nturbed, but uncomprehending.\n\nWhat seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Winston\u2019s belly had\nrevived. His mind sagged round and round on the same trick, like a ball falling\nagain and again into the same series of slots. He had only six thoughts. The\npain in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the screaming; O\u2019Brien ; Julia;\nthe razor blade. There was another spasm in his entrails, the heavy boots were\napproaching. As the door opened, the wave of air that it created brought in\na powerful smell of cold sweat. Parsons walked into the cell. He was wearing\nkhaki shorts and a sports-shirt.\nThis time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness.\n\u2019You here!\u2019 he said.\n\nParsons gave Winston a glance in which there was neither interest nor sur-\nprise, but only misery. He began walking jerkily up and down, evidently unable\n\nto keep still. Each time he straightened his pudgy knees it was apparent that\nthey were trembling. His eyes had a wide-open, staring look, as though he could\nnot prevent himself from gazing at something in the middle distance.\n\u2019What are you in for?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019Thoughtcrime!\u2019 said Parsons, almost blubbering. The tone of his voice\nimplied at once a complete admission of his guilt and a sort of incredulous horror\nthat such a word could be applied to himself. He paused opposite Winston and\nbegan eagerly appealing to him: \u2019You don\u2019t think they\u2019ll shoot me, do you,\nold chap? They don\u2019t shoot you if you haven\u2019t actually done anything \u2014 only\nthoughts, which you can\u2019t help? I know they give you a fair hearing. Oh, I\ntrust them for that! They\u2019ll know my record, won\u2019t they? You know what kind\nof chap I was. Not a bad chap in my way. Not brainy, of course, but keen. I\ntried to do my best for the Party, didn\u2019t I? I\u2019ll get off with five years, don\u2019t you\nthink? Or even ten years? A chap like me could make himself pretty useful in\na labour-camp. They wouldn\u2019t shoot me for going off the rails just once?\u2019\n\u2019Are you guilty?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019Of course I\u2019m guilty!\u2019 cried Parsons with a servile glance at the telescreen.\n\n\u2019You don\u2019t think the Party would arrest an innocent man, do you?\u2019 His frog-\nlike face grew calmer, and even took on a slightly sanctimonious expression.\n\n\u2019Thoughtcrime is a dreadful thing, old man,\u2019 he said sententiously. \u2019It\u2019s insid-\nious. It can get hold of you without your even knowing it. Do you know how\n\nit got hold of me? In my sleep! Yes, that\u2019s a fact. There I was, working away,\ntrying to do my bit \u2014 never knew I had any bad stuff in my mind at all. And\nthen I started talking in my sleep. Do you know what they heard me saying?\u2019\nHe sank his voice, like someone who is obliged for medical reasons to utter\nan obscenity.\n\u201dDown with Big Brother!\u201d Yes, I said that! Said it over and over again, it\nseems. Between you and me, old man, I\u2019m glad they got me before it went any\nfurther. Do you know what I\u2019m going to say to them when I go up before the\ntribunal? \u201dThank you,\u201d I\u2019m going to say, \u201dthank you for saving me before it\nwas too late.\u201d\n\u2019Who denounced you?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019It was my little daughter,\u2019 said Parsons with a sort of doleful pride. \u2019She\nlistened at the keyhole. Heard what I was saying, and nipped off to the patrols\nthe very next day. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh? I don\u2019t bear her any\ngrudge for it. In fact I\u2019m proud of her. It shows I brought her up in the right\nspirit, anyway.\u2019\nHe made a few more jerky movements up and down, several times, casting\na longing glance at the lavatory pan. Then he suddenly ripped down his shorts.\n\u2019Excuse me, old man,\u2019 he said. \u2019I can\u2019t help it. It\u2019s the waiting.\u2019\nHe plumped his large posterior into the lavatory pan. Winston covered his\nface with his hands.\n\n\u2019Smith!\u2019 yelled the voice from the telescreen. \u2019 Smith W! Uncover your\nface. No faces covered in the cells.\u2019\n\nWinston uncovered his face. Parsons used the lavatory, loudly and abun-\ndantly. It then turned out that the plug was defective and the cell stank abom-\ninably for hours afterwards.\n\nParsons was removed. More prisoners came and went, mysteriously. One, a\nwoman, was consigned to \u2019Room \u2019, and, Winston noticed, seemed to shrivel\nand turn a different colour when she heard the words. A time came when, if\nit had been morning when he was brought here, it would be afternoon; or if\nit had been afternoon, then it would be midnight. There were six prisoners in\nthe cell, men and women. All sat very still. Opposite Winston there sat a man\nwith a chinless, toothy face exactly like that of some large, harmless rodent.\nHis fat, mottled cheeks were so pouched at the bottom that it was difficult not\nto believe that he had little stores of food tucked away there. His pale-grey\neyes flitted timorously from face to face and turned quickly away again when\nhe caught anyone\u2019s eye.\nThe door opened, and another prisoner was brought in whose appearance\nsent a momentary chill through Winston. He was a commonplace, mean-looking\nman who might have been an engineer or technician of some kind. But what\nwas startling was the emaciation of his face. It was like a skull. Because of\nits thinness the mouth and eyes looked disproportionately large, and the eyes\nseemed filled with a murderous, unappeasable hatred of somebody or something.\nThe man sat down on the bench at a little distance from Winston. Winston\ndid not look at him again, but the tormented, skull-like face was as vivid in his\nmind as though it had been straight in front of his eyes. Suddenly he realized\nwhat was the matter. The man was dying of starvation. The same thought\nseemed to occur almost simultaneously to everyone in the cell. There was a\nvery faint stirring all the way round the bench. The eyes of the chinless man\nkept flitting towards the skull-faced man, then turning guiltily away, then being\ndragged back by an irresistible attraction. Presently he began to fidget on his\nseat. At last he stood up, waddled clumsily across the cell, dug down into the\npocket of his overalls, and, with an abashed air, held out a grimy piece of bread\nto the skull- faced man.\nThere was a furious, deafening roar from the telescreen. The chinless man\njumped in his tracks. The skull-faced man had quickly thrust his hands behind\nhis back, as though demonstrating to all the world that he refused the gift.\n\u2019Bumstead!\u2019 roared the voice. \u2019 Bumstead J.! Let fall that piece of\nbread!\u2019\nThe chinless man dropped the piece of bread on the floor.\n\u2019Remain standing where you are,\u2019 said the voice. \u2019Face the door. Make no\nmovement.\u2019\n\nThe chinless man obeyed. His large pouchy cheeks were quivering uncontrol-\nlably. The door clanged open. As the young officer entered and stepped aside,\n\nthere emerged from behind him a short stumpy guard with enormous arms and\nshoulders. He took his stand opposite the chinless man, and then, at a signal\nfrom the officer, let free a frightful blow, with all the weight of his body behind\nit, full in the chinless man\u2019s mouth. The force of it seemed almost to knock him\nclear of the floor. His body was flung across the cell and fetched up against the\nbase of the lavatory seat. For a moment he lay as though stunned, with dark\nblood oozing from his mouth and nose. A very faint whimpering or squeaking,\n\nwhich seemed unconscious, came out of him. Then he rolled over and raised\nhimself unsteadily on hands and knees. Amid a stream of blood and saliva, the\ntwo halves of a dental plate fell out of his mouth.\n\nThe prisoners sat very still, their hands crossed on their knees. The chin-\nless man climbed back into his place. Down one side of his face the flesh was\n\ndarkening. His mouth had swollen into a shapeless cherry-coloured mass with a\nblack hole in the middle of it.\nFrom time to time a little blood dripped on to the breast of his overalls. His\ngrey eyes still flitted from face to face, more guiltily than ever, as though he\nwere trying to discover how much the others despised him for his humiliation.\nThe door opened. With a small gesture the officer indicated the skull-faced\nman.\n\u2019Room ,\u2019 he said.\nThere was a gasp and a flurry at Winston\u2019s side. The man had actually\nflung himself on his knees on the floor, with his hand clasped together.\n\u2019Comrade! Officer!\u2019 he cried. \u2019You don\u2019t have to take me to that place!\nHaven\u2019t I told you everything already? What else is it you want to know?\nThere\u2019s nothing I wouldn\u2019t confess, nothing! Just tell me what it is and I\u2019ll\nconfess straight off. Write it down and I\u2019ll sign it \u2014 anything! Not room !\u2019\n\u2019Room ,\u2019 said the officer.\nThe man\u2019s face, already very pale, turned a colour Winston would not have\nbelieved possible. It was definitely, unmistakably, a shade of green.\n\u2019Do anything to me!\u2019 he yelled. \u2019You\u2019ve been starving me for weeks. Finish\nit off and let me die. Shoot me. Hang me. Sentence me to twenty-five years. Is\nthere somebody else you want me to give away? Just say who it is and I\u2019ll tell\nyou anything you want. I don\u2019t care who it is or what you do to them. I\u2019ve got\na wife and three children. The biggest of them isn\u2019t six years old. You can take\nthe whole lot of them and cut their throats in front of my eyes, and I\u2019ll stand\nby and watch it. But not Room !\u2019\n\u2019Room ,\u2019 said the officer.\nThe man looked frantically round at the other prisoners, as though with\nsome idea that he could put another victim in his own place. His eyes settled\non the smashed face of the chinless man. He flung out a lean arm.\n\u2019That\u2019s the one you ought to be taking, not me!\u2019 he shouted. \u2019You didn\u2019t\nhear what he was saying after they bashed his face. Give me a chance and I\u2019ll\ntell you every word of it. He\u2019s the one that\u2019s against the Party, not me.\u2019 The\nguards stepped forward. The man\u2019s voice rose to a shriek. \u2019You didn\u2019t hear\nhim!\u2019 he repeated. \u2019Something went wrong with the telescreen. He\u2019s the one\nyou want. Take him, not me!\u2019\nThe two sturdy guards had stooped to take him by the arms. But just at\nthis moment he flung himself across the floor of the cell and grabbed one of the\niron legs that supported the bench. He had set up a wordless howling, like an\nanimal. The guards took hold of him to wrench him loose, but he clung on with\nastonishing strength. For perhaps twenty seconds they were hauling at him.\nThe prisoners sat quiet, their hands crossed on their knees, looking straight in\nfront of them. The howling stopped; the man had no breath left for anything\nexcept hanging on. Then there was a different kind of cry. A kick from a guard\u2019s\nboot had broken the fingers of one of his hands. ", "test": "They dragged him to his feet.\n\u2019Room ,\u2019 said the officer.\n\nThe man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head sunken, nursing his\ncrushed hand, all the fight had gone out of him.\nA long time passed. If it had been midnight when the skull-faced man was\ntaken away, it was morning: if morning, it was afternoon. Winston was alone,\nand had been alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow bench was such\nthat often he got up and walked about, unreproved by the telescreen. The piece\nof bread still lay where the chinless man had dropped it. At the beginning it\nneeded a hard effort not to look at it, but presently hunger gave way to thirst.\nHis mouth was sticky and evil-tasting. The humming sound and the unvarying\nwhite light induced a sort of faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He\nwould get up because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable, and then\nwould sit down again almost at once because he was too dizzy to make sure of\nstaying on his feet. Whenever his physical sensations were a little under control\nthe terror returned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought of O\u2019Brien and\nthe razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor blade might arrive concealed\nin his food, if he were ever fed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere or\nother she was suffering perhaps far worse than he. She might be screaming with\npain at this moment. He thought: \u2019If I could save Julia by doubling my own\npain, would I do it? Yes, I would.\u2019 But that was merely an intellectual decision,\ntaken because he knew that he ought to take it. He did not feel it. In this place\nyou could not feel anything, except pain and foreknowledge of pain. Besides,\nwas it possible, when you were actually suffering it, to wish for any reason that\nyour own pain should increase? But that question was not answerable yet.\nThe boots were approaching again. The door opened. O\u2019Brien came in.\nWinston started to his feet. The shock of the sight had driven all caution out\nof him. For the first time in many years he forgot the presence of the telescreen.\n\u2019They\u2019ve got you too!\u2019 he cried.\n\u2019They got me a long time ago,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien with a mild, almost regretful\nirony. He stepped aside. from behind him there emerged a broad-chested guard\nwith a long black truncheon in his hand.\n\u2019You know him, Winston,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019Don\u2019t deceive yourself. You did\nknow it \u2014 you have always known it.\u2019\nYes, he saw now, he had always known it. But there was no time to think of\nthat. All he had eyes for was the truncheon in the guard\u2019s hand. It might fall\n\nanywhere; on the crown, on the tip of the ear, on the upper arm, on the elbow-\nThe elbow! He had slumped to his knees, almost paralysed, clasping the\n\nstricken elbow with his other hand. Everything had exploded into yellow light.\nInconceivable, inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain! The light\ncleared and he could see the other two looking down at him. The guard was\nlaughing at his contortions. One question at any rate was answered. Never, for\nany reason on earth, could you wish for an increase of pain. Of pain you could\nwish only one thing: that it should stop. Nothing in the world was so bad as\nphysical pain. In the face of pain there are no heroes, no heroes, he thought\nover and over as he writhed on the floor, clutching uselessly at his disabled left\narm.\n\n \n\nHe was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it was higher\noff the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he could not\nmove. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face. O\u2019Brien\nwas standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At the other side of him\nstood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic syringe.\nEven after his eyes were open he took in his surroundings only gradually.\nHe had the impression of swimming up into this room from some quite different\nworld, a sort of underwater world far beneath it. How long he had been down\nthere he did not know. Since the moment when they arrested him he had not\nseen darkness or daylight. Besides, his memories were not continuous. There\nhad been times when consciousness, even the sort of consciousness that one\nhas in sleep, had stopped dead and started again after a blank interval. But\nwhether the intervals were of days or weeks or only seconds, there was no way\nof knowing.\nWith that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had started. Later he\nwas to realize that all that then happened was merely a preliminary, a routine\ninterrogation to which nearly all prisoners were subjected. There was a long\nrange of crimes \u2014 espionage, sabotage, and the like \u2014 to which everyone had\nto confess as a matter of course. The confession was a formality, though the\ntorture was real. How many times he had been beaten, how long the beatings\nhad continued, he could not remember. Always there were five or six men in\nblack uniforms at him simultaneously. Sometimes it was fists, sometimes it was\ntruncheons, sometimes it was steel rods, sometimes it was boots. There were\ntimes when he rolled about the floor, as shameless as an animal, writhing his\nbody this way and that in an endless, hopeless effort to dodge the kicks, and\nsimply inviting more and yet more kicks, in his ribs, in his belly, on his elbows,\non his shins, in his groin, in his testicles, on the bone at the base of his spine.\nThere were times when it went on and on until the cruel, wicked, unforgivable\nthing seemed to him not that the guards continued to beat him but that he\ncould not force hirnself into losing consciousness. There were times when his\nnerve so forsook him that he began shouting for mercy even before the beating\nbegan, when the mere sight of a fist drawn back for a blow was enough to make\nhim pour forth a confession of real and imaginary crimes. There were other\ntimes when he started out with the resolve of confessing nothing, when every\nword had to be forced out of him between gasps of pain, and there were times\nwhen he feebly tried to compromise, when he said to himself: \u2019I will confess, but\nnot yet. I must hold out till the pain becomes unbearable. Three more kicks,\ntwo more kicks, and then I will tell them what they want.\u2019 Sometimes he was\nbeaten till he could hardly stand, then flung like a sack of potatoes on to the\nstone floor of a cell, left to recuperate for a few hours, and then taken out and\nbeaten again. There were also longer periods of recovery. He remembered them\ndimly, because they were spent chiefly in sleep or stupor. He remembered a cell\nwith a plank bed, a sort of shelf sticking out from the wall, and a tin wash-\nbasin, and meals of hot soup and bread and sometimes coffee. He remembered\n\na surly barber arriving to scrape his chin and crop his hair, and businesslike,\nunsympathetic men in white coats feeling his pulse, tapping his reflexes, turning\nup his eyelids, running harsh fingers over him in search for broken bones, and\nshooting needles into his arm to make him sleep.\nThe beatings grew less frequent, and became mainly a threat, a horror to\n\nwhich he could be sent back at any moment when his answers were unsatis-\nfactory. His questioners now were not ruffians in black uniforms but Party\n\nintellectuals, little rotund men with quick movements and flashing spectacles,\nwho worked on him in relays over periods which lasted \u2014 he thought, he could\nnot be sure \u2014 ten or twelve hours at a stretch. These other questioners saw\nto it that he was in constant slight pain, but it was not chiefly pain that they\nrelied on. They slapped his face, wrung his ears. pulled his hair, made him\nstand on one leg, refused him leave to urinate, shone glaring lights in his face\nuntil his eyes ran with water; but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him\nand destroy his power of arguing and reasoning. Their real weapon was the\nmerciless questioning that went on and on, hour after hour, tripping him up,\nlaying traps for him, twisting everything that he said, convicting him at every\nstep of lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much from shame\nas from nervous fatigue Sometimes he would weep half a dozen times in a single\nsession. Most of the time they screamed abuse at him and threatened at every\nhesitation to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes they would\nsuddenly change their tune, call him comrade, appeal to him in the name of\nIngsoc and Big Brother, and ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not\nenough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil he had done.\nWhen his nerves were in rags after hours of questioning, even this appeal could\nreduce him to snivelling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down\nmore completely than the boots and fists of the guards. He became simply a\nmouth that uttered, a hand that signed, whatever was demanded of him. His\nsole concern was to find out what they wanted him to confess, and then confess\nit quickly, before the bullying started anew. He confessed to the assassination of\neminent Party members, the distribution of seditious pamphlets, embezzlement\nof public funds, sale of military secrets, sabotage of every kind. He confessed\nthat he had been a spy in the pay of the Eastasian government as far back as\n. He confessed that he was a religious believer, an admirer of capitalism,\nand a sexual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his wife, although\nhe knew, and his questioners must have known, that his wife was still alive.\nHe confessed that for years he had been in personal touch with Goldstein and\nhad been a member of an underground organization which had included almost\nevery human being he had ever known. It was easier to confess everything and\nimplicate everybody. Besides, in a sense it was all true. It was true that he\nhad been the enemy of the Party, and in the eyes of the Party there was no\ndistinction between the thought and the deed.\nThere were also memories of another kind. They stood out in his mind\ndisconnectedly, like pictures with blackness all round them.\nHe was in a cell which might have been either dark or light, because he could\nsee nothing except a pair of eyes. Near at hand some kind of instrument was\nticking slowly and regularly. The eyes grew larger and more luminous. Suddenly\nhe floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and was swallowed up.\nHe was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under dazzling lights. A\nman in a white coat was reading the dials. There was a tramp of heavy boots\noutside. The door clanged open. The waxed-faced officer marched in, followed\nby two guards.\n\u2019Room ,\u2019 said the officer.\nThe man in the white coat did not turn round. He did not look at Winston\neither; he was looking only at the dials.\nHe was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometre wide, full of glorious,\ngolden light, roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions at the top of\nhis voice. He was confessing everything, even the things he had succeeded in\nholding back under the torture. He was relating the entire history of his life\nto an audience who knew it already. With him were the guards, the other\nquestioners, the men in white coats, O\u2019Brien, Julia, Mr Charrington, all rolling\ndown the corridor together and shouting with laughter. Some dreadful thing\nwhich had lain embedded in the future had somehow been skipped over and had\nnot happened. Everything was all right, there was no more pain, the last detail\nof his life was laid bare, understood, forgiven.\nHe was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he had\nheard O\u2019Brien\u2019s voice. All through his interrogation, although he had never\nseen him, he had had the feeling that O\u2019Brien was at his elbow, just out of\nsight. It was O\u2019Brien who was directing everything. It was he who set the\nguards on to Winston and who prevented them from killing him. It was he\nwho decided when Winston should scream with pain, when he should have a\nrespite, when he should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs should\nbe pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and suggested the\nanswers. He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was the inquisitor,\nhe was the friend. And once \u2014 Winston could not remember whether it was\nin drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment of wakefulness \u2014 a\nvoice murmured in his ear: \u2019Don\u2019t worry, Winston; you are in my keeping. For\nseven years I have watched over you. Now the turning-point has come. I shall\nsave you, I shall make you perfect.\u2019 He was not sure whether it was O\u2019Brien\u2019s\nvoice; but it was the same voice that had said to him, \u2019We shall meet in the\nplace where there is no darkness,\u2019 in that other dream, seven years ago.\nHe did not remember any ending to his interrogation. There was a period\nof blackness and then the cell, or room, in which he now was had gradually\nmaterialized round him. He was almost flat on his back, and unable to move.\nHis body was held down at every essential point. Even the back of his head\nwas gripped in some manner. O\u2019Brien was looking down at him gravely and\nrather sadly. His face, seen from below, looked coarse and worn, with pouches\nunder the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin. He was older than Winston\nhad thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty. Under his hand there was\na dial with a lever on top and figures running round the face.\n\u2019I told you,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, \u2019that if we met again it would be here.\u2019\n\u2019Yes,\u2019 said Winston.\nWithout any warning except a slight movement of O\u2019Brien\u2019s hand, a wave of\npain flooded his body. It was a frightening pain, because he could not see what\nwas happening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was being done\nto him. He did not know whether the thing was really happening, or whether\nthe effect was electrically produced; but his body was being wrenched out of\nshape, the joints were being slowly torn apart. Although the pain had brought\nthe sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was the fear that his backbone\nwas about to snap. He set his teeth and breathed hard through his nose, trying\nto keep silent as long as possible.\n\u2019You are afraid,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, watching his face, \u2019that in another moment\nsomething is going to break. Your especial fear is that it will be your backbone.\nYou have a vivid mental picture of the vertebrae snapping apart and the spinal\nfluid dripping out of them. That is what you are thinking, is it not, Winston?\u2019\nWinston did not answer. O\u2019Brien drew back the lever on the dial. The wave\nof pain receded almost as quickly as it had come.\n\u2019That was forty,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019You can see that the numbers on this dial\nrun up to a hundred. Will you please remember, throughout our conversation,\nthat I have it in my power to inflict pain on you at any moment and to whatever\ndegree I choose? If you tell me any lies, or attempt to prevaricate in any way,\nor even fall below your usual level of intelligence, you will cry out with pain,\ninstantly. Do you understand that?\u2019\n\u2019Yes,\u2019 said Winston.\n\nO\u2019Brien\u2019s manner became less severe. He resettled his spectacles thought-\nfully, and took a pace or two up and down. When he spoke his voice was gentle\n\nand patient. He had the air of a doctor, a teacher, even a priest, anxious to\nexplain and persuade rather than to punish.\n\u2019I am taking trouble with you, Winston,\u2019 he said, \u2019because you are worth\ntrouble. You know perfectly well what is the matter with you. You have known\nit for years, though you have fought against the knowledge. You are mentally\nderanged. You suffer from a defective memory. You are unable to remember\nreal events and you persuade yourself that you remember other events which\nnever happened. Fortunately it is curable. You have never cured yourself of it,\nbecause you did not choose to. There was a small effort of the will that you\nwere not ready to make. Even now, I am well aware, you are clinging to your\ndisease under the impression that it is a virtue. Now we will take an example.\nAt this moment, which power is Oceania at war with?\u2019\n\u2019When I was arrested, Oceania was at war with Eastasia.\n\u2019With Eastasia. Good. And Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia,\nhas it not?\u2019\nWinston drew in his breath. He opened his mouth to speak and then did\nnot speak. He could not take his eyes away from the dial.\n\u2019The truth, please, Winston. Your truth. Tell me what you think you\nremember.\u2019\n\u2019I remember that until only a week before I was arrested, we were not at\nwar with Eastasia at all. We were in alliance with them. The war was against\nEurasia. That had lasted for four years. Before that \u2014 \u2019\nO\u2019Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand.\n\u2019Another example,\u2019 he said. \u2019Some years ago you had a very serious delusion\nindeed. You believed that three men, three one-time Party members named\nJones, Aaronson, and Rutherford men who were executed for treachery and\nsabotage after making the fullest possible confession \u2014 were not guilty of the\ncrimes they were charged with. You believed that you had seen unmistakable\ndocumentary evidence proving that their confessions were false. There was a\ncertain photograph about which you had a hallucination. You believed that you\nhad actually held it in your hands. It was a photograph something like this.\u2019\nAn oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between O\u2019Brien\u2019s fingers. For\nperhaps five seconds it was within the angle of Winston\u2019s vision. It was a\nphotograph, and there was no question of its identity. It was the photograph.\nIt was another copy of the photograph of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford at\nthe party function in New York, which he had chanced upon eleven years ago\nand promptly destroyed. For only an instant it was before his eyes, then it was\nout of sight again. But he had seen it, unquestionably he had seen it! He made\na desperate, agonizing effort to wrench the top half of his body free. It was\nimpossible to move so much as a centimetre in any direction. For the moment\nhe had even forgotten the dial. All he wanted was to hold the photograph in\nhis fingers again, or at least to see it.\n\u2019It exists!\u2019 he cried.\n\u2019No,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien.\nHe stepped across the room. There was a memory hole in the opposite wall.\nO\u2019Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the frail slip of paper was whirling away on\nthe current of warm air; it was vanishing in a flash of flame. O\u2019Brien turned\naway from the wall.\n\u2019Ashes,\u2019 he said. \u2019Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does not exist. It\nnever existed.\u2019\n\u2019But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I remember it. You\nremember it.\u2019\n\u2019I do not remember it,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien.\nWinston\u2019s heart sank. That was doublethink. He had a feeling of deadly\nhelplessness. If he could have been certain that O\u2019Brien was lying, it would not\nhave seemed to matter. But it was perfectly possible that O\u2019Brien had really\nforgotten the photograph. And if so, then already he would have forgotten his\ndenial of remembering it, and forgotten the act of forgetting. How could one be\nsure that it was simple trickery? Perhaps that lunatic dislocation in the mind\ncould really happen: that was the thought that defeated him.\nO\u2019Brien was looking down at him speculatively. More than ever he had the\nair of a teacher taking pains with a wayward but promising child.\n\u2019There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the past,\u2019 he said. \u2019Repeat\nit, if you please.\u2019\n\u201dWho controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls\nthe past,\u201d repeated Winston obediently.\n\u201dWho controls the present controls the past,\u201d said O\u2019Brien, nodding his\nhead with slow approval. \u2019Is it your opinion, Winston, that the past has real\nexistence?\u2019\nAgain the feeling of helplessness descended upon Winston. His eyes flitted\ntowards the dial. He not only did not know whether \u2019yes\u2019 or \u2019no\u2019 was the answer\nthat would save him from pain; he did not even know which answer he believed\nto be the true one.\nO\u2019Brien smiled faintly. \u2019You are no metaphysician, Winston,\u2019 he said. \u2019Until\nthis moment you had never considered what is meant by existence. I will put it\nmore precisely. Does the past exist concretely, in space? Is there somewhere or\nother a place, a world of solid objects, where the past is still happening?\u2019\n\n\n\u2019No.\u2019\n\u2019Then where does the past exist, if at all?\u2019\n\u2019In records. It is written down.\u2019\n\u2019In records. And- ?\u2019\n\u2019In the mind. In human memories.\n\u2019In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all records, and we\ncontrol all memories. Then we control the past, do we not?\u2019\n\u2019But how can you stop people remembering things?\u2019 cried Winston again\nmomentarily forgetting the dial. \u2019It is involuntary. It is outside oneself. How\ncan you control memory? You have not controlled mine!\u2019\nO\u2019Brien\u2019s manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial.\n\u2019On the contrary,\u2019 he said, \u2019you have not controlled it. That is what has\n\nbrought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-\ndiscipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of\n\nsanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined\nmind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective,\nexternal, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality\nis self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something,\nyou assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you,\nWinston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and\nnowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in\nany case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and\nimmortal. Whatever the Party holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible\nto see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact\nthat you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an\neffort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.\u2019\nHe paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying\nto sink in.\n\u2019Do you remember,\u2019 he went on, \u2019 writing in your diary, \u201dFreedom is the\nfreedom to say that two plus two make four\u201d?\u2019\n\u2019Yes,\u2019 said Winston.\nO\u2019Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb\nhidden and the four fingers extended.\n\u2019How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?\n\u2019Four.\u2019\n\u2019And if the party says that it is not four but five \u2014 then how many?\u2019\n\u2019Four.\u2019\nThe word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to\nfifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston\u2019s body. The air tore into\nhis lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he\ncould not stop. O\u2019Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew\nback the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.\n\u2019How many fingers, Winston?\u2019\n\u2019Four.\u2019\nThe needle went up to sixty.\n\u2019How many fingers, Winston?\u2019\n\u2019Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!\u2019\nThe needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern\nface and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood up before his eyes\nlike pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four.\n\u2019How many fingers, Winston?\u2019\n\u2019Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!\u2019\n\u2019How many fingers, Winston?\u2019\n\u2019Five! Five! Five!\u2019\n\u2019No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are four.\nHow many fingers, please?\u2019\n\u2019Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!\nAbruptly he was sitting up with O\u2019Brien\u2019s arm round his shoulders. He\nhad perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his\nbody down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his\nteeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For a moment\nhe clung to O\u2019Brien like a baby, curiously comforted by the heavy arm round\nhis shoulders. He had the feeling that O\u2019Brien was his protector, that the pain\nwas something that came from outside, from some other source, and that it was\nO\u2019Brien who would save him from it.\n\u2019You are a slow learner, Winston,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien gently.\n\u2019How can I help it?\u2019 he blubbered. \u2019How can I help seeing what is in front\nof my eyes? Two and two are four.\nSometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three.\nSometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is not easy to\nbecome sane.\u2019\nHe laid Winston down on the bed. The grip of his limbs tightened again, but\nthe pain had ebbed away and the trembling had stopped, leaving him merely\nweak and cold. O\u2019Brien motioned with his head to the man in the white coat,\nwho had stood immobile throughout the proceedings. The man in the white\ncoat bent down and looked closely into Winston\u2019s eyes, felt his pulse, laid an\near against his chest, tapped here and there, then he nodded to O\u2019Brien.\n\u2019Again,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien.\nThe pain flowed into Winston\u2019s body. The needle must be at seventy,\nseventy-five. He had shut his eyes this time. He knew that the fingers were\nstill there, and still four. All that mattered was somehow to stay alive until the\nspasm was over. He had ceased to notice whether he was crying out or not. The\npain lessened again. He opened his eyes. O\u2019Brien had drawn back the lever.\n\u2019How many fingers, Winston?\u2019\n\u2019Four. I suppose there are four. I would see five if I could. I am trying to\nsee five.\u2019\n\u2019Which do you wish: to persuade me that you see five, or really to see them?\u2019\n\u2019Really to see them.\u2019\n\u2019Again,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien.\nPerhaps the needle was eighty \u2014 ninety. Winston could not intermittently\nremember why the pain was happening. Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of\nfingers seemed to be moving in a sort of dance, weaving in and out, disappearing\nbehind one another and reappearing again. He was trying to count them, he\ncould not remember why. He knew only that it was impossible to count them,\nand that this was somehow due to the mysterious identity between five and\nfour. The pain died down again. When he opened his eyes it was to find that\nhe was still seeing the same thing. Innumerable fingers, like moving trees, were\nstill streaming past in either direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut his eyes\nagain.\n\u2019How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?\u2019\n\u2019I don\u2019t know. I don\u2019t know. You will kill me if you do that again. Four,\nfive, six \u2014 in all honesty I don\u2019t know.\u2019\n\u2019Better,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien.\n\nA needle slid into Winston\u2019s arm. Almost in the same instant a blissful, heal-\ning warmth spread all through his body. The pain was already half-forgotten.\n\nHe opened his eyes and looked up gratefully at O\u2019Brien. At sight of the heavy,\nlined face, so ugly and so intelligent, his heart seemed to turn over. If he could\nhave moved he would have stretched out a hand and laid it on O\u2019Brien arm. He\nhad never loved him so deeply as at this moment, and not merely because he\nhad stopped the pain. The old feeling, that it bottom it did not matter whether\nO\u2019Brien was a friend or an enemy, had come back. O\u2019Brien was a person who\ncould be talked to. Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be\nunderstood. O\u2019Brien had tortured him to the edge of lunacy, and in a little\nwhile, it was certain, he would send him to his death. It made no difference. In\nsome sense that went deeper than friendship, they were intimates: somewhere\nor other, although the actual words might never be spoken, there was a place\nwhere they could meet and talk. O\u2019Brien was looking down at him with an\nexpression which suggested that the same thought might be in his own mind.\nWhen he spoke it was in an easy, conversational tone.\n\u2019Do you know where you are, Winston?\u2019 he said.\n\u2019I don\u2019t know. I can guess. In the Ministry of Love.\u2019\n\u2019Do you know how long you have been here?\u2019\n\u2019I don\u2019t know. Days, weeks, months \u2014 I think it is months.\u2019\n\u2019And why do you imagine that we bring people to this place?\u2019\n\u2019To make them confess.\u2019\n\u2019No, that is not the reason. Try again.\u2019\n\u2019To punish them.\u2019\n\u2019No!\u2019 exclaimed O\u2019Brien. His voice had changed extraordinarily, and his face\nhad suddenly become both stern and animated. \u2019No! Not merely to extract your\nconfession, not to punish you. Shall I tell you why we have brought you here? To\ncure you! To make you sane! Will you understand, Winston, that no one whom\nwe bring to this place ever leaves our hands uncured? We are not interested in\nthose stupid crimes that you have committed. The Party is not interested in\nthe overt act: the thought is all we care about. We do not merely destroy our\nenemies, we change them. Do you understand what I mean by that?\u2019\nHe was bending over Winston. His face looked enormous because of its\nnearness, and hideously ugly because it was seen from below. Moreover it\nwas filled with a sort of exaltation, a lunatic intensity. Again Winston\u2019s heart\nshrank. If it had been possible he would have cowered deeper into the bed. He\nfelt certain that O\u2019Brien was about to twist the dial out of sheer wantonness.\nAt this moment, however, O\u2019Brien turned away. He took a pace or two up and\ndown. Then he continued less vehemently:\n\u2019The first thing for you to understand is that in this place there are no\nmartyrdoms. You have read of the religious persecutions of the past. In the\nMiddle Ages there was the Inquisitlon. It was a failure. It set out to eradicate\nheresy, and ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it burned at the stake,\nthousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because the Inquisition killed\nits enemies in the open, and killed them while they were still unrepentant: in\nfact, it killed them because they were unrepentant. Men were dying because\nthey would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally all the glory belonged\nto the victim and all the shame to the Inquisitor who burned him. Later, in\nthe twentieth century, there were the totalitarians, as they were called. There\nwere the German Nazis and the Russian Communists. The Russians persecuted\nheresy more cruelly than the Inquisition had done. And they imagined that\nthey had learned from the mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that\none must not make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims to public trial,\nthey deliberately set themselves to destroy their dignity. They wore them down\nby torture and solitude until they were despicable, cringing wretches, confessing\nwhatever was put into their mouths, covering themselves with abuse, accusing\nand sheltering behind one another, whimpering for mercy. And yet after only a\nfew years the same thing had happened over again. The dead men had become\nmartyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once again, why was it? In the\nfirst place, because the confessions that they had made were obviously extorted\nand untrue. We do not make mistakes of that kind. All the confessions that\nare uttered here are true. We make them true. And above all we do not allow\nthe dead to rise up against us. You must stop imagining that posterity will\nvindicate you, Winston. Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted\nclean out from the stream of history. We shall turn you into gas and pour you\ninto the stratosphere. Nothing will remain of you, not a name in a register, not\na memory in a living brain. You will be annihilated in the past as well as in the\nfuture. You will never have existed.\u2019\n\nThen why bother to torture me? thought Winston, with a momentary bit-\nterness. O\u2019Brien checked his step as though Winston had uttered the thought\n\naloud. His large ugly face came nearer, with the eyes a little narrowed.\n\u2019You are thinking,\u2019 he said, \u2019that since we intend to destroy you utterly, so\nthat nothing that you say or do can make the smallest difference \u2014 in that case,\nwhy do we go to the trouble of interrogating you first? That is what you were\nthinking, was it not?\u2019\n\u2019Yes,\u2019 said Winston.\nO\u2019Brien smiled slightly. \u2019You are a flaw in the pattern, Winston. You are a\nstain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that we are different\nfrom the persecutors of the past? We are not content with negative obedience,\nnor even with the most abject submission. When finally you surrender to us,\nit must be of your own free will. We do not destroy the heretic because he\nresists us: so long as he resists us we never destroy him. We convert him, we\ncapture his inner mind, we reshape him. We burn all evil and all illusion out\nof him; we bring him over to our side, not in appearance, but genuinely, heart\nand soul. We make him one of ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable\nto us that an erroneous thought should exist anywhere in the world, however\nsecret and powerless it may be. Even in the instant of death we cannot permit\nany deviation. In the old days the heretic walked to the stake still a heretic,\nproclaiming his heresy, exulting in it. Even the victim of the Russian purges\ncould carry rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked down the passage\nwaiting for the bullet. But we make the brain perfect before we blow it out.\nThe command of the old despotisms was \u201dThou shalt not\u201d. The command of the\ntotalitarians was \u201dThou shalt\u201d. Our command is \u201dThou art\u201d. No one whom we\nbring to this place ever stands out against us. Everyone is washed clean. Even\nthose three miserable traitors in whose innocence you once believed \u2014 Jones,\nAaronson, and Rutherford \u2014 in the end we broke them down. I took part\nin their interrogation myself. I saw them gradually worn down, whimpering,\ngrovelling, weeping \u2014 and in the end it was not with pain or fear, only with\npenitence. By the time we had finished with them they were only the shells of\nmen. There was nothing left in them except sorrow for what they had done, and\nlove of Big Brother. It was touching to see how they loved him. They begged\nto be shot quickly, so that they could die while their minds were still clean.\u2019\n\nHis voice had grown almost dreamy. The exaltation, the lunatic enthusi-\nasm, was still in his face. He is not pretending, thought Winston, he is not\n\na hypocrite, he believes every word he says. What most oppressed him was\nthe consciousness of his own intellectual inferiority. He watched the heavy yet\ngraceful form strolling to and fro, in and out of the range of his vision. O\u2019Brien\nwas a being in all ways larger than himself. There was no idea that he had\never had, or could have, that O\u2019Brien had not long ago known, examined, and\nrejected. His mind contained Winston\u2019s mind. But in that case how could it be\ntrue that O\u2019Brien was mad? It must be he, Winston, who was mad. O\u2019Brien\nhalted and looked down at him. His voice had grown stern again.\n\u2019Do not imagine that you will save yourself, Winston, however completely\nyou surrender to us. No one who has once gone astray is ever spared. And even\nif we chose to let you live out the natural term of your life, still you would never\nescape from us. What happens to you here is for ever. Understand that in\nadvance. We shall crush you down to the point from which there is no coming\nback. Things will happen to you from which you could not recover, if you lived\na thousand years. Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling.\nEverything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love,\nor friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity.\nYou will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with\nourselves.\u2019\nHe paused and signed to the man in the white coat. Winston was aware\nof some heavy piece of apparatus being pushed into place behind his head.\nO\u2019Brien had sat down beside the bed, so that his face was almost on a level\nwith Winston\u2019s.\n\u2019Three thousand,\u2019 he said, speaking over Winston\u2019s head to the man in the\nwhite coat.\n\nTwo soft pads, which felt slightly moist, clamped themselves against Win-\nston\u2019s temples. He quailed. There was pain coming, a new kind of pain. O\u2019Brien\n\nlaid a hand reassuringly, almost kindly, on his.\n\u2019This time it will not hurt,\u2019 he said. \u2019Keep your eyes fixed on mine.\u2019\nAt this moment there was a devastating explosion, or what seemed like an\nexplosion, though it was not certain whether there was any noise. There was\nundoubtedly a blinding flash of light. Winston was not hurt, only prostrated.\nAlthough he had already been lying on his back when the thing happened, he\nhad a curious feeling that he had been knocked into that position. A terrific\npainless blow had flattened him out. Also something had happened inside his\nhead. As his eyes regained their focus he remembered who he was, and where\nhe was, and recognized the face that was gazing into his own; but somewhere\nor other there was a large patch of emptiness, as though a piece had been taken\nout of his brain.\n\u2019It will not last,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019Look me in the eyes. What country is\nOceania at war with?\u2019\nWinston thought. He knew what was meant by Oceania and that he himself\nwas a citizen of Oceania. He also remembered Eurasia and Eastasia; but who\nwas at war with whom he did not know. In fact he had not been aware that\nthere was any war.\n\u2019I don\u2019t remember.\u2019\n\u2019Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Do you remember that now?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. Since the beginning of your\nlife, since the beginning of the Party, since the beginning of history, the war has\ncontinued without a break, always the same war. Do you remember that?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019 Eleven years ago you created a legend about three men who had been\ncondemned to death for treachery. You pretended that you had seen a piece of\npaper which proved them innocent. No such piece of paper ever existed. You\ninvented it, and later you grew to believe in it. You remember now the very\nmoment at which you first invented it. Do you remember that?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019Just now I held up the fingers of my hand to you. You saw five fingers. Do\nyou remember that?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\nO\u2019Brien held up the fingers of his left hand, with the thumb concealed.\n\u2019There are five fingers there. Do you see five fingers?\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\nAnd he did see them, for a fleeting instant, before the scenery of his mind\nchanged. He saw five fingers, and there was no deformity. Then everything\nwas normal again, and the old fear, the hatred, and the bewilderment came\ncrowding back again. But there had been a moment \u2014 he did not know how\nlong, thirty seconds, perhaps \u2014 of luminous certainty, when each new suggestion\nof O\u2019Brien\u2019s had filled up a patch of emptiness and become absolute truth, and\nwhen two and two could have been three as easily as five, if that were what was\nneeded. It had faded but before O\u2019Brien had dropped his hand; but though\nhe could not recapture it, he could remember it, as one remembers a vivid\nexperience at some period of one\u2019s life when one was in effect a different person.\n\u2019You see now,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, \u2019that it is at any rate possible.\u2019\n\u2019Yes,\u2019 said Winston.\nO\u2019Brien stood up with a satisfied air. Over to his left Winston saw the man\nin the white coat break an ampoule and draw back the plunger of a syringe.\nO\u2019Brien turned to Winston with a smile. In almost the old manner he resettled\nhis spectacles on his nose.\n\u2019Do you remember writing in your diary,\u2019 he said, \u2019that it did not matter\nwhether I was a friend or an enemy, since I was at least a person who understood\nyou and could be talked to? You were right. I enjoy talking to you. Your mind\nappeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you happen to be insane.\nBefore we bring the session to an end you can ask me a few questions, if you\nchoose.\u2019\n\u2019Any question I like?\u2019\n\u2019Anything.\u2019 He saw that Winston\u2019s eyes were upon the dial. \u2019It is switched\noff. What is your first question?\u2019\n\u2019What have you done with Julia?\u2019 said Winston.\nO\u2019Brien smiled again. \u2019She betrayed you, Winston. Immediately-unreservedly.\nI have seldom seen anyone come over to us so promptly. You would hardly\nrecognize her if you saw her. All her rebelliousness, her deceit, her folly, her\ndirty-mindedness \u2014 everything has been burned out of her. It was a perfect\nconversion, a textbook case.\u2019\n\u2019You tortured her?\u2019\nO\u2019Brien left this unanswered. \u2019Next question,\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Does Big Brother exist?\u2019\n\u2019Of course he exists. The Party exists. Big Brother is the embodiment of\nthe Party.\u2019\n\u2019Does he exist in the same way as I exist?\n\u2019You do not exist,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien.\nOnce again the sense of helplessness assailed him. He knew, or he could\n\nimagine, the arguments which proved his own nonexistence; but they were non-\nsense, they were only a play on words. Did not the statement, \u2019You do not exist\u2019,\n\ncontain a logical absurdity? But what use was it to say so? His mind shrivelled\nas he thought of the unanswerable, mad arguments with which O\u2019Brien would\ndemolish him.\n\u2019I think I exist,\u2019 he said wearily. \u2019I am conscious of my own identity. I was\nborn and I shall die. I have arms and legs. I occupy a particular point in space.\nNo other solid object can occupy the same point simultaneously. In that sense,\ndoes Big Brother exist?\u2019\n\u2019It is of no importance. He exists.\u2019\n\u2019Will Big Brother ever die?\u2019\n\u2019Of course not. How could he die? Next question.\u2019\n\u2019Does the Brotherhood exist?\u2019\n\u2019That, Winston, you will never know. If we choose to set you free when we\nhave finished with you, and if you live to be ninety years old, still you will never\nlearn whether the answer to that question is Yes or No. As long as you live it\nwill be an unsolved riddle in your mind.\u2019\nWinston lay silent. His breast rose and fell a little faster. He still had not\nasked the question that had come into his mind the first. He had got to ask it,\nand yet it was as though his tongue would not utter it. There was a trace of\namusement in O\u2019Brien\u2019s face. Even his spectacles seemed to wear an ironical\ngleam. He knows, thought Winston suddenly, he knows what I am going to ask!\nAt the thought the words burst out of him:\n\u2019What is in Room ?\u2019\nThe expression on O\u2019Brien\u2019s face did not change. He answered drily:\n\u2019You know what is in Room , Winston. Everyone knows what is in Room\n.\u2019\nHe raised a finger to the man in the white coat. Evidently the session was\nat an end. A needle jerked into Winston\u2019s arm. He sank almost instantly into\ndeep sleep.\n\n \n\n\u2019There are three stages in your reintegration,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019There is learning,\nthere is understanding, and there is acceptance. It is time for you to enter upon\nthe second stage.\u2019\nAs always, Winston was lying flat on his back. But of late his bonds were\nlooser. They still held him to the bed, but he could move his knees a little\nand could turn his head from side to side and raise his arms from the elbow.\nThe dial, also, had grown to be less of a terror. He could evade its pangs if he\nwas quick-witted enough: it was chiefly when he showed stupidity that O\u2019Brien\npulled the lever. Sometimes they got through a whole session without use of\nthe dial. He could not remember how many sessions there had been. The whole\nprocess seemed to stretch out over a long, indefinite time \u2014 weeks, possibly\n\u2014 and the intervals between the sessions might sometimes have been days,\nsometimes only an hour or two.\n\u2019As you lie there,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, \u2019you have often wondered you have even\nasked me \u2014 why the Ministry of Love should expend so much time and trouble\non you. And when you were free you were puzzled by what was essentially\nthe same question. You could grasp the mechanics of the Society you lived in,\nbut not its underlying motives. Do you remember writing in your diary, \u201dI\nunderstand how: I do not understand why\u201d? It was when you thought about\n\u201dwhy\u201d that you doubted your own sanity. You have read the book, Goldstein\u2019s\nbook, or parts of it, at least. Did it tell you anything that you did not know\nalready?\u2019\n\u2019You have read it?\u2019 said Winston.\n\u2019I wrote it. That is to say, I collaborated in writing it. No book is produced\nindividually, as you know.\u2019\n\u2019Is it true, what it says?\u2019\n\u2019A description, yes. The programme it sets forth is nonsense. The secret\naccumulation of knowledge \u2014 a gradual spread of enlightenment \u2014 ultimately\na proletarian rebellion \u2014 the overthrow of the Party. You foresaw yourself that\nthat was what it would say. It is all nonsense. The proletarians will never revolt,\nnot in a thousand years or a million. They cannot. I do not have to tell you the\nreason: you know it already. If you have ever cherished any dreams of violent\ninsurrection, you must abandon them. There is no way in which the Party can\nbe overthrown. The rule of the Party is for ever. Make that the starting-point\nof your thoughts.\u2019\nHe came closer to the bed. \u2019For ever!\u2019 he repeated. \u2019And now let us get\nback to the question of \u201dhow\u201d and \u201dwhy\u201d. You understand well enough how the\nParty maintains itself in power. Now tell me why we cling to power. What is\nour motive? Why should we want power? Go on, speak,\u2019 he added as Winston\nremained silent.\nNevertheless Winston did not speak for another moment or two. A feeling\nof weariness had overwhelmed him. The faint, mad gleam of enthusiasm had\ncome back into O\u2019Brien\u2019s face. He knew in advance what O\u2019Brien would say.\nThat the Party did not seek power for its own ends, but only for the good\nof the majority. That it sought power because men in the mass were frail\ncowardly creatures who could not endure liberty or face the truth, and must\nbe ruled over and systematically deceived by others who were stronger than\nthemselves. That the choice for mankind lay between freedom and happiness,\nand that, for the great bulk of mankind, happiness was better. That the party\nwas the eternal guardian of the weak, a dedicated sect doing evil that good\nmight come, sacrificing its own happiness to that of others. The terrible thing,\nthought Winston, the terrible thing was that when O\u2019Brien said this he would\nbelieve it. You could see it in his face. O\u2019Brien knew everything. A thousand\ntimes better than Winston he knew what the world was really like, in what\ndegradation the mass of human beings lived and by what lies and barbarities\nthe Party kept them there. He had understood it all, weighed it all, and it\nmade no difference: all was justified by the ultimate purpose. What can you\ndo, thought Winston, against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself,\nwho gives your arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy?\n\u2019You are ruling over us for our own good,\u2019 he said feebly. \u2019You believe that\nhuman beings are not fit to govern themselves, and therefore-\u2019\nHe started and almost cried out. A pang of pain had shot through his body.\nO\u2019Brien had pushed the lever of the dial up to thirty-five.\n\u2019That was stupid, Winston, stupid!\u2019 he said. \u2019You should know better than\nto say a thing like that.\u2019\nHe pulled the lever back and continued:\n\u2019Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party seeks\npower entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others ; we\nare interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness:\nonly power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently.\nWe are different from all the oligarchies of the past, in that we know what we\nare doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were- cowards\nand hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very\nclose to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their\nown motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized\npower unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just round the corner there\nlay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are not like\nthat. We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing\nit. Power is not a means, it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in\norder to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish\nthe dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture\nis torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me?\u2019\nWinston was struck, as he had been struck before, by the tiredness of\nO\u2019Brien\u2019s face. It was strong and fleshy and brutal, it was full of intelligence\nand a sort of controlled passion before which he felt himself helpless; but it was\ntired. There were pouches under the eyes, the skin sagged from the cheekbones.\nO\u2019Brien leaned over him, deliberately bringing the worn face nearer.\n\n\u2019You are thinking,\u2019 he said, \u2019that my face is old and tired. You are thinking\nthat I talk of power, and yet I am not even able to prevent the decay of my\nown body. Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell?\nThe weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. Do you die when you\ncut your fingernails?\u2019\nHe turned away from the bed and began strolling up and down again, one\nhand in his pocket.\n\u2019We are the priests of power,\u2019 he said. \u2019God is power. But at present power is\nonly a word so far as you are concerned. It is time for you to gather some idea of\nwhat power means. The first thing you must realize is that power is collective.\nThe individual only has power in so far as he ceases to be an individual. You\nknow the Party slogan: \u201dFreedom is Slavery\u201d. Has it ever occurred to you that\nit is reversible? Slavery is freedom. Alone \u2014 free \u2014 the human being is always\ndefeated. It must be so, because every human being is doomed to die, which is\nthe greatest of all failures. But if he can make complete, utter submission, if he\ncan escape from his identity, if he can merge himself in the Party so that he is\nthe Party, then he is all-powerful and immortal. The second thing for you to\nrealize is that power is power over human beings. Over the body but, above all,\nover the mind. Power over matter \u2014 external reality, as you would call it \u2014 is\nnot important. Already our control over matter is absolute.\u2019\nFor a moment Winston ignored the dial. He made a violent effort to raise\nhimself into a sitting position, and merely succeeded in wrenching his body\npainfully.\n\u2019But how can you control matter?\u2019 he burst out. \u2019You don\u2019t even control\nthe climate or the law of gravity. And there are disease, pain, death-\u2019\nO\u2019Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. \u2019We control matter because\nwe control the mind. Reality is inside the skull. You will learn by degrees,\nWinston. There is nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, levitation \u2014\nanything. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if I wish to. I do not wish\n\nto, because the Party does not wish it. You must get rid of those nineteenth-\ncentury ideas about the laws of Nature. We make the laws of Nature.\u2019\n\n\u2019But you do not! You are not even masters of this planet. What about\nEurasia and Eastasia? You have not conquered them yet.\u2019\n\u2019Unimportant. We shall conquer them when it suits us. And if we did not,\nwhat difference would it make? We can shut them out of existence. Oceania is\nthe world.\u2019\n\u2019But the world itself is only a speck of dust. And man is tiny helpless! How\nlong has he been in existence? For millions of years the earth was uninhabited.\u2019\n\u2019Nonsense. The earth is as old as we are, no older. How could it be older?\nNothing exists except through human consciousness.\u2019\n\u2019But the rocks are full of the bones of extinct animals \u2014 mammoths and\nmastodons and enormous reptiles which lived here long before man was ever\nheard of.\u2019\n\n\u2019Have you ever seen those bones, Winston? Of course not. Nineteenth-\ncentury biologists invented them. Before man there was nothing. After man, if\n\nhe could come to an end, there would be nothing. Outside man there is nothing.\u2019\n\u2019But the whole universe is outside us. Look at the stars! Some of them are\na million light-years away. They are out of our reach for ever.\u2019\n\u2019What are the stars?\u2019 said O\u2019Brien indifferently. \u2019They are bits of fire a few\nkilometres away. We could reach them if we wanted to. Or we could blot them\n\nout. The earth is the centre of the universe. The sun and the stars go round it.\u2019\nWinston made another convulsive movement. This time he did not say\nanything. O\u2019Brien continued as though answering a spoken objection:\n\u2019For certain purposes, of course, that is not true. When we navigate the\nocean, or when we predict an eclipse, we often find it convenient to assume that\nthe earth goes round the sun and that the stars are millions upon millions of\nkilometres away. But what of it? Do you suppose it is beyond us to produce a\ndual system of astronomy? The stars can be near or distant, according as we\nneed them. Do you suppose our mathematicians are unequal to that? Have you\nforgotten doublethink?\u2019\nWinston shrank back upon the bed. Whatever he said, the swift answer\ncrushed him like a bludgeon. And yet he knew, he knew, that he was in the\nright. The belief that nothing exists outside your own mind \u2014 surely there\nmust be some way of demonstrating that it was false? Had it not been exposed\nlong ago as a fallacy? There was even a name for it, which he had forgotten. A\nfaint smile twitched the corners of O\u2019Brien\u2019s mouth as he looked down at him.\n\u2019I told you, Winston,\u2019 he said, \u2019that metaphysics is not your strong point.\nThe word you are trying to think of is solipsism. But you are mistaken. This is\nnot solipsism. Collective solipsism, if you like. But that is a different thing: in\nfact, the opposite thing. All this is a digression,\u2019 he added in a different tone.\n\u2019The real power, the power we have to fight for night and day, is not power over\nthings, but over men.\u2019 He paused, and for a moment assumed again his air of\na schoolmaster questioning a promising pupil: \u2019How does one man assert his\npower over another, Winston?\u2019\nWinston thought. \u2019By making him suffer,\u2019 he said.\n\n\u2019Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suf-\nfering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power\n\nis in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces\nand putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. Do you\nbegin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite\nof the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of\nfear and treachery is torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon,\na world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. Progress\nin our world will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed\nthat they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our\nworld there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement.\nEverything else we shall destroy everything. Already we are breaking down the\nhabits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut\nthe links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between\nman and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer.\nBut in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken\nfrom their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct\nwill be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a\nration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it\nnow. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be\nno love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the\nlaugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no\nscience. When we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There\nwill be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity,\nno enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed.\n\n\nBut always \u2014 do not forget this, Winston \u2014 always there will be the intoxica-\ntion of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at\n\nevery moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on\nan enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot\nstamping on a human face \u2014 for ever.\u2019\nHe paused as though he expected Winston to speak. Winston had tried to\nshrink back into the surface of the bed again. He could not say anything. His\nheart seemed to be frozen. O\u2019Brien went on:\n\u2019And remember that it is for ever. The face will always be there to be\nstamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always be there, so\nthat he can be defeated and humiliated over again. ", "validation": "Everything that you have\nundergone since you have been in our hands \u2014 all that will continue, and\nworse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tortures, the executions,\nthe disappearances will never cease. It will be a world of terror as much as a\nworld of triumph. The more the Party is powerful, the less it will be tolerant:\nthe weaker the opposition, the tighter the despotism. Goldstein and his heresies\nwill live for ever. Every day, at every moment, they will be defeated, discredited,\nridiculed, spat upon and yet they will always survive. This drama that I have\nplayed out with you during seven years will be played out over and over again\ngeneration after generation, always in subtler forms. Always we shall have the\nheretic here at our mercy, screaming with pain, broken up, contemptible \u2014\nand in the end utterly penitent, saved from himself, crawling to our feet of his\nown accord. That is the world that we are preparing, Winston. A world of\nvictory after victory, triumph after triumph after triumph: an endless pressing,\npressing, pressing upon the nerve of power. You are beginning, I can see, to\nrealize what that world will be like. But in the end you will do more than\nunderstand it. You will accept it, welcome it, become part of it.\u2019\nWinston had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. \u2019You can\u2019t!\u2019 he said\nweakly.\n\u2019What do you mean by that remark, Winston?\u2019\n\u2019You could not create such a world as you have just described. It is a dream.\nIt is impossible.\u2019\n\u2019Why?\u2019\n\u2019It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred and cruelty. It\nwould never endure.\u2019\n\u2019Why not?\u2019\n\u2019It would have no vitality. It would disintegrate. It would commit suicide.\u2019\n\u2019Nonsense. You are under the impression that hatred is more exhausting\nthan love. Why should it be? And if it were, what difference would that make?\nSuppose that we choose to wear ourselves out faster. Suppose that we quicken\nthe tempo of human life till men are senile at thirty. Still what difference would\nit make? Can you not understand that the death of the individual is not death?\nThe party is immortal.\u2019\nAs usual, the voice had battered Winston into helplessness. Moreover he\nwas in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O\u2019Brien would twist the\ndial again. And yet he could not keep silent. Feebly, without arguments, with\nnothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of what O\u2019Brien had said,\nhe returned to the attack.\n\u2019I don\u2019t know \u2014 I don\u2019t care. Somehow you will fail. Something will defeat\nyou. Life will defeat you.\u2019\n\n\u2019We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imagining that there is\nsomething called human nature which will be outraged by what we do and will\nturn against us. But we create human nature. Men are infinitely malleable. Or\nperhaps you have returned to your old idea that the proletarians or the slaves\nwill arise and overthrow us. Put it out of your mind. They are helpless, like the\nanimals. Humanity is the Party. The others are outside \u2014 irrelevant.\u2019\n\u2019I don\u2019t care. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later they will see\nyou for what you are, and then they will tear you to pieces.\u2019\n\u2019Do you see any evidence that that is happening? Or any reason why it\nshould?\u2019\n\u2019No. I believe it. I know that you will fail. There is something in the universe\n\u2014 I don\u2019t know, some spirit, some principle \u2014 that you will never overcome.\u2019\n\u2019Do you believe in God, Winston?\u2019\n\u2019No.\u2019\n\u2019Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?\u2019\n\u2019I don\u2019t know. The spirit of Man.\u2019\n\u2019And do you consider yourself a man?.\u2019\n\u2019Yes.\u2019\n\u2019If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your kind is extinct;\nwe are the inheritors. Do you understand that you are alone? You are outside\nhistory, you are non-existent.\u2019 His manner changed and he said more harshly:\n\u2019And you consider yourself morally superior to us, with our lies and our cruelty?\u2019\n\u2019Yes, I consider myself superior.\u2019\nO\u2019Brien did not speak. Two other voices were speaking. After a moment\n\nWinston recognized one of them as his own. It was a sound-track of the con-\nversation he had had with O\u2019Brien, on the night when he had enrolled himself\n\nin the Brotherhood. He heard himself promising to lie, to steal, to forge, to\n\nmurder, to encourage drug-taking and prostitution, to disseminate venereal dis-\neases, to throw vitriol in a child\u2019s face. O\u2019Brien made a small impatient gesture,\n\nas though to say that the demonstration was hardly worth making. Then he\nturned a switch and the voices stopped.\n\u2019Get up from that bed,\u2019 he said.\nThe bonds had loosened themselves. Winston lowered himself to the floor\nand stood up unsteadily.\n\u2019You are the last man,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019You are the guardian of the human\nspirit. You shall see yourself as you are. Take off your clothes.\u2019\nWinston undid the bit of string that held his overalls together. The zip\nfastener had long since been wrenched out of them. He could not remember\nwhether at any time since his arrest he had taken off all his clothes at one\ntime. Beneath the overalls his body was looped with filthy yellowish rags, just\nrecognizable as the remnants of underclothes. As he slid them to the ground\nhe saw that there was a three-sided mirror at the far end of the room. He\napproached it, then stopped short. An involuntary cry had broken out of him.\n\u2019Go on,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019Stand between the wings of the mirror. You shall\nsee the side view as well.\u2019\n\nHe had stopped because he was frightened. A bowed, grey-coloured, skeleton-\nlike thing was coming towards him. Its actual appearance was frightening, and\n\nnot merely the fact that he knew it to be himself. He moved closer to the glass.\nThe creature\u2019s face seemed to be protruded, because of its bent carriage. A\nforlorn, jailbird\u2019s face with a nobby forehead running back into a bald scalp, a\ncrooked nose, and battered-looking cheekbones above which his eyes were fierce\n\nand watchful. The cheeks were seamed, the mouth had a drawn-in look. Cer-\ntainly it was his own face, but it seemed to him that it had changed more than\n\nhe had changed inside. The emotions it registered would be different from the\nones he felt. He had gone partially bald. For the first moment he had thought\nthat he had gone grey as well, but it was only the scalp that was grey. Except\nfor his hands and a circle of his face, his body was grey all over with ancient,\ningrained dirt. Here and there under the dirt there were the red scars of wounds,\nand near the ankle the varicose ulcer was an inflamed mass with flakes of skin\npeeling off it. But the truly frightening thing was the emaciation of his body.\nThe barrel of the ribs was as narrow as that of a skeleton: the legs had shrunk\nso that the knees were thicker than the thighs. He saw now what O\u2019Brien had\nmeant about seeing the side view. The curvature of the spine was astonishing.\nThe thin shoulders were hunched forward so as to make a cavity of the chest,\nthe scraggy neck seemed to be bending double under the weight of the skull.\nAt a guess he would have said that it was the body of a man of sixty, suffering\nfrom some malignant disease.\n\u2019You have thought sometimes,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, \u2019that my face \u2014 the face of a\nmember of the Inner Party \u2014 looks old and worn. What do you think of your\nown face?\u2019\nHe seized Winston\u2019s shoulder and spun him round so that he was facing him.\n\u2019Look at the condition you are in!\u2019 he said. \u2019Look at this filthy grime all\nover your body. Look at the dirt between your toes. Look at that disgusting\nrunning sore on your leg. Do you know that you stink like a goat? Probably\nyou have ceased to notice it. Look at your emaciation. Do you see? I can\nmake my thumb and forefinger meet round your bicep. I could snap your neck\nlike a carrot. Do you know that you have lost twenty-five kilograms since you\nhave been in our hands? Even your hair is coming out in handfuls. Look!\u2019 He\nplucked at Winston\u2019s head and brought away a tuft of hair. \u2019Open your mouth.\nNine, ten, eleven teeth left. How many had you when you came to us? And the\nfew you have left are dropping out of your head. Look here!\u2019\nHe seized one of Winston\u2019s remaining front teeth between his powerful thumb\nand forefinger. A twinge of pain shot through Winston\u2019s jaw. O\u2019Brien had\nwrenched the loose tooth out by the roots. He tossed it across the cell.\n\u2019You are rotting away,\u2019 he said; \u2019you are falling to pieces. What are you? A\nbag of filth. Now turn around and look into that mirror again. Do you see that\nthing facing you? That is the last man. If you are human, that is humanity.\nNow put your clothes on again.\u2019\nWinston began to dress himself with slow stiff movements. Until now he had\nnot seemed to notice how thin and weak he was. Only one thought stirred in his\nmind: that he must have been in this place longer than he had imagined. Then\nsuddenly as he fixed the miserable rags round himself a feeling of pity for his\nruined body overcame him. Before he knew what he was doing he had collapsed\non to a small stool that stood beside the bed and burst into tears. He was aware\nof his ugliness, his gracelessness, a bundle of bones in filthy underclothes sitting\nweeping in the harsh white light: but he could not stop himself. O\u2019Brien laid a\nhand on his shoulder, almost kindly.\n\u2019It will not last for ever,\u2019 he said. \u2019You can escape from it whenever you\nchoose. Everything depends on yourself.\u2019\n\u2019You did it!\u2019 sobbed Winston. \u2019You reduced me to this state.\u2019\n\n\u2019No, Winston, you reduced yourself to it. This is what you accepted when\nyou set yourself up against the Party. It was all contained in that first act.\nNothing has happened that you did not foresee.\u2019\nHe paused, and then went on:\n\u2019We have beaten you, Winston. We have broken you up. You have seen\nwhat your body is like. Your mind is in the same state. I do not think there\ncan be much pride left in you. You have been kicked and flogged and insulted,\nyou have screamed with pain, you have rolled on the floor in your own blood\nand vomit. You have whimpered for mercy, you have betrayed everybody and\neverything. Can you think of a single degradation that has not happened to\nyou?\u2019\nWinston had stopped weeping, though the tears were still oozing out of his\neyes. He looked up at O\u2019Brien.\n\u2019I have not betrayed Julia,\u2019 he said.\nO\u2019Brien looked down at him thoughtfully. \u2019No,\u2019 he said; \u2019no; that is perfectly\ntrue. You have not betrayed Julia.\u2019\nThe peculiar reverence for O\u2019Brien, which nothing seemed able to destroy,\nflooded Winston\u2019s heart again. How intelligent, he thought, how intelligent!\nNever did O\u2019Brien fail to understand what was said to him. Anyone else on\nearth would have answered promptly that he had betrayed Julia. For what was\nthere that they had not screwed out of him under the torture? He had told\nthem everything he knew about her, her habits, her character, her past life; he\nhad confessed in the most trivial detail everything that had happened at their\nmeetings, all that he had said to her and she to him, their black-market meals,\ntheir adulteries, their vague plottings against the Party \u2014 everything. And yet,\nin the sense in which he intended the word, he had not betrayed her. He had not\nstopped loving her; his feelings towards her had remained the same. O\u2019Brien\nhad seen what he meant without the need for explanation.\n\u2019Tell me,\u2019 he said, \u2019how soon will they shoot me?\u2019\n\u2019It might be a long time,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019You are a difficult case. But don\u2019t\ngive up hope. Everyone is cured sooner or later. In the end we shall shoot you.\u2019\n\n \n\nHe was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger every day, if it was\nproper to speak of days.\nThe white light and the humming sound were the same as ever, but the cell\nwas a little more comfortable than the others he had been in. There was a\npillow and a mattress on the plank bed, and a stool to sit on. They had given\nhim a bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequently in a tin\nbasin. They even gave him warm water to wash with. They had given him new\nunderclothes and a clean suit of overalls. They had dressed his varicose ulcer\nwith soothing ointment. They had pulled out the remnants of his teeth and\ngiven him a new set of dentures.\nWeeks or months must have passed. It would have been possible now to keep\ncount of the passage of time, if he had felt any interest in doing so, since he was\nbeing fed at what appeared to be regular intervals. He was getting, he judged,\nthree meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he wondered dimly whether\nhe was getting them by night or by day. The food was surprisingly good, with\nmeat at every third meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had\nno matches, but the never-speaking guard who brought his food would give him\na light. The first time he tried to smoke it made him sick, but he persevered,\nand spun the packet out for a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each\nmeal.\nThey had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil tied to the corner.\nAt first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was completely\ntorpid. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost without stirring,\nsometimes asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in which it was too\nmuch trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown used to sleeping with a\nstrong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference, except that one\u2019s\ndreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time,\nand they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden Country, or he was\nsitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with\nO\u2019Brien \u2014 not doing anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful\nthings. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were mostly about his\ndreams. He seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort, now that the\nstimulus of pain had been removed. He was not bored, he had no desire for\nconversation or distraction. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten or questioned,\nto have enough to eat, and to be clean all over, was completely satisfying.\nBy degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no impulse to\nget off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the strength gathering in\nhis body. He would finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it was\nnot an illusion that his muscles were growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally\nit was established beyond a doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were\nnow definitely thicker than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began\nexercising himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres,\nmeasured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter.\nHe attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and humiliated to\nfind what things he could not do. He could not move out of a walk, he could\nnot hold his stool out at arm\u2019s length, he could not stand on one leg without\nfalling over. He squatted down on his heels, and found that with agonizing\npains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself to a standing position. He lay\nflat on his belly and tried to lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless, he\ncould not raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days \u2014 a few more\nmealtimes \u2014 even that feat was accomplished. A time came when he could\ndo it six times running. He began to grow actually proud of his body, and to\ncherish an intermittent belief that his face also was growing back to normal.\nOnly when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the\nseamed, ruined face that had looked back at him out of the mirror.\nHis mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back against\nthe wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately at the task of\nre-educating himself.\nHe had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw now, he had been\nready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the moment\nwhen he was inside the Ministry of Love \u2014 and yes, even during those minutes\nwhen he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice from the telescreen told\nthem what to do \u2014 he had grasped the frivolity, the shallowness of his attempt\nto set himself up against the power of the Party. He knew now that for seven\nyears the Thought police had watched him like a beetle under a magnifying\nglass. There was no physical act, no word spoken aloud, that they had not\nnoticed, no train of thought that they had not been able to infer. Even the\nspeck of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had carefully replaced.\nThey had played sound-tracks to him, shown him photographs. Some of them\nwere photographs of Julia and himself. Yes, even ... He could not fight against\nthe Party any longer. Besides, the Party was in the right. It must be so; how\ncould the immortal, collective brain be mistaken? By what external standard\ncould you check its judgements? Sanity was statistical. It was merely a question\nof learning to think as they thought. Only!\nThe pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He began to write down\nthe thoughts that came into his head. He wrote first in large clumsy capitals:\nFREEDOM IS SLAVERY\nThen almost without a pause he wrote beneath it:\nTWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE\nBut then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though shying away from\nsomething, seemed unable to concentrate. He knew that he knew what came\nnext, but for the moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it, it was\nonly by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not come of its own\naccord. He wrote:\nGOD IS POWER\nHe accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past never had been\naltered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at war\nwith Eastasia. Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford were guilty of the crimes they\nwere charged with. He had never seen the photograph that disproved their guilt.\nIt had never existed, he had invented it. He remembered remembering contrary\nthings, but those were false memories, products of self-deception. How easy it\nall was! Only surrender, and everything else followed. It was like swimming\nagainst a current that swept you backwards however hard you struggled, and\n\nthen suddenly deciding to turn round and go with the current instead of oppos-\ning it. Nothing had changed except your own attitude: the predestined thing\n\nhappened in any case. He hardly knew why he had ever rebelled. Everything\nwas easy, except!\nAnything could be true. The so-called laws of Nature were nonsense. The\nlaw of gravity was nonsense. \u2019If I wished,\u2019 O\u2019Brien had said, \u2019I could float off\nthis floor like a soap bubble.\u2019 Winston worked it out. \u2019If he thinks he floats off\nthe floor, and if I simultaneously think I see him do it, then the thing happens.\u2019\nSuddenly, like a lump of submerged wreckage breaking the surface of water,\nthe thought burst into his mind: \u2019It doesn\u2019t really happen. We imagine it.\nIt is hallucination.\u2019 He pushed the thought under instantly. The fallacy was\nobvious. It presupposed that somewhere or other, outside oneself, there was\na \u2019real\u2019 world where \u2019real\u2019 things happened. But how could there be such a\nworld? What knowledge have we of anything, save through our own minds? All\nhappenings are in the mind. Whatever happens in all minds, truly happens.\nHe had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he was in no danger of\nsuccumbing to it. He realized, nevertheless, that it ought never to have occurred\nto him. The mind should develop a blind spot whenever a dangerous thought\npresented itself. The process should be automatic, instinctive. Crimestop, they\ncalled it in Newspeak.\nHe set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He presented himself with\npropositions \u2014 \u2019the Party says the earth is flat\u2019, \u2019the party says that ice is\nheavier than water\u2019 \u2014 and trained himself in not seeing or not understanding\nthe arguments that contradicted them. It was not easy. It needed great powers\nof reasoning and improvisation. The arithmetical problems raised, for instance,\nby such a statement as \u2019two and two make five\u2019 were beyond his intellectual\ngrasp. It needed also a sort of athleticism of mind, an ability at one moment\nto make the most delicate use of logic and at the next to be unconscious of the\ncrudest logical errors. Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult\nto attain.\nAll the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered how soon they would\nshoot him. \u2019Everything depends on yourself,\u2019 O\u2019Brien had said; but he knew\nthat there was no conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It might\nbe ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him for years in solitary\nconfinement, they might send him to a labour-camp, they might release him for\na while, as they sometimes did. It was perfectly possible that before he was shot\nthe whole drama of his arrest and interrogation would be enacted all over again.\nThe one certain thing was that death never came at an expected moment. The\ntradition \u2014 the unspoken tradition: somehow you knew it, though you never\nheard it said-was that they shot you from behind; always in the back of the\nhead, without warning, as you walked down a corridor from cell to cell.\nOne day \u2014 but \u2019one day\u2019 was not the right expression; just as probably it\nwas in the middle of the night: once \u2014 he fell into a strange, blissful reverie.\nHe was walking down the corridor, waiting for the bullet. He knew that it was\n\n\ncoming in another moment. Everything was settled, smoothed out, reconciled.\nThere were no more doubts, no more arguments, no more pain, no more fear.\nHis body was healthy and strong. He walked easily, with a joy of movement\nand with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was not any longer in the narrow\nwhite corridors in the Ministry of Love, he was in the enormous sunlit passage,\na kilometre wide, down which he had seemed to walk in the delirium induced\nby drugs. He was in the Golden Country, following the foot-track across the\nold rabbit-cropped pasture. He could feel the short springy turf under his feet\nand the gentle sunshine on his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees,\nfaintly stirring, and somewhere beyond that was the stream where the dace lay\nin the green pools under the willows.\nSuddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The sweat broke out on his\nbackbone. He had heard himself cry aloud:\n\u2019Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!\u2019\nFor a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence.\nShe had seemed to be not merely with him, but inside him. It was as though\nshe had got into the texture of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far\nmore than he had ever done when they were together and free. Also he knew\nthat somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help.\nHe lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. What had he done?\nHow many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness?\nIn another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could\nnot let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had not\nknown before, that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. He\nobeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old days he had hidden\na heretical mind beneath an appearance of conformity. Now he had retreated\na step further: in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped to keep the\ninner heart inviolate. He knew that he was in the wrong, but he preferred to\nbe in the wrong. They would understand that- O\u2019Brien would understand it.\nIt was all confessed in that single foolish cry.\nHe would have to start all over again. It might take years. He ran a hand\nover his face, trying to familiarize himself with the new shape. There were deep\nfurrows in the cheeks, the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose flattened. Besides,\nsince last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete new set of\nteeth. It was not easy to preserve inscrutability when you did not know what\nyour face looked like. In any case, mere control of the features was not enough.\nFor the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also\nhide it from yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until\nit is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape\nthat could be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think right;\nhe must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred\nlocked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and yet\nunconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst.\nOne day they would decide to shoot him. You could not tell when it would\nhappen, but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess. It was\nalways from behind, walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be enough.\nIn that time the world inside him could turn over. And then suddenly, without\na word uttered, without a check in his step, without the changing of a line in\nhis face \u2014 suddenly the camouflage would be down and bang! would go the\nbatteries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an enormous roaring flame.\n\n\nAnd almost in the same instant bang! would go the bullet, too late, or too early.\nThey would have blown his brain to pieces before they could reclaim it. The\nheretical thought would be unpunished, unrepented, out of their reach for ever.\nThey would have blown a hole in their own perfection. To die hating them, that\nwas freedom.\n\nHe shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting an intellectual disci-\npline. It was a question of degrading himself, mutilating himself. He had got\n\nto plunge into the filthiest of filth. What was the most horrible, sickening thing\nof all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face (because of constantly\nseeing it on posters he always thought of it as being a metre wide), with its\nheavy black moustache and the eyes that followed you to and fro, seemed to\nfloat into his mind of its own accord. What were his true feelings towards Big\nBrother?\nThere was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The steel door swung open\nwith a clang. O\u2019Brien walked into the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced\nofficer and the black-uniformed guards.\n\u2019Get up,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019Come here.\u2019\nWinston stood opposite him. O\u2019Brien took Winston\u2019s shoulders between his\nstrong hands and looked at him closely.\n\u2019You have had thoughts of deceiving me,\u2019 he said. \u2019That was stupid. Stand\nup straighter. Look me in the face.\u2019\nHe paused, and went on in a gentler tone:\n\u2019You are improving. Intellectually there is very little wrong with you. It is\nonly emotionally that you have failed to make progress. Tell me, Winston \u2014\nand remember, no lies: you know that I am always able to detect a lie \u2014 tell\nme, what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?\u2019\n\u2019I hate him.\u2019\n\u2019You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you to take the last step.\nYou must love Big Brother. It is not enough to obey him: you must love him.\u2019\nHe released Winston with a little push towards the guards.\n\u2019Room ,\u2019 he said.\n\n \n\nAt each stage of his imprisonment he had known, or seemed to know, where-\nabouts he was in the windowless building. Possibly there were slight differences\n\nin the air pressure. The cells where the guards had beaten him were below\nground level. The room where he had been interrogated by O\u2019Brien was high\nup near the roof. This place was many metres underground, as deep down as it\nwas possible to go.\nIt was bigger than most of the cells he had been in. But he hardly noticed\nhis surroundings. All he noticed was that there were two small tables straight\nin front of him, each covered with green baize. One was only a metre or two\nfrom him, the other was further away, near the door. He was strapped upright\nin a chair, so tightly that he could move nothing, not even his head. A sort of\npad gripped his head from behind, forcing him to look straight in front of him.\nFor a moment he was alone, then the door opened and O\u2019Brien came in.\n\u2019You asked me once,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, \u2019what was in Room . I told you that\nyou knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room\n is the worst thing in the world.\u2019\nThe door opened again. A guard came in, carrying something made of wire,\na box or basket of some kind. He set it down on the further table. Because of\nthe position in which O\u2019Brien was standing. Winston could not see what the\nthing was.\n\n\u2019The worst thing in the world,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, \u2019varies from individual to in-\ndividual. It may be burial alive, or death by fire, or by drowning, or by impale-\nment, or fifty other deaths. There are cases where it is some quite trivial thing,\nnot even fatal.\u2019\nHe had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a better view of the\nthing on the table. It was an oblong wire cage with a handle on top for carrying\nit by. Fixed to the front of it was something that looked like a fencing mask,\nwith the concave side outwards. Although it was three or four metres away from\nhim, he could see that the cage was divided lengthways into two compartments,\nand that there was some kind of creature in each. They were rats.\n\u2019In your case, said O\u2019Brien, \u2019the worst thing in the world happens to be rats.\u2019\nA sort of premonitory tremor, a fear of he was not certain what, had passed\nthrough Winston as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the cage. But at this\nmoment the meaning of the mask-like attachment in front of it suddenly sank\ninto him. His bowels seemed to turn to water.\n\u2019You can\u2019t do that!\u2019 he cried out in a high cracked voice. \u2019You couldn\u2019t, you\ncouldn\u2019t! It\u2019s impossible.\u2019\n\n\u2019Do you remember,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, \u2019the moment of panic that used to occur\nin your dreams? There was a wall of blackness in front of you, and a roaring\nsound in your ears. There was something terrible on the other side of the wall.\nYou knew that you knew what it was, but you dared not drag it into the open.\nIt was the rats that were on the other side of the wall.\u2019\n\u2019O\u2019Brien!\u2019 said Winston, making an effort to control his voice. \u2019You know\nthis is not necessary. What is it that you want me to do?\u2019\nO\u2019Brien made no direct answer. When he spoke it was in the schoolmasterish\nmanner that he sometimes affected. He looked thoughtfully into the distance,\nas though he were addressing an audience somewhere behind Winston\u2019s back.\n\u2019By itself,\u2019 he said, \u2019pain is not always enough. There are occasions when a\nhuman being will stand out against pain, even to the point of death. But for\neveryone there is something unendurable \u2014 something that cannot be contem-\nplated. Courage and cowardice are not involved. If you are falling from a height\nit is not cowardly to clutch at a rope. If you have come up from deep water it is\nnot cowardly to fill your lungs with air. It is merely an instinct which cannot be\ndestroyed. It is the same with the rats. For you, they are unendurable. They\nare a form of pressure that you cannot withstand. even if you wished to. You\nwill do what is required of you.\n\u2019But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don\u2019t know what it is?\u2019\nO\u2019Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the nearer table. He set\nit down carefully on the baize cloth. Winston could hear the blood singing in\nhis ears. He had the feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. He was in the middle\nof a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with sunlight, across which all\nsounds came to him out of immense distances. Yet the cage with the rats was\nnot two metres away from him. They were enormous rats. They were at the age\nwhen a rat\u2019s muzzle grows blunt and fierce and his fur brown instead of grey.\n\u2019The rat,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien, still addressing his invisible audience, \u2019although a\nrodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of that. You will have heard of the things\nthat happen in the poor quarters of this town. In some streets a woman dare\nnot leave her baby alone in the house, even for five minutes. The rats are certain\nto attack it. Within quite a small time they will strip it to the bones. They\nalso attack sick or dying people. They show astonishing intelligence in knowing\nwhen a human being is helpless.\u2019\nThere was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed to reach Winston\nfrom far away. The rats were fighting; they were trying to get at each other\nthrough the partition. He heard also a deep groan of despair. That, too, seemed\nto come from outside himself.\nO\u2019Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed something in it. There\nwas a sharp click. Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the\nchair. It was hopeless; every part of him, even his head, was held immovably.\nO\u2019Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a metre from Winston\u2019s face.\n\n\u2019I have pressed the first lever,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien. \u2019You understand the construc-\ntion of this cage. The mask will fit over your head, leaving no exit. When I press\n\nthis other lever, the door of the cage will slide up. These starving brutes will\nshoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever seen a rat leap through the air? They\nwill leap on to your face and bore straight into it. Sometimes they attack the\neyes first. Sometimes they burrow through the cheeks and devour the tongue.\u2019\nThe cage was nearer; it was closing in. Winston heard a succession of shrill\ncries which appeared to be occurring in the air above his head. But he fought\nfuriously against his panic. To think, to think, even with a split second left \u2014\nto think was the only hope. Suddenly the foul musty odour of the brutes struck\nhis nostrils. There was a violent convulsion of nausea inside him, and he almost\nlost consciousness. Everything had gone black. For an instant he was insane, a\nscreaming animal. Yet he came out of the blackness clutching an idea. There\nwas one and only one way to save himself. He must interpose another human\nbeing, the body of another human being, between himself and the rats.\n\nThe circle of the mask was large enough now to shut out the vision of any-\nthing else. The wire door was a couple of hand-spans from his face. The rats\n\nknew what was coming now. One of them was leaping up and down, the other,\nan old scaly grandfather of the sewers, stood up, with his pink hands against\nthe bars, and fiercely sniffed the air. Winston could see the whiskers and the\nyellow teeth. Again the black panic took hold of him. He was blind, helpless,\nmindless.\n\n\u2019It was a common punishment in Imperial China,\u2019 said O\u2019Brien as didacti-\ncally as ever.\n\nThe mask was closing on his face. The wire brushed his cheek. And then\n\u2014 no, it was not relief, only hope, a tiny fragment of hope. Too late, perhaps\ntoo late. But he had suddenly understood that in the whole world there was\njust one person to whom he could transfer his punishment \u2014 one body that\nhe could thrust between himself and the rats. And he was shouting frantically,\nover and over.\n\u2019Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia! I don\u2019t care what you do to\nher. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not me!\u2019\nHe was falling backwards, into enormous depths, away from the rats. He was\nstill strapped in the chair, but he had fallen through the floor, through the walls\nof the building, through the earth, through the oceans, through the atmosphere,\ninto outer space, into the gulfs between the stars \u2014 always away, away, away\nfrom the rats. He was light years distant, but O\u2019Brien was still standing at his\nside. There was still the cold touch of wire against his cheek. But through the\ndarkness that enveloped him he heard another metallic click, and knew that the\ncage door had clicked shut and not open.\n\n\n \n\nThe Chestnut Tree was almost empty. A ray of sunlight slanting through a\nwindow fell on dusty table-tops. It was the lonely hour of fifteen. A tinny music\ntrickled from the telescreens.\nWinston sat in his usual corner, gazing into an empty glass. Now and again\nhe glanced up at a vast face which eyed him from the opposite wall. BIG\nBROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said. Unbidden, a waiter came\nand filled his glass up with Victory Gin, shaking into it a few drops from another\nbottle with a quill through the cork. It was saccharine flavoured with cloves,\nthe speciality of the caf \u0301e.\nWinston was listening to the telescreen. At present only music was coming\nout of it, but there was a possibility that at any moment there might be a\nspecial bulletin from the Ministry of Peace. The news from the African front\nwas disquieting in the extreme. On and off he had been worrying about it all day.\nA Eurasian army (Oceania was at war with Eurasia: Oceania had always been\nat war with Eurasia) was moving southward at terrifying speed. The mid-day\nbulletin had not mentioned any definite area, but it was probable that already\nthe mouth of the Congo was a battlefield. Brazzaville and Leopoldville were in\ndanger. One did not have to look at the map to see what it meant. It was not\nmerely a question of losing Central Africa: for the first time in the whole war,\nthe territory of Oceania itself was menaced.\nA violent emotion, not fear exactly but a sort of undifferentiated excitement,\nflared up in him, then faded again. He stopped thinking about the war. In\nthese days he could never fix his mind on any one subject for more than a few\nmoments at a time. He picked up his glass and drained it at a gulp. As always,\nthe gin made him shudder and even retch slightly. The stuff was horrible. The\ncloves and saccharine, themselves disgusting enough in their sickly way, could\nnot disguise the flat oily smell; and what was worst of all was that the smell of\ngin, which dwelt with him night and day, was inextricably mixed up in his mind\n\nwith the smell of those-\nHe never named them, even in his thoughts, and so far as it was possible he\n\nnever visualized them. They were something that he was half-aware of, hovering\nclose to his face, a smell that clung to his nostrils. As the gin rose in him he\nbelched through purple lips. He had grown fatter since they released him, and\nhad regained his old colour \u2014 indeed, more than regained it. His features had\nthickened, the skin on nose and cheekbones was coarsely red, even the bald scalp\nwas too deep a pink. A waiter, again unbidden, brought the chessboard and the\ncurrent issue of The Times, with the page turned down at the chess problem.\n\nThen, seeing that Winston\u2019s glass was empty, he brought the gin bottle and filled\nit. There was no need to give orders. They knew his habits. The chessboard\nwas always waiting for him, his corner table was always reserved; even when\nthe place was full he had it to himself, since nobody cared to be seen sitting too\nclose to him. He never even bothered to count his drinks. At irregular intervals\nthey presented him with a dirty slip of paper which they said was the bill, but\nhe had the impression that they always undercharged him. It would have made\nno difference if it had been the other way about. He had always plenty of money\nnowadays. He even had a job, a sinecure, more highly-paid than his old job had\nbeen.\nThe music from the telescreen stopped and a voice took over. Winston\nraised his head to listen. No bulletins from the front, however. It was merely\na brief announcement from the Ministry of Plenty. In the preceding quarter, it\nappeared, the Tenth Three-Year Plan\u2019s quota for bootlaces had been overfulfilled\nby  per cent.\nHe examined the chess problem and set out the pieces. It was a tricky ending,\ninvolving a couple of knights. \u2019White to play and mate in two moves.\u2019 Winston\nlooked up at the portrait of Big Brother. White always mates, he thought with\na sort of cloudy mysticism. Always, without exception, it is so arranged. In no\nchess problem since the beginning of the world has black ever won. Did it not\nsymbolize the eternal, unvarying triumph of Good over Evil? The huge face\ngazed back at him, full of calm power. White always mates.\nThe voice from the telescreen paused and added in a different and much\ngraver tone: \u2019You are warned to stand by for an important announcement at\nfifteen-thirty. Fifteen-thirty! This is news of the highest importance. Take care\nnot to miss it. Fifteen-thirty!\u2019 The tinking music struck up again.\nWinston\u2019s heart stirred. That was the bulletin from the front; instinct told\nhim that it was bad news that was coming. All day, with little spurts of ex-\ncitement, the thought of a smashing defeat in Africa had been in and out of his\n\nmind. He seemed actually to see the Eurasian army swarming across the never-\nbroken frontier and pouring down into the tip of Africa like a column of ants.\n\nWhy had it not been possible to outflank them in some way? The outline of the\nWest African coast stood out vividly in his mind. He picked up the white knight\nand moved it across the board. There was the proper spot. Even while he saw\nthe black horde racing southward he saw another force, mysteriously assembled,\nsuddenly planted in their rear, cutting their comunications by land and sea. He\nfelt that by willing it he was bringing that other force into existence. But it\nwas necessary to act quickly. If they could get control of the whole of Africa,\nif they had airfields and submarine bases at the Cape, it would cut Oceania in\ntwo. It might mean anything: defeat, breakdown, the redivision of the world,\nthe destruction of the Party! He drew a deep breath. An extraordinary medley\nof feeling-but it was not a medley, exactly; rather it was successive layers of\nfeeling, in which one could not say which layer was undermost struggled inside\nhim.\nThe spasm passed. He put the white knight back in its place, but for the\nmoment he could not settle down to serious study of the chess problem. His\nthoughts wandered again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his finger in the\ndust on the table: +=\n\u2019They can\u2019t get inside you,\u2019 she had said. But they could get inside you.\n\u2019What happens to you here is for ever,\u2019 O\u2019Brien had said. That was a true\nword. There were things, your own acts, from which you could never recover.\nSomething was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out.\nHe had seen her; he had even spoken to her. There was no danger in it.\nHe knew as though instinctively that they now took almost no interest in his\ndoings. He could have arranged to meet her a second time if either of them had\nwanted to. Actually it was by chance that they had met. It was in the Park,\non a vile, biting day in March, when the earth was like iron and all the grass\nseemed dead and there was not a bud anywhere except a few crocuses which\nhad pushed themselves up to be dismembered by the wind. He was hurrying\nalong with frozen hands and watering eyes when he saw her not ten metres away\nfrom him. It struck him at once that she had changed in some ill-defined way.\nThey almost passed one another without a sign, then he turned and followed\nher, not very eagerly. He knew that there was no danger, nobody would take\nany interest in him. She did not speak. She walked obliquely away across the\ngrass as though trying to get rid of him, then seemed to resign herself to having\nhim at her side. Presently they were in among a clump of ragged leafless shrubs,\nuseless either for concealment or as protection from the wind. They halted. It\nwas vilely cold. The wind whistled through the twigs and fretted the occasional,\ndirty-looking crocuses. He put his arm round her waist.\nThere was no telescreen, but there must be hidden microphones: besides,\nthey could be seen. It did not matter, nothing mattered. They could have lain\ndown on the ground and done that if they had wanted to. His flesh froze with\nhorror at the thought of it. She made no response whatever to the clasp of\nhis arm ; she did not even try to disengage herself. He knew now what had\nchanged in her. Her face was sallower, and there was a long scar, partly hidden\nby the hair, across her forehead and temple; but that was not the change. It\nwas that her waist had grown thicker, and, in a surprising way, had stiffened.\nHe remembered how once, after the explosion of a rocket bomb, he had helped\nto drag a corpse out of some ruins, and had been astonished not only by the\nincredible weight of the thing, but by its rigidity and awkwardness to handle,\nwhich made it seem more like stone than flesh. Her body felt like that. It\noccurred to him that the texture of her skin would be quite different from what\nit had once been.\nHe did not attempt to kiss her, nor did they speak. As they walked back\nacross the grass, she looked directly at him for the first time. It was only a\nmomentary glance, full of contempt and dislike. He wondered whether it was a\ndislike that came purely out of the past or whether it was inspired also by his\nbloated face and the water that the wind kept squeezing from his eyes. They\nsat down on two iron chairs, side by side but not too close together. He saw\nthat she was about to speak. She moved her clumsy shoe a few centimetres and\ndeliberately crushed a twig. Her feet seemed to have grown broader, he noticed.\n\u2019I betrayed you,\u2019 she said baldly.\n\u2019I betrayed you,\u2019 he said.\nShe gave him another quick look of dislike.\n\u2019Sometimes,\u2019 she said, \u2019they threaten you with something something you\ncan\u2019t stand up to, can\u2019t even think about. And then you say, \u201dDon\u2019t do it to\nme, do it to somebody else, do it to So-and-so.\u201d And perhaps you might pretend,\nafterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop\nand didn\u2019t really mean it. But that isn\u2019t true. At the time when it happens you\ndo mean it. You think there\u2019s no other way of saving yourself, and you\u2019re quite\nready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person.\nYou don\u2019t give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself.\u2019\n\u2019All you care about is yourself,\u2019 he echoed.\n\u2019And after that, you don\u2019t feel the same towards the other person any longer.\u2019\n\u2019No,\u2019 he said, \u2019you don\u2019t feel the same.\u2019\nThere did not seem to be anything more to say. The wind plastered their\nthin overalls against their bodies. Almost at once it became embarrassing to sit\nthere in silence: besides, it was too cold to keep still. She said something about\ncatching her Tube and stood up to go.\n\u2019We must meet again,\u2019 he said.\n\u2019Yes,\u2019 she said, \u2019we must meet again. \u2019\nHe followed irresolutely for a little distance, half a pace behind her. They\ndid not speak again. She did not actually try to shake him off, but walked at\njust such a speed as to prevent his keeping abreast of her. He had made up his\nmind that he would accompany her as far as the Tube station, but suddenly\nthis process of trailing along in the cold seemed pointless and unbearable. He\nwas overwhelmed by a desire not so much to get away from Julia as to get back\nto the Chestnut Tree Caf \u0301e, which had never seemed so attractive as at this\nmoment. He had a nostalgic vision of his corner table, with the newspaper and\nthe chessboard and the ever-flowing gin. Above all, it would be warm in there.\nThe next moment, not altogether by accident, he allowed himself to become\nseparated from her by a small knot of people. He made a halfhearted attempt\nto catch up, then slowed down, turned, and made off in the opposite direction.\nWhen he had gone fifty metres he looked back. The street was not crowded,\nbut already he could not distinguish her. Any one of a dozen hurrying figures\nmight have been hers. Perhaps her thickened, stiffened body was no longer\nrecognizable from behind.\n\u2019At the time when it happens,\u2019 she had said, \u2019you do mean it.\u2019 He had meant\nit. He had not merely said it, he had wished it. He had wished that she and\nnot he should be delivered over to the-\nSomething changed in the music that trickled from the telescreen. A cracked\nand jeering note, a yellow note, came into it. And then \u2014 perhaps it was not\nhappening, perhaps it was only a memory taking on the semblance of sound \u2014\na voice was singing:\n\u2019Under the spreading chestnut tree\nI sold you and you sold me \u2019\nThe tears welled up in his eyes. A passing waiter noticed that his glass was\nempty and came back with the gin bottle.\nHe took up his glass and sniffed at it. The stuff grew not less but more\nhorrible with every mouthful he drank. But it had become the element he\nswam in. It was his life, his death, and his resurrection. It was gin that sank\nhim into stupor every night, and gin that revived him every morning. When he\nwoke, seldom before eleven hundred, with gummed-up eyelids and fiery mouth\nand a back that seemed to be broken, it would have been impossible even to\nrise from the horizontal if it had not been for the bottle and teacup placed\nbeside the bed overnight. Through the midday hours he sat with glazed face,\nthe bottle handy, listening to the telescreen. From fifteen to closing-time he\nwas a fixture in the Chestnut Tree. No one cared what he did any longer, no\nwhistle woke him, no telescreen admonished him. Occasionally, perhaps twice a\nweek, he went to a dusty, forgotten-looking office in the Ministry of Truth and\ndid a little work, or what was called work. He had been appointed to a sub-\ncommittee of a sub-committee which had sprouted from one of the innumerable\ncommittees dealing with minor difficulties that arose in the compilation of the\nEleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. They were engaged in producing\nsomething called an Interim Report, but what it was that they were reporting on\nhe had never definitely found out. It was something to do with the question of\nwhether commas should be placed inside brackets, or outside. There were four\nothers on the committee, all of them persons similar to himself. There were days\nwhen they assembled and then promptly dispersed again, frankly admitting to\none another that there was not really anything to be done. But there were other\ndays when they settled down to their work almost eagerly, making a tremendous\nshow of entering up their minutes and drafting long memoranda which were\nnever finished \u2014 when the argument as to what they were supposedly arguing\nabout grew extraordinarily involved and abstruse, with subtle haggling over\ndefinitions, enormous digressions, quarrels threats, even, to appeal to higher\nauthority. And then suddenly the life would go out of them and they would sit\nround the table looking at one another with extinct eyes, like ghosts fading at\ncock-crow.\nThe telescreen was silent for a moment. Winston raised his head again. The\nbulletin! But no, they were merely changing the music. He had the map of\nAfrica behind his eyelids. The movement of the armies was a diagram: a black\narrow tearing vertically southward, and a white arrow horizontally eastward,\nacross the tail of the first. As though for reassurance he looked up at the\nimperturbable face in the portrait. Was it conceivable that the second arrow\ndid not even exist?\nHis interest flagged again. He drank another mouthful of gin, picked up the\nwhite knight and made a tentative move. Check. But it was evidently not the\nright move, because\nUncalled, a memory floated into his mind. He saw a candle-lit room with\na vast white-counterpaned bed, and himself, a boy of nine or ten, sitting on\nthe floor, shaking a dice-box, and laughing excitedly. His mother was sitting\nopposite him and also laughing.\nIt must have been about a month before she disappeared. It was a moment\nof reconciliation, when the nagging hunger in his belly was forgotten and his\nearlier affection for her had temporarily revived. He remembered the day well,\na pelting, drenching day when the water streamed down the window-pane and\nthe light indoors was too dull to read by. The boredom of the two children in\nthe dark, cramped bedroom became unbearable. Winston whined and grizzled,\nmade futile demands for food, fretted about the room pulling everything out\nof place and kicking the wainscoting until the neighbours banged on the wall,\nwhile the younger child wailed intermittently. In the end his mother said, \u2019Now\nbe good, and I\u2019Il buy you a toy. A lovely toy \u2014 you\u2019ll love it\u2019; and then she had\ngone out in the rain, to a little general shop which was still sporadically open\nnearby, and came back with a cardboard box containing an outfit of Snakes\nand Ladders. He could still remember the smell of the damp cardboard. It was\na miserable outfit. The board was cracked and the tiny wooden dice were so\nill-cut that they would hardly lie on their sides. Winston looked at the thing\nsulkily and without interest. But then his mother lit a piece of candle and they\nsat down on the floor to play. Soon he was wildly excited and shouting with\nlaughter as the tiddly-winks climbed hopefully up the ladders and then came\nslithering down the snakes again, almost to the starting- point. They played\neight games, winning four each. His tiny sister, too young to understand what\nthe game was about, had sat propped up against a bolster, laughing because the\nothers were laughing. For a whole afternoon they had all been happy together,\nas in his earlier childhood.\nHe pushed the picture out of his mind. It was a false memory. He was\ntroubled by false memories occasionally. They did not matter so long as one\nknew them for what they were. Some things had happened, others had not\nhappened. He turned back to the chessboard and picked up the white knight\nagain. Almost in the same instant it dropped on to the board with a clatter.\nHe had started as though a pin had run into him.\nA shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin! Victory! It\nalways meant victory when a trumpet- call preceded the news. A sort of electric\ndrill ran through the caf \u0301e. Even the waiters had started and pricked up their\nears.\nThe trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an\nexcited voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started it was\nalmost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had run round\nthe streets like magic. He could hear just enough of what was issuing from the\ntelescreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had foreseen; a vast seaborne\narmada had secretly assembled a sudden blow in the enemy\u2019s rear, the white\narrow tearing across the tail of the black. Fragments of triumphant phrases\npushed themselves through the din: \u2019Vast strategic manoeuvre \u2014 perfect co-\nordination \u2014 utter rout \u2014 half a million prisoners \u2014 complete demoralization\n\u2014 control of the whole of Africa \u2014 bring the war within measurable distance of\nits end victory \u2014 greatest victory in human history \u2014 victory, victory, victory!\u2019\nUnder the table Winston\u2019s feet made convulsive movements. He had not\nstirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, he was\nwith the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at the\nportrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the world! The rock against\nwhich the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain! He thought how ten minutes\nago-yes, only ten minutes \u2014 there had still been equivocation in his heart as he\nwondered whether the news from the front would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it\nwas more than a Eurasian army that had perished! Much had changed in him\nsince that first day in the Ministry of Love, but the final, indispensable, healing\nchange had never happened, until this moment.\nThe voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners\nand booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The\nwaiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the\ngin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his glass\nwas filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back in the\nMinistry of Love, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in\nthe public dock, confessing everything, implicating everybody. He was walking\ndown the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an\narmed guard at his back. The longhoped-for bullet was entering his brain.\nHe gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn\nwhat kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless\nmisunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two\ngin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right,\neverything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother."}