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These are the OCR results for the 1949 published version of the book 1984 written by George Orwell. The OCR results have been produced with tesseract.
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Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his </p><p>breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly </p><p>through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not </p><p>quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter- </p><p>ing along with him. </p><p>The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At </p><p>one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, </p><p>had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enor- </p><p>mous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of </p><p>about forty- five, with a heavy black moustache and rugged- </p><p>ly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was </p><p>no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was sel- </p><p>dom working, and at present the electric current was cut </p><p>off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive </p><p>in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, </p><p>and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer </p><p>above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on </p><p>the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster </p><p>with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of </p><p>those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow </p><p>you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING </p><p>YOU, the caption beneath it ran. </p><p>Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of fig- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>3 </p><p>ures which had something to do with the production of </p><p>pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like </p><p>a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the </p><p>right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice</p><p>sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguish- </p><p>able. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be </p><p>dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off complete- </p><p>ly. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, </p><p>the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue </p><p>overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was </p><p>very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by </p><p>coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the win- </p><p>ter that had just ended. </p><p>Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world </p><p>looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were </p><p>whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the </p><p>sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed </p><p>to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were </p><p>plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio’d face gazed </p><p>down from every commanding corner. There was one on </p><p>the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS </p><p>WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes </p><p>looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at street level an- </p><p>other poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, </p><p>alternately covering and uncovering the single word IN- </p><p>GSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down </p><p>between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, </p><p>and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the po- </p><p>lice patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols did </p><p>4 </p><p>1984 </p><p>not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered. </p><p>Behind Winston’s back the voice from the telescreen was </p><p>still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment </p><p>of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and </p><p>transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, </p><p>above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by </p><p>it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vi- </p><p>sion which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen </p><p>as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing </p><p>whether you were being watched at any given moment. How </p><p>often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on </p><p>any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable </p><p>that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate </p><p>they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You </p><p>had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in </p><p>the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, </p><p>and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized. </p><p>Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was </p><p>safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. </p><p>A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, </p><p>towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, </p><p>he thought with a sort of vague distaste — this was London,</p><p>chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous </p><p>of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some </p><p>childhood memory that should tell him whether London </p><p>had always been quite like this. Were there always these vis- </p><p>tas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored </p><p>up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with card- </p><p>board and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>5 </p><p>garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed </p><p>sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the wil- </p><p>low-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places </p><p>where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had </p><p>sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chick- </p><p>en-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: </p><p>nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright- </p><p>lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly </p><p>unintelligible. </p><p>The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak [New- </p><p>speak was the official language of Oceania. For an account </p><p>of its structure and etymology see Appendix.] — was star- </p><p>tlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an </p><p>enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white con- </p><p>crete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the </p><p>air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, </p><p>picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three </p><p>slogans of the Party: </p><p>WAR IS PEACE </p><p>FREEDOM IS SLAVERY </p><p>IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH </p><p>The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three </p><p>thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding </p><p>ramifications below. Scattered about London there were </p><p>just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. </p><p>So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architec- </p><p>ture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see </p><p>6 </p><p>1984 </p><p>all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of </p><p>the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus</p><p>of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which </p><p>concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and </p><p>the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself </p><p>with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and </p><p>order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible </p><p>for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, </p><p>Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty. </p><p>The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. </p><p>There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been </p><p>inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. </p><p>It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, </p><p>and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed- </p><p>wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun </p><p>nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were </p><p>roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed </p><p>with jointed truncheons. </p><p>Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features </p><p>into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advis- </p><p>able to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the </p><p>room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this </p><p>time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and </p><p>he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except </p><p>a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved </p><p>for tomorrow’s breakfast. He took down from the shelf a </p><p>bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked </p><p>VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese </p><p>rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>7 </p><p>himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medi- </p><p>cine. </p><p>Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out </p><p>of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in </p><p>swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back </p><p>of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however, </p><p>the burning in his belly died down and the world began to </p><p>look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled </p><p>packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously </p><p>held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the </p><p>floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back </p><p>to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood </p><p>to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took </p><p>out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized </p><p>blank book with a red back and a marbled cover. </p><p>For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in </p><p>an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, </p><p>in the end wall, where it could command the whole room, </p><p>it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side</p><p>of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now </p><p>sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably </p><p>been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove, </p><p>and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside </p><p>the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could </p><p>be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present </p><p>position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual ge- </p><p>ography of the room that had suggested to him the thing </p><p>that he was now about to do. </p><p>But it had also been suggested by the book that he had </p><p>1984 </p><p>just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful </p><p>book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was </p><p>of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least for- </p><p>ty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was </p><p>much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of </p><p>a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town </p><p>(just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been </p><p>stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess </p><p>it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary </p><p>shops (’dealing on the free market’, it was called), but the </p><p>rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, </p><p>such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible </p><p>to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance </p><p>up and down the street and then had slipped inside and </p><p>bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not </p><p>conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had </p><p>carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing </p><p>written in it, it was a compromising possession. </p><p>The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. </p><p>This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no </p><p>longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain </p><p>that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty- </p><p>five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into </p><p>the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen </p><p>was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, </p><p>and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, </p><p>simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper </p><p>deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being </p><p>scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>9 </p><p>writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usu- </p><p>al to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of </p><p>course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the</p><p>pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A trem- </p><p>or had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the </p><p>decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote: </p><p>April 4th, 1984. </p><p>He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had de- </p><p>scended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any </p><p>certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that </p><p>date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, </p><p>and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but </p><p>it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within </p><p>a year or two. </p><p>For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he </p><p>writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind </p><p>hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, </p><p>and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak </p><p>word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of </p><p>what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you </p><p>communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossi- </p><p>ble. Either the future would resemble the present, in which </p><p>case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from </p><p>it, and his predicament would be meaningless. </p><p>For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The </p><p>telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It </p><p>was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the pow- </p><p>10 </p><p>1984 </p><p>er of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it </p><p>was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past </p><p>he had been making ready for this moment, and it had nev- </p><p>er crossed his mind that anything would be needed except </p><p>courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to </p><p>do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless mono- </p><p>logue that had been running inside his head, literally for </p><p>years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had </p><p>dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching </p><p>unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it </p><p>always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He </p><p>was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page </p><p>in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the </p><p>blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the </p><p>gin. </p><p>Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imper- </p><p>fectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but </p><p>childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shed- </p><p>ding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops: </p><p>April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One</p><p>very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed </p><p>somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused </p><p>by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with </p><p>a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along </p><p>in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the </p><p>helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea </p><p>round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though </p><p>the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>11 </p><p>when he sank, then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a </p><p>helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman </p><p>might have been a Jewess sitting up in the bow with a little </p><p>boy about three years old in her arms, little boy screaming </p><p>with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he </p><p>was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting </p><p>her arms round him and comforting him although she was </p><p>blue with fright herself all the time covering him up as much </p><p>as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets </p><p>off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among </p><p>them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood, then </p><p>there was a wonderful shot of a child’s arm going up up up </p><p>right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose </p><p>must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from </p><p>the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the </p><p>house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they </p><p>didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it </p><p>aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned </p><p>her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her </p><p>nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they </p><p>never </p><p>Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffer- </p><p>ing from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour </p><p>out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that </p><p>while he was doing so a totally different memory had clar- </p><p>ified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt </p><p>equal to writing it down. It was, he now realized, because </p><p>of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come </p><p>12 </p><p>1984 </p><p>home and begin the diary today. </p><p>It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if any- </p><p>thing so nebulous could be said to happen.</p><p>It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records De- </p><p>partment, where Winston worked, they were dragging the </p><p>chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the cen- </p><p>tre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for </p><p>the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place </p><p>in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew </p><p>by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into </p><p>the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in </p><p>the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that </p><p>she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably — since </p><p>he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a </p><p>spanner — she had some mechanical job on one of the nov- </p><p>el-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about </p><p>twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, </p><p>athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the </p><p>Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round </p><p>the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the </p><p>shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the </p><p>very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was </p><p>because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths </p><p>and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which </p><p>she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all </p><p>women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was al- </p><p>ways the women, and above all the young ones, who were </p><p>the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers </p><p>of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unortho- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>13 </p><p>doxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of </p><p>being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed </p><p>in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which </p><p>seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled </p><p>him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind </p><p>that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it </p><p>was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a pe- </p><p>culiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as </p><p>hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him. </p><p>The other person was a man named O’Brien, a member </p><p>of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important </p><p>and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature. </p><p>A momentary hush passed over the group of people round </p><p>the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party </p><p>member approaching. O’Brien was a large, burly man with </p><p>a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of </p><p>his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of man- </p><p>ner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose </p><p>which was curiously disarming — in some indefinable way, </p><p>curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had </p><p>still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eigh- </p><p>teenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston</p><p>had seen O’Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many </p><p>years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because </p><p>he was intrigued by the contrast between O’Brien’s urbane </p><p>manner and his prize-fighter’s physique. Much more it was </p><p>because of a secretly held belief— or perhaps not even a be- </p><p>lief, merely a hope — that O’Brien’s political orthodoxy was </p><p>not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly. </p><p>14 </p><p>1984 </p><p>And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was </p><p>written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate </p><p>he had the appearance of being a person that you could </p><p>talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get </p><p>him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to </p><p>verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At </p><p>this moment O’Brien glanced at his wrist-watch, saw that it </p><p>was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in </p><p>the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was </p><p>over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple </p><p>of places away. A small, sandy-haired woman who worked </p><p>in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl </p><p>with dark hair was sitting immediately behind. </p><p>The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some </p><p>monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the </p><p>big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set </p><p>one’s teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one’s </p><p>neck. The Hate had started. </p><p>As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of </p><p>the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses </p><p>here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired </p><p>woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Gold- </p><p>stein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago </p><p>(how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of </p><p>the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big </p><p>Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolu- </p><p>tionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had </p><p>mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of </p><p>the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>15 </p><p>none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He </p><p>was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party’s pu- </p><p>rity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries,</p><p>acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out </p><p>of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and </p><p>hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the </p><p>sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps </p><p>even — so it was occasionally rumoured — in some hiding- </p><p>place in Oceania itself. </p><p>Winston’s diaphragm was constricted. He could never </p><p>see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emo- </p><p>tions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of </p><p>white hair and a small goatee beard — a clever face, and yet </p><p>somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile sil- </p><p>liness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair </p><p>of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, </p><p>and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was </p><p>delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines </p><p>of the Party — an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a </p><p>child should have been able to see through it, and yet just </p><p>plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that </p><p>other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken </p><p>in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing </p><p>the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the imme- </p><p>diate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating </p><p>freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of as- </p><p>sembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that </p><p>the revolution had been betrayed — and all this in rapid </p><p>polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the ha- </p><p>16 </p><p>1984 </p><p>bitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained </p><p>Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any </p><p>Party member would normally use in real life. And all the </p><p>while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which </p><p>Goldstein’s specious claptrap covered, behind his head on </p><p>the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the </p><p>Eurasian army — row after row of solid-looking men with </p><p>expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface </p><p>of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exact- </p><p>ly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers’ boots </p><p>formed the background to Goldstein’s bleating voice. </p><p>Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncon- </p><p>trollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half </p><p>the people in the room. The self-satisfied sheep-like face on </p><p>the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army </p><p>behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or </p><p>even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger au- </p><p>tomatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than </p><p>either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war </p><p>with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the </p><p>other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein </p><p>was hated and despised by everybody, although every day</p><p>and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, </p><p>in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, </p><p>ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rub- </p><p>bish that they were — in spite of all this, his influence never </p><p>seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting </p><p>to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and </p><p>saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>17 </p><p>by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast </p><p>shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators </p><p>dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, </p><p>its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered </p><p>stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, </p><p>of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated </p><p>clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title. </p><p>People referred to it, if at all, simply as THE BOOK. But one </p><p>knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither </p><p>the Brotherhood nor THE BOOK was a subject that any or- </p><p>dinary Party member would mention if there was a way of </p><p>avoiding it. </p><p>In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People </p><p>were leaping up and down in their places and shouting </p><p>at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the mad- </p><p>dening bleating voice that came from the screen. The </p><p>little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and </p><p>her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed </p><p>fish. Even O’Brien’s heavy face was flushed. He was sitting </p><p>very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and </p><p>quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a </p><p>wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun cry- </p><p>ing out ‘Swine! Swine! Swine!’ and suddenly she picked up </p><p>a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen. It </p><p>struck Goldstein’s nose and bounced off; the voice contin- </p><p>ued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he </p><p>was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violent- </p><p>ly against the rung of his chair. The horrible thing about </p><p>the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act </p><p>18 </p><p>1984 </p><p>a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid </p><p>joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always </p><p>unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, </p><p>a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-</p><p>hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people </p><p>like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will </p><p>into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that </p><p>one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could </p><p>be switched from one object to another like the flame of a </p><p>blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston’s hatred was not </p><p>turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against </p><p>Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such </p><p>moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic </p><p>on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world </p><p>of lies. And yet the very next instant he was at one with the </p><p>people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed </p><p>to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing of </p><p>Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed </p><p>to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like </p><p>a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite </p><p>of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung </p><p>about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchant- </p><p>er, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the </p><p>structure of civilization. </p><p>It was even possible, at moments, to switch one’s ha- </p><p>tred this way or that by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the </p><p>sort of violent effort with which one wrenches one’s head </p><p>away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded </p><p>in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>19 </p><p>the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucina- </p><p>tions flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death </p><p>with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake </p><p>and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would </p><p>ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Bet- </p><p>ter than before, moreover, he realized WHY it was that he </p><p>hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty </p><p>and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and </p><p>would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, </p><p>which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there </p><p>was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chas- </p><p>tity. </p><p>The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had </p><p>become an actual sheep’s bleat, and for an instant the face </p><p>changed into that of a sheep. Then the sheep -face melted into </p><p>the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing, </p><p>huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seem- </p><p>ing to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some </p><p>of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards </p><p>in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh </p><p>of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the </p><p>face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio’d, full </p><p>of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost</p><p>filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was </p><p>saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the </p><p>sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distin- </p><p>guishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact </p><p>of being spoken. Then the face of Big Brother faded away </p><p>again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out </p><p>20 </p><p>1984 </p><p>in bold capitals: </p><p>WAR IS PEACE </p><p>FREEDOM IS SLAVERY </p><p>IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH </p><p>But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for sever- </p><p>al seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had </p><p>made on everyone’s eyeballs was too vivid to wear off im- </p><p>mediately. The little sandy-haired woman had flung herself </p><p>forward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a </p><p>tremulous murmur that sounded like ‘My Saviour!’ she ex- </p><p>tended her arms towards the screen. Then she buried her </p><p>face in her hands. It was apparent that she was uttering a </p><p>prayer. </p><p>At this moment the entire group of people broke into a </p><p>deep, slow, rhythmical chant of ‘B-BL.B-B!’ — over and over </p><p>again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first ‘B’ </p><p>and the second — a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow </p><p>curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed </p><p>to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom- </p><p>toms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it </p><p>up. It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of </p><p>overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the </p><p>wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was </p><p>an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of conscious- </p><p>ness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston’s entrails seemed </p><p>to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help </p><p>sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chant- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>21 </p><p>ing ofB-BL.B-B!’ always filled him with horror. Of course </p><p>he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise. </p><p>To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what</p><p>everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction. But </p><p>there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the </p><p>expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him. </p><p>And it was exactly at this moment that the significant thing </p><p>happened — if, indeed, it did happen. </p><p>Momentarily he caught O’Brien’s eye. O’Brien had stood </p><p>up. He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of </p><p>resettling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture. </p><p>But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes met, </p><p>and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew — yes, he </p><p>KNEW! — that O’Brien was thinking the same thing as him- </p><p>self. An unmistakable message had passed. It was as though </p><p>their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing </p><p>from one into the other through their eyes. ‘I am with you,’ </p><p>O’Brien seemed to be saying to him. ‘I know precisely what </p><p>you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your ha- </p><p>tred, your disgust. But don’t worry, I am on your side!’ And </p><p>then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O’Brien’s face </p><p>was as inscrutable as everybody else’s. </p><p>That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had </p><p>happened. Such incidents never had any sequel. All that they </p><p>did was to keep alive in him the belief, or hope, that oth- </p><p>ers besides himself were the enemies of the Party. Perhaps </p><p>the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true </p><p>after all — perhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was </p><p>impossible, in spite of the endless arrests and confessions </p><p>22 </p><p>1984 </p><p>and executions, to be sure that the Brotherhood was not </p><p>simply a myth. Some days he believed in it, some days not. </p><p>There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might </p><p>mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conver- </p><p>sation, faint scribbles on lavatory walls — once, even, when </p><p>two strangers met, a small movement of the hand which </p><p>had looked as though it might be a signal of recognition. It </p><p>was all guesswork: very likely he had imagined everything. </p><p>He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at O’Brien </p><p>again. The idea of following up their momentary contact </p><p>hardly crossed his mind. It would have been inconceivably </p><p>dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it. </p><p>For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivo- </p><p>cal glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that </p><p>was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which </p><p>one had to live. </p><p>Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out </p><p>a belch. The gin was rising from his stomach. </p><p>His eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that </p><p>while he sat helplessly musing he had also been writing, as</p><p>though by automatic action. And it was no longer the same </p><p>cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid </p><p>voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat </p><p>capitals— DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH </p><p>BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN </p><p>WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER </p><p>over and over again, filling half a page. </p><p>He could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was ab- </p><p>surd, since the writing of those particular words was not </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>23 </p><p>more dangerous than the initial act of opening the diary, </p><p>but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled </p><p>pages and abandon the enterprise altogether. </p><p>He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was </p><p>useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, </p><p>or whether he refrained from writing it, made no differ- </p><p>ence. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did </p><p>not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police </p><p>would get him just the same. He had committed — would </p><p>still have committed, even if he had never set pen to pa- </p><p>per — the essential crime that contained all others in itself. </p><p>Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing </p><p>that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge success- </p><p>fully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they </p><p>were bound to get you. </p><p>It was always at night — the arrests invariably happened </p><p>at night. The sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shak- </p><p>ing your shoulder, the lights glaring in your eyes, the ring of </p><p>hard faces round the bed. In the vast majority of cases there </p><p>was no trial, no report of the arrest. People simply disap- </p><p>peared, always during the night. Your name was removed </p><p>from the registers, every record of everything you had ever </p><p>done was wiped out, your one-time existence was denied </p><p>and then forgotten. You were abolished, annihilated: VA- </p><p>PORIZED was the usual word. </p><p>For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He be- </p><p>gan writing in a hurried untidy scrawl: </p><p>theyll shoot me i don’t care theyll shoot me in the back of the </p><p>24 </p><p>1984 </p><p>neck i dont care down with big brother they always shoot you </p><p>in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother </p><p>He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and </p><p>laid down the pen. The next moment he started violently. </p><p>There was a knocking at the door. </p><p>Already! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that </p><p>whoever it was might go away after a single attempt. But no, </p><p>the knocking was repeated. The worst thing of all would be </p><p>to delay. His heart was thumping like a drum, but his face, </p><p>from long habit, was probably expressionless. He got up and </p><p>moved heavily towards the door. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>25 </p><p>Chapter 2 </p><p>A s he put his hand to the door-knob Winston saw that </p><p>he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH </p><p>BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in letters almost big </p><p>enough to be legible across the room. It was an inconceiv- </p><p>ably stupid thing to have done. But, he realized, even in his </p><p>panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by </p><p>shutting the book while the ink was wet. </p><p>He drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly </p><p>a warm wave of relief flowed through him. A colourless, </p><p>crushed-looking woman, with wispy hair and a lined face, </p><p>was standing outside. </p><p>‘Oh, comrade,’ she began in a dreary, whining sort of </p><p>voice, ‘I thought I heard you come in. Do you think you </p><p>could come across and have a look at our kitchen sink? It’s </p><p>got blocked up and ’ </p><p>It was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same </p><p>floor. (’Mrs’ was a word somewhat discountenanced by the </p><p>Party — you were supposed to call everyone ‘comrade’ — </p><p>but with some women one used it instinctively.) She was </p><p>a woman of about thirty, but looking much older. One had </p><p>the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face. </p><p>Winston followed her down the passage. These amateur re- </p><p>pair jobs were an almost daily irritation. Victory Mansions </p><p>were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were falling </p><p>26 </p><p>1984 </p><p>to pieces. The plaster flaked constantly from ceilings and </p><p>walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked </p><p>whenever there was snow, the heating system was usually </p><p>running at half steam when it was not closed down alto- </p><p>gether from motives of economy. Repairs, except what you </p><p>could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by remote com- </p><p>mittees which were liable to hold up even the mending of a </p><p>window-pane for two years. </p><p>‘Of course it’s only because Tom isn’t home,’ said Mrs </p><p>Parsons vaguely. </p><p>The Parsons’ flat was bigger than Winston’s, and dingy </p><p>in a different way. Everything had a battered, trampled-on </p><p>look, as though the place had just been visited by some large </p><p>violent animal. Games impedimenta — hockey-sticks, box- </p><p>ing-gloves, a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts turned </p><p>inside out — lay all over the floor, and on the table there was </p><p>a litter of dirty dishes and dog-eared exercise-books. On </p><p>the walls were scarlet banners of the Youth League and the </p><p>Spies, and a full-sized poster of Big Brother. There was the </p><p>usual boiled-cabbage smell, common to the whole building, </p><p>but it was shot through by a sharper reek of sweat, which — </p><p>one knew this at the first sniff, though it was hard to say </p><p>how — was the sweat of some person not present at the mo- </p><p>ment. In another room someone with a comb and a piece of </p><p>toilet paper was trying to keep tune with the military music </p><p>which was still issuing from the telescreen. </p><p>‘It’s the children,’ said Mrs Parsons, casting a half-ap- </p><p>prehensive glance at the door. ‘They haven’t been out today. </p><p>And of course ’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>27 </p><p>She had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the mid- </p><p>dle. The kitchen sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy </p><p>greenish water which smelt worse than ever of cabbage. </p><p>Winston knelt down and examined the angle-joint of the </p><p>pipe. He hated using his hands, and he hated bending down, </p><p>which was always liable to start him coughing. Mrs Parsons </p><p>looked on helplessly. </p><p>‘Of course if Tom was home he’d put it right in a mo- </p><p>ment,’ she said. ‘He loves anything like that. He’s ever so </p><p>good with his hands, Tom is.’ </p><p>Parsons was Winston’s fellow- employee at the Minis- </p><p>try of Truth. He was a fattish but active man of paralysing</p><p>stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasms — one of those </p><p>completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on whom, </p><p>more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the </p><p>Party depended. At thirty-five he had just been unwilling- </p><p>ly evicted from the Youth League, and before graduating </p><p>into the Youth League he had managed to stay on in the </p><p>Spies for a year beyond the statutory age. At the Ministry </p><p>he was employed in some subordinate post for which in- </p><p>telligence was not required, but on the other hand he was </p><p>a leading figure on the Sports Committee and all the other </p><p>committees engaged in organizing community hikes, spon- </p><p>taneous demonstrations, savings campaigns, and voluntary </p><p>activities generally. He would inform you with quiet pride, </p><p>between whiffs of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance </p><p>at the Community Centre every evening for the past four </p><p>years. An overpowering smell of sweat, a sort of uncon- </p><p>scious testimony to the strenuousness of his life, followed </p><p>28 </p><p>1984 </p><p>him about wherever he went, and even remained behind </p><p>him after he had gone. </p><p>‘Have you got a spanner?’ said Winston, fiddling with the </p><p>nut on the angle-joint. </p><p>‘A spanner,’ said Mrs Parsons, immediately becoming </p><p>invertebrate. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. Perhaps the children — </p><p>There was a trampling of boots and another blast on the </p><p>comb as the children charged into the living-room. Mrs </p><p>Parsons brought the spanner. Winston let out the water </p><p>and disgustedly removed the clot of human hair that had </p><p>blocked up the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could </p><p>in the cold water from the tap and went back into the other </p><p>room. </p><p>‘Up with your hands!’ yelled a savage voice. </p><p>A handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up </p><p>from behind the table and was menacing him with a toy </p><p>automatic pistol, while his small sister, about two years </p><p>younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood. </p><p>Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirts, </p><p>and red neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies. </p><p>Winston raised his hands above his head, but with an un- </p><p>easy feeling, so vicious was the boy’s demeanour, that it was </p><p>not altogether a game. </p><p>‘You’re a traitor!’ yelled the boy. ‘You’re a thought- crimi- </p><p>nal! You’re a Eurasian spy! I’ll shoot you, I’ll vaporize you, </p><p>I’ll send you to the salt mines!’ </p><p>Suddenly they were both leaping round him, shouting </p><p>‘Traitor!’ and ‘Thought-criminal!’ the little girl imitating </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>29 </p><p>her brother in every movement. It was somehow slightly </p><p>frightening, like the gambolling of tiger cubs which will </p><p>soon grow up into man-eaters. There was a sort of calculat- </p><p>ing ferocity in the boy’s eye, a quite evident desire to hit or </p><p>kick Winston and a consciousness of being very nearly big </p><p>enough to do so. It was a good job it was not a real pistol he </p><p>was holding, Winston thought. </p><p>Mrs Parsons’ eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the </p><p>children, and back again. In the better light of the living- </p><p>room he noticed with interest that there actually was dust </p><p>in the creases of her face. </p><p>‘They do get so noisy,’ she said. ‘They’re disappointed </p><p>because they couldn’t go to see the hanging, that’s what it </p><p>is. I’m too busy to take them, and Tom won’t be back from </p><p>work in time.’ </p><p>‘Why can’t we go and see the hanging?’ roared the boy in </p><p>his huge voice. </p><p>‘Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!’ </p><p>chanted the little girl, still capering round. </p><p>Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to </p><p>be hanged in the Park that evening, Winston remembered. </p><p>This happened about once a month, and was a popular spec- </p><p>tacle. Children always clamoured to be taken to see it. He </p><p>took his leave of Mrs Parsons and made for the door. But he </p><p>had not gone six steps down the passage when something </p><p>hit the back of his neck an agonizingly painful blow. It was </p><p>as though a red-hot wire had been jabbed into him. He spun </p><p>round just in time to see Mrs Parsons dragging her son back </p><p>into the doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult. </p><p>30 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘Goldstein!’ bellowed the boy as the door closed on him. </p><p>But what most struck Winston was the look of helpless </p><p>fright on the woman’s greyish face. </p><p>Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen</p><p>and sat down at the table again, still rubbing his neck. The </p><p>music from the telescreen had stopped. Instead, a clipped </p><p>military voice was reading out, with a sort of brutal relish, </p><p>a description of the armaments of the new Floating For- </p><p>tress which had just been anchored between Iceland and </p><p>the Faroe Islands. </p><p>With those children, he thought, that wretched wom- </p><p>an must lead a life of terror. Another year, two years, and </p><p>they would be watching her night and day for symptoms of </p><p>unorthodoxy. Nearly all children nowadays were horrible. </p><p>What was worst of all was that by means of such organi- </p><p>zations as the Spies they were systematically turned into </p><p>ungovernable little savages, and yet this produced in them </p><p>no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the </p><p>Party. On the contrary, they adored the Party and every- </p><p>thing connected with it. The songs, the processions, the </p><p>banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the </p><p>yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother — it was all a </p><p>sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned </p><p>outwards, against the enemies of the State, against foreign- </p><p>ers, traitors, saboteurs, thought-criminals. It was almost </p><p>normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own </p><p>children. And with good reason, for hardly a week passed </p><p>in which ‘The Times’ did not carry a paragraph describing </p><p>how some eavesdropping little sneak — child hero’ was the </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>3i </p><p>phrase generally used — had overheard some compromising </p><p>remark and denounced its parents to the Thought Police. </p><p>The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked </p><p>up his pen half-heartedly, wondering whether he could find </p><p>something more to write in the diary. Suddenly he began </p><p>thinking of O’Brien again. </p><p>Years ago — how long was it? Seven years it must be — he </p><p>had dreamed that he was walking through a pitch-dark </p><p>room. And someone sitting to one side of him had said as </p><p>he passed: ‘We shall meet in the place where there is no </p><p>darkness.’ It was said very quietly, almost casually — a state- </p><p>ment, not a command. He had walked on without pausing. </p><p>What was curious was that at the time, in the dream, the </p><p>words had not made much impression on him. It was only </p><p>later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on signifi- </p><p>cance. He could not now remember whether it was before </p><p>or after having the dream that he had seen O’Brien for the </p><p>first time, nor could he remember when he had first identi- </p><p>fied the voice as O’Brien’s. But at any rate the identification </p><p>existed. It was O’Brien who had spoken to him out of the </p><p>dark. </p><p>Winston had never been able to feel sure — even after this </p><p>morning’s flash of the eyes it was still impossible to be sure </p><p>whether O’Brien was a friend or an enemy. Nor did it even </p><p>seem to matter greatly. There was a link of understanding </p><p>between them, more important than affection or partisan- </p><p>ship. ‘We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,’ </p><p>he had said. Winston did not know what it meant, only that </p><p>in some way or another it would come true. </p><p>32 </p><p>1984 </p><p>The voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call, </p><p>clear and beautiful, floated into the stagnant air. The voice </p><p>continued raspingly: </p><p>’Attention! Your attention, please! A newsflash has this </p><p>moment arrived from the Malabar front. Our forces in South </p><p>India have won a glorious victory. I am authorized to say </p><p>that the action we are now reporting may well bring the war </p><p>within measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash — </p><p>Bad news coming, thought Winston. And sure enough, </p><p>following on a gory description of the annihilation of a </p><p>Eurasian army, with stupendous figures of killed and pris- </p><p>oners, came the announcement that, as from next week, the </p><p>chocolate ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to </p><p>twenty. </p><p>Winston belched again. The gin was wearing off, leaving </p><p>a deflated feeling. The telescreen — perhaps to celebrate the </p><p>victory, perhaps to drown the memory of the lost chocolate — </p><p>crashed into ‘Oceania, ‘tis for thee’. You were supposed to </p><p>stand to attention. However, in his present position he was </p><p>invisible. </p><p>‘Oceania, ‘tis for thee’ gave way to lighter music. Win- </p><p>ston walked over to the window, keeping his back to the </p><p>telescreen. The day was still cold and clear. Somewhere far </p><p>away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull, reverberating </p><p>roar. About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on </p><p>London at present. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>33 </p><p>Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to </p><p>and fro, and the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and van-</p><p>ished. Ingsoc. The sacred principles of Ingsoc. Newspeak, </p><p>doublethink, the mutability of the past. He felt as though </p><p>he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in </p><p>a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He </p><p>was alone. The past was dead, the future was unimaginable. </p><p>What certainty had he that a single human creature now </p><p>living was on his side? And what way of knowing that the </p><p>dominion of the Party would not endure FOR EVER? Like </p><p>an answer, the three slogans on the white face of the Minis- </p><p>try of Truth came back to him: </p><p>WAR IS PEACE </p><p>FREEDOM IS SLAVERY </p><p>IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH </p><p>He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There, </p><p>too, in tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, </p><p>and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Broth- </p><p>er. Even from the coin the eyes pursued you. On coins, on </p><p>stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and </p><p>on the wrappings of a cigarette packet — everywhere. Al- </p><p>ways the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. </p><p>Asleep or awake, working or eating, indoors or out of doors, </p><p>in the bath or in bed — no escape. Nothing was your own ex- </p><p>cept the few cubic centimetres inside your skull. </p><p>The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of </p><p>the Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on </p><p>34 </p><p>1984 </p><p>them, looked grim as the loopholes of a fortress. His heart </p><p>quailed before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too </p><p>strong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs </p><p>would not batter it down. He wondered again for whom he </p><p>was writing the diary. For the future, for the past — for an </p><p>age that might be imaginary. And in front of him there lay </p><p>not death but annihilation. The diary would be reduced </p><p>to ashes and himself to vapour. Only the Thought Police </p><p>would read what he had written, before they wiped it out of </p><p>existence and out of memory. How could you make appeal </p><p>to the future when not a trace of you, not even an anony- </p><p>mous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically </p><p>survive? </p><p>The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten min- </p><p>utes. He had to be back at work by fourteen-thirty. </p><p>Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put </p><p>new heart into him. He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth </p><p>that nobody would ever hear. But so long as he uttered it,</p><p>in some obscure way the continuity was not broken. It was </p><p>not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you </p><p>carried on the human heritage. He went back to the table, </p><p>dipped his pen, and wrote: </p><p>To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is </p><p>free, when men are different from one another and do not </p><p>live alone — to a time when truth exists and what is done </p><p>cannot be undone: From the age of uniformity, from the </p><p>age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of </p><p>doublethink — greetings! </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>35 </p><p>He was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that </p><p>it was only now, when he had begun to be able to formulate </p><p>his thoughts, that he had taken the decisive step. The conse- </p><p>quences of every act are included in the act itself. He wrote: </p><p>Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death. </p><p>Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became </p><p>important to stay alive as long as possible. Two fingers of his </p><p>right hand were inkstained. It was exactly the kind of detail </p><p>that might betray you. Some nosing zealot in the Ministry </p><p>(a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired </p><p>woman or the dark-haired girl from the Fiction Depart- </p><p>ment) might start wondering why he had been writing </p><p>during the lunch interval, why he had used an old-fash- </p><p>ioned pen, WHAT he had been writing — and then drop a </p><p>hint in the appropriate quarter. He went to the bathroom </p><p>and carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty dark- </p><p>brown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was </p><p>therefore well adapted for this purpose. </p><p>He put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless </p><p>to think of hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether </p><p>or not its existence had been discovered. A hair laid across </p><p>the page-ends was too obvious. With the tip of his finger he </p><p>picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and depos- </p><p>ited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be </p><p>shaken off if the book was moved. </p><p>3 « </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter 3 </p><p>W inston was dreaming of his mother. </p><p>He must, he thought, have been ten or elev- </p><p>en years old when his mother had disappeared. She was </p><p>a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow move- </p><p>ments and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered </p><p>more vaguely as dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark </p><p>clothes (Winston remembered especially the very thin soles </p><p>of his father’s shoes) and wearing spectacles. The two of </p><p>them must evidently have been swallowed up in one of the </p><p>first great purges of the fifties. </p><p>At this moment his mother was sitting in some place </p><p>deep down beneath him, with his young sister in her arms. </p><p>He did not remember his sister at all, except as a tiny, feeble </p><p>baby, always silent, with large, watchful eyes. Both of them </p><p>were looking up at him. They were down in some subter- </p><p>ranean place — the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very </p><p>deep grave — but it was a place which, already far below him, </p><p>was itself moving downwards. They were in the saloon of </p><p>a sinking ship, looking up at him through the darkening </p><p>water. There was still air in the saloon, they could still see </p><p>him and he them, but all the while they were sinking down, </p><p>down into the green waters which in another moment must </p><p>hide them from sight for ever. He was out in the light and </p><p>air while they were being sucked down to death, and they </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>37 </p><p>were down there because he was up here. He knew it and </p><p>they knew it, and he could see the knowledge in their faces. </p><p>There was no reproach either in their faces or in their hearts, </p><p>only the knowledge that they must die in order that he </p><p>might remain alive, and that this was part of the unavoid- </p><p>able order of things. </p><p>He could not remember what had happened, but he knew </p><p>in his dream that in some way the lives of his mother and </p><p>his sister had been sacrificed to his own. It was one of those </p><p>dreams which, while retaining the characteristic dream </p><p>scenery, are a continuation of one’s intellectual life, and </p><p>in which one becomes aware of facts and ideas which still </p><p>seem new and valuable after one is awake. The thing that </p><p>now suddenly struck Winston was that his mother’s death, </p><p>nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a </p><p>way that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he perceived, be- </p><p>longed to the ancient time, to a time when there was still </p><p>privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of a </p><p>family stood by one another without needing to know the </p><p>reason. His mother’s memory tore at his heart because she </p><p>had died loving him, when he was too young and selfish </p><p>to love her in return, and because somehow, he did not re-</p><p>member how, she had sacrificed herself to a conception of </p><p>loyalty that was private and unalterable. Such things, he </p><p>saw, could not happen today. Today there were fear, hatred, </p><p>and pain, but no dignity of emotion, no deep or complex </p><p>sorrows. All this he seemed to see in the large eyes of his </p><p>mother and his sister, looking up at him through the green </p><p>water, hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking. </p><p>38 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a </p><p>summer evening when the slanting rays of the sun gilded </p><p>the ground. The landscape that he was looking at recurred </p><p>so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain </p><p>whether or not he had seen it in the real world. In his wak- </p><p>ing thoughts he called it the Golden Country. It was an old, </p><p>rabbit-bitten pasture, with a foot-track wandering across it </p><p>and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on the </p><p>opposite side of the field the boughs of the elm trees were </p><p>swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring </p><p>in dense masses like women’s hair. Somewhere near at hand, </p><p>though out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream </p><p>where dace were swimming in the pools under the willow </p><p>trees. </p><p>The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across </p><p>the field. With what seemed a single movement she tore off </p><p>her clothes and flung them disdainfully aside. Her body </p><p>was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, in- </p><p>deed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that </p><p>instant was admiration for the gesture with which she had </p><p>thrown her clothes aside. With its grace and carelessness </p><p>it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system </p><p>of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the </p><p>Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a sin- </p><p>gle splendid movement of the arm. That too was a gesture </p><p>belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the </p><p>word ‘Shakespeare’ on his lips. </p><p>The telescreen was giving forth an ear-splitting whistle </p><p>which continued on the same note for thirty seconds. It </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>39 </p><p>was nought seven fifteen, getting-up time for office workers. </p><p>Winston wrenched his body out of bed — naked, for a mem- </p><p>ber of the Outer Party received only 3,000 clothing coupons</p><p>annually, and a suit of pyjamas was 600 — and seized a din- </p><p>gy singlet and a pair of shorts that were lying across a chair. </p><p>The Physical Jerks would begin in three minutes. The next </p><p>moment he was doubled up by a violent coughing fit which </p><p>nearly always attacked him soon after waking up. It emptied </p><p>his lungs so completely that he could only begin breathing </p><p>again by lying on his back and taking a series of deep gasps. </p><p>His veins had swelled with the effort of the cough, and the </p><p>varicose ulcer had started itching. </p><p>‘Thirty to forty group!’ yapped a piercing female voice. </p><p>‘Thirty to forty group! Take your places, please. Thirties to </p><p>forties!’ </p><p>Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, </p><p>upon which the image of a youngish woman, scrawny but </p><p>muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-shoes, had already ap- </p><p>peared. </p><p>‘Arms bending and stretching!’ she rapped out. ‘Take </p><p>your time by me. ONE, two, three, four! ONE, two, three, </p><p>four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of life into it! ONE, two, </p><p>three four! ONE two, three, four!...’ </p><p>The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of </p><p>Winston’s mind the impression made by his dream, and the </p><p>rhythmic movements of the exercise restored it somewhat. </p><p>As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, wearing </p><p>on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was consid- </p><p>ered proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling </p><p>40 </p><p>1984 </p><p>to think his way backward into the dim period of his early </p><p>childhood. It was extraordinarily difficult. Beyond the late </p><p>fifties everything faded. When there were no external re- </p><p>cords that you could refer to, even the outline of your own </p><p>life lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which </p><p>had quite probably not happened, you remembered the </p><p>detail of incidents without being able to recapture their at- </p><p>mosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you </p><p>could assign nothing. Everything had been different then. </p><p>Even the names of countries, and their shapes on the map, </p><p>had been different. Airstrip One, for instance, had not been </p><p>so called in those days: it had been called England or Brit- </p><p>ain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had always been </p><p>called London. </p><p>Winston could not definitely remember a time when his </p><p>country had not been at war, but it was evident that there </p><p>had been a fairly long interval of peace during his child- </p><p>hood, because one of his early memories was of an air raid </p><p>which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was</p><p>the time when the atomic bomb had fallen on Colchester. </p><p>He did not remember the raid itself, but he did remember </p><p>his father’s hand clutching his own as they hurried down, </p><p>down, down into some place deep in the earth, round and </p><p>round a spiral staircase which rang under his feet and which </p><p>finally so wearied his legs that he began whimpering and </p><p>they had to stop and rest. His mother, in her slow, dreamy </p><p>way, was following a long way behind them. She was car- </p><p>rying his baby sister — or perhaps it was only a bundle of </p><p>blankets that she was carrying: he was not certain whether </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>4i </p><p>his sister had been born then. Finally they had emerged into </p><p>a noisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube </p><p>station. </p><p>There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, </p><p>and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on </p><p>metal bunks, one above the other. Winston and his mother </p><p>and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near </p><p>them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by </p><p>side on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and </p><p>a black cloth cap pushed back from very white hair: his </p><p>face was scarlet and his eyes were blue and full of tears. He </p><p>reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his skin in place </p><p>of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling </p><p>from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he </p><p>was also suffering under some grief that was genuine and </p><p>unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some </p><p>terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness and </p><p>could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed </p><p>to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old </p><p>man loved — a little granddaughter, perhaps — had been </p><p>killed. Every few minutes the old man kept repeating: </p><p>’We didn’t ought to ‘ave trusted ‘em. I said so, Ma, didn’t I? </p><p>That’s what comes of trusting ‘em. I said so all along. We </p><p>didn’t ought to ‘ave trusted the buggers.’ </p><p>But which buggers they didn’t ought to have trusted </p><p>Winston could not now remember. </p><p>Since about that time, war had been literally continu- </p><p>42 </p><p>1984 </p><p>ous, though strictly speaking it had not always been the </p><p>same war. For several months during his childhood there </p><p>had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of </p><p>which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history </p><p>of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any </p><p>given moment, would have been utterly impossible, since </p><p>no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention </p><p>of any other alignment than the existing one. At this mo- </p><p>ment, for example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at </p><p>war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. In no pub- </p><p>lic or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three </p><p>powers had at any time been grouped along different lines. </p><p>Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since </p><p>Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with </p><p>Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge </p><p>which he happened to possess because his memory was not </p><p>satisfactorily under control. Officially the change of part- </p><p>ners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia: </p><p>therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The </p><p>enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and </p><p>it followed that any past or future agreement with him was </p><p>impossible. </p><p>The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thou- </p><p>sandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward </p><p>(with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from </p><p>the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be good for the </p><p>back muscles) — the frightening thing was that it might all </p><p>be true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and </p><p>say of this or that event, IT NEVER HAPPENED — that, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>43 </p><p>surely, was more terrifying than mere torture and death? </p><p>The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance </p><p>with Eurasia. He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had </p><p>been in alliance with Eurasia as short a time as four years </p><p>ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own </p><p>consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. </p><p>And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed — </p><p>if all records told the same tale — then the lie passed into </p><p>history and became truth. ‘Who controls the past,’ ran the </p><p>Party slogan, ‘controls the future: who controls the present </p><p>controls the past.’ And yet the past, though of its nature al- </p><p>terable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was </p><p>true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All </p><p>that was needed was an unending series of victories over </p><p>your own memory. ‘Reality control’, they called it: in New- </p><p>speak, ‘doublethink’. </p><p>‘Stand easy!’ barked the instructress, a little more genial - </p><p>Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled </p><p>his lungs with air. His mind slid away into the labyrin- </p><p>thine world of doublethink. To know and not to know, to </p><p>be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling care- </p><p>fully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions </p><p>which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory </p><p>and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, </p><p>to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe </p><p>that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the </p><p>guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary </p><p>to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the </p><p>44 </p><p>1984 </p><p>moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget </p><p>it again: and above all, to apply the same process to the pro- </p><p>cess itself. That was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to </p><p>induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become </p><p>unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed. </p><p>Even to understand the word ‘doublethink’ involved the </p><p>use of doublethink. </p><p>The instructress had called them to attention again. ‘And </p><p>now let’s see which of us can touch our toes!’ she said en- </p><p>thusiastically. ‘Right over from the hips, please, comrades. </p><p>ONE-two! ONE-two!...’ </p><p>Winston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains </p><p>all the way from his heels to his buttocks and often ended by </p><p>bringing on another coughing fit. The half-pleasant qual- </p><p>ity went out of his meditations. The past, he reflected, had </p><p>not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For </p><p>how could you establish even the most obvious fact when </p><p>there existed no record outside your own memory? He tried </p><p>to remember in what year he had first heard mention of </p><p>Big Brother. He thought it must have been at some time in </p><p>the sixties, but it was impossible to be certain. In the Party </p><p>histories, of course, Big Brother figured as the leader and </p><p>guardian of the Revolution since its very earliest days. His </p><p>exploits had been gradually pushed backwards in time until </p><p>already they extended into the fabulous world of the forties </p><p>and the thirties, when the capitalists in their strange cylin- </p><p>drical hats still rode through the streets of London in great </p><p>gleaming motor-cars or horse carriages with glass sides. </p><p>There was no knowing how much of this legend was true </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>45</p><p>and how much invented. Winston could not even remem- </p><p>ber at what date the Party itself had come into existence. He </p><p>did not believe he had ever heard the word Ingsoc before </p><p>1960, but it was possible that in its Oldspeak form — ’Eng- </p><p>lish Socialism’, that is to say — it had been current earlier. </p><p>Everything melted into mist. Sometimes, indeed, you could </p><p>put your finger on a definite lie. It was not true, for example, </p><p>as was claimed in the Party history books, that the Party </p><p>had invented aeroplanes. He remembered aeroplanes since </p><p>his earliest childhood. But you could prove nothing. There </p><p>was never any evidence. Just once in his whole life he had </p><p>held in his hands unmistakable documentary proof of the </p><p>falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion </p><p>‘Smith!’ screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen. </p><p>‘6079 Smith W.! Yes, YOU! Bend lower, please! You can do </p><p>better than that. You’re not trying. Lower, please! THAT’S </p><p>better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole squad, and </p><p>watch me.’ </p><p>A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston’s </p><p>body. His face remained completely inscrutable. Nev- </p><p>er show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker </p><p>of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while </p><p>the instructress raised her arms above her head and — one </p><p>could not say gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and </p><p>efficiency — bent over and tucked the first joint of her fin- </p><p>gers under her toes. </p><p>‘THERE, comrades! THAT’S how I want to see you do- </p><p>ing it. Watch me again. I’m thirty-nine and I’ve had four </p><p>children. Now look.’ She bent over again. ‘You see MY </p><p>46 </p><p>1984 </p><p>knees aren’t bent. You can all do it if you want to,’ she add- </p><p>ed as she straightened herself up. ‘Anyone under forty-five </p><p>is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don’t all have </p><p>the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can </p><p>all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And </p><p>the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what TF1EY </p><p>have to put up with. Now try again. That’s better, comrade, </p><p>that’s MUCH better,’ she added encouragingly as Winston, </p><p>with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with </p><p>knees unbent, for the first time in several years. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>47 </p><p>Chapter 4 </p><p>W ith the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the </p><p>nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from </p><p>uttering when his day’s work started, Winston pulled the </p><p>speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, </p><p>and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped </p><p>together four small cylinders of paper which had already </p><p>flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side </p><p>of his desk. </p><p>In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To </p><p>the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for writ- </p><p>ten messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in </p><p>the side wall, within easy reach of Winston’s arm, a large </p><p>oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the </p><p>disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or </p><p>tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in ev- </p><p>ery room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some </p><p>reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one </p><p>knew that any document was due for destruction, or even </p><p>when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an </p><p>automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole </p><p>and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a </p><p>current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were </p><p>hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building. </p><p>Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had </p><p>48 </p><p>1984 </p><p>unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines, </p><p>in the abbreviated jargon — not actually Newspeak, but con- </p><p>sisting largely of Newspeak words — which was used in the </p><p>Ministry for internal purposes. They ran: </p><p>times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify </p><p>times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify </p><p>current issue </p><p>times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify </p><p>times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs </p><p>unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling </p><p>With a faint feeling of satisfaction Winston laid the </p><p>fourth message aside. It was an intricate and responsible job </p><p>and had better be dealt with last. The other three were rou- </p><p>tine matters, though the second one would probably mean </p><p>some tedious wading through lists of figures. </p><p>Winston dialled ‘back numbers’ on the telescreen and </p><p>called for the appropriate issues of ‘The Times’, which slid </p><p>out of the pneumatic tube after only a few minutes’ delay. </p><p>The messages he had received referred to articles or news </p><p>items which for one reason or another it was thought neces- </p><p>sary to alter, or, as the official phrase had it, to rectify. For </p><p>example, it appeared from ‘The Times’ of the seventeenth </p><p>of March that Big Brother, in his speech of the previous </p><p>day, had predicted that the South Indian front would re- </p><p>main quiet but that a Eurasian offensive would shortly be </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>49 </p><p>launched in North Africa. As it happened, the Eurasian </p><p>Higher Command had launched its offensive in South In- </p><p>dia and left North Africa alone. It was therefore necessary </p><p>to rewrite a paragraph of Big Brother’s speech, in such a </p><p>way as to make him predict the thing that had actually hap- </p><p>pened. Or again, ‘The Times’ of the nineteenth of December </p><p>had published the official forecasts of the output of various </p><p>classes of consumption goods in the fourth quarter of 1983, </p><p>which was also the sixth quarter of the Ninth Three-Year </p><p>Plan. Today’s issue contained a statement of the actual out- </p><p>put, from which it appeared that the forecasts were in every </p><p>instance grossly wrong. Winston’s job was to rectify the </p><p>original figures by making them agree with the later ones. </p><p>As for the third message, it referred to a very simple error </p><p>which could be set right in a couple of minutes. As short a </p><p>time ago as February, the Ministry of Plenty had issued a </p><p>promise (a ‘categorical pledge’ were the official words) that </p><p>there would be no reduction of the chocolate ration during </p><p>1984. Actually, as Winston was aware, the chocolate ration </p><p>was to be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty at the end </p><p>of the present week. All that was needed was to substitute </p><p>for the original promise a warning that it would probably </p><p>be necessary to reduce the ration at some time in April. </p><p>As soon as Winston had dealt with each of the messages, </p><p>he clipped his speakwritten corrections to the appropriate </p><p>copy of ‘The Times’ and pushed them into the pneumatic </p><p>tube. Then, with a movement which was as nearly as possi- </p><p>ble unconscious, he crumpled up the original message and </p><p>any notes that he himself had made, and dropped them into </p><p>50 </p><p>1984 </p><p>the memory hole to be devoured by the flames. </p><p>What happened in the unseen labyrinth to which the </p><p>pneumatic tubes led, he did not know in detail, but he did </p><p>know in general terms. As soon as all the corrections which </p><p>happened to be necessary in any particular number of ‘The </p><p>Times’ had been assembled and collated, that number would </p><p>be reprinted, the original copy destroyed, and the corrected </p><p>copy placed on the files in its stead. This process of con- </p><p>tinuous alteration was applied not only to newspapers, but </p><p>to books, periodicals, pamphlets, posters, leaflets, films, </p><p>sound-tracks, cartoons, photographs — to every kind of lit- </p><p>erature or documentation which might conceivably hold </p><p>any political or ideological significance. Day by day and </p><p>almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date. </p><p>In this way every prediction made by the Party could be </p><p>shown by documentary evidence to have been correct, nor </p><p>was any item of news, or any expression of opinion, which </p><p>conflicted with the needs of the moment, ever allowed to </p><p>remain on record. All history was a palimpsest, scraped </p><p>clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was necessary. In </p><p>no case would it have been possible, once the deed was done, </p><p>to prove that any falsification had taken place. The largest </p><p>section of the Records Department, far larger than the one </p><p>on which Winston worked, consisted simply of persons </p><p>whose duty it was to track down and collect all copies of </p><p>books, newspapers, and other documents which had been </p><p>superseded and were due for destruction. A number of ‘The </p><p>Times’ which might, because of changes in political align- </p><p>ment, or mistaken prophecies uttered by Big Brother, have </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>5i </p><p>been rewritten a dozen times still stood on the files bearing </p><p>its original date, and no other copy existed to contradict it. </p><p>Books, also, were recalled and rewritten again and again, </p><p>and were invariably reissued without any admission that </p><p>any alteration had been made. Even the written instruc- </p><p>tions which Winston received, and which he invariably got </p><p>rid of as soon as he had dealt with them, never stated or </p><p>implied that an act of forgery was to be committed: always </p><p>the reference was to slips, errors, misprints, or misquota- </p><p>tions which it was necessary to put right in the interests of </p><p>accuracy. </p><p>But actually, he thought as he re-adjusted the Ministry </p><p>of Plenty’s figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the </p><p>substitution of one piece of nonsense for another. Most of</p><p>the material that you were dealing with had no connexion </p><p>with anything in the real world, not even the kind of con- </p><p>nexion that is contained in a direct lie. Statistics were just </p><p>as much a fantasy in their original version as in their recti- </p><p>fied version. A great deal of the time you were expected to </p><p>make them up out of your head. For example, the Minis- </p><p>try of Plenty’s forecast had estimated the output of boots </p><p>for the quarter at 145 million pairs. The actual output was </p><p>given as sixty-two millions. Winston, however, in rewriting </p><p>the forecast, marked the figure down to fifty-seven millions, </p><p>so as to allow for the usual claim that the quota had been </p><p>overfulfilled. In any case, sixty-two millions was no near- </p><p>er the truth than fifty-seven millions, or than 145 millions. </p><p>Very likely no boots had been produced at all. Likelier still, </p><p>nobody knew how many had been produced, much less </p><p>52 </p><p>1984 </p><p>cared. All one knew was that every quarter astronomical </p><p>numbers of boots were produced on paper, while perhaps </p><p>half the population of Oceania went barefoot. And so it was </p><p>with every class of recorded fact, great or small. Everything </p><p>faded away into a shadow-world in which, finally, even the </p><p>date of the year had become uncertain. </p><p>Winston glanced across the hall. In the corresponding </p><p>cubicle on the other side a small, precise-looking, dark- </p><p>chinned man named Tillotson was working steadily away, </p><p>with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth very </p><p>close to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite. He had the air of </p><p>trying to keep what he was saying a secret between himself </p><p>and the telescreen. He looked up, and his spectacles darted </p><p>a hostile flash in Winston’s direction. </p><p>Winston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what </p><p>work he was employed on. People in the Records Depart- </p><p>ment did not readily talk about their jobs. In the long, </p><p>windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles and its end- </p><p>less rustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into </p><p>speakwrites, there were quite a dozen people whom Win- </p><p>ston did not even know by name, though he daily saw them </p><p>hurrying to and fro in the corridors or gesticulating in the </p><p>Two Minutes Hate. He knew that in the cubicle next to him </p><p>the little woman with sandy hair toiled day in day out, sim- </p><p>ply at tracking down and deleting from the Press the names </p><p>of people who had been vaporized and were therefore con- </p><p>sidered never to have existed. There was a certain fitness in </p><p>this, since her own husband had been vaporized a couple </p><p>of years earlier. And a few cubicles away a mild, ineffec- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>53 </p><p>tual, dreamy creature named Ampleforth, with very hairy </p><p>ears and a surprising talent for juggling with rhymes and </p><p>metres, was engaged in producing garbled versions — defin- </p><p>itive texts, they were called — of poems which had become </p><p>ideologically offensive, but which for one reason or another </p><p>were to be retained in the anthologies. And this hall, with </p><p>its fifty workers or thereabouts, was only one sub-section, a </p><p>single cell, as it were, in the huge complexity of the Records </p><p>Department. Beyond, above, below, were other swarms </p><p>of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude of jobs. </p><p>There were the huge printing-shops with their sub-editors, </p><p>their typography experts, and their elaborately equipped </p><p>studios for the faking of photographs. There was the tele- </p><p>programmes section with its engineers, its producers, and </p><p>its teams of actors specially chosen for their skill in imitat- </p><p>ing voices. There were the armies of reference clerks whose </p><p>job was simply to draw up lists of books and periodicals </p><p>which were due for recall. There were the vast repositories </p><p>where the corrected documents were stored, and the hid- </p><p>den furnaces where the original copies were destroyed. And </p><p>somewhere or other, quite anonymous, there were the di- </p><p>recting brains who co-ordinated the whole effort and laid </p><p>down the lines of policy which made it necessary that this </p><p>fragment of the past should be preserved, that one falsified, </p><p>and the other rubbed out of existence. </p><p>And the Records Department, after all, was itself only a </p><p>single branch of the Ministry of Truth, whose primary job </p><p>was not to reconstruct the past but to supply the citizens </p><p>of Oceania with newspapers, films, textbooks, telescreen </p><p>54 </p><p>1984 </p><p>programmes, plays, novels — with every conceivable kind of </p><p>information, instruction, or entertainment, from a statue to </p><p>a slogan, from a lyric poem to a biological treatise, and from </p><p>a child’s spelling-book to a Newspeak dictionary. And the </p><p>Ministry had not only to supply the multifarious needs of </p><p>the party, but also to repeat the whole operation at a lower </p><p>level for the benefit of the proletariat. There was a whole </p><p>chain of separate departments dealing with proletarian lit- </p><p>erature, music, drama, and entertainment generally. Here </p><p>were produced rubbishy newspapers containing almost </p><p>nothing except sport, crime and astrology, sensational </p><p>five-cent novelettes, films oozing with sex, and sentimen- </p><p>tal songs which were composed entirely by mechanical </p><p>means on a special kind of kaleidoscope known as a ver- </p><p>sificator. There was even a whole sub-section — Pornosec, it</p><p>was called in Newspeak — engaged in producing the lowest </p><p>kind of pornography, which was sent out in sealed packets </p><p>and which no Party member, other than those who worked </p><p>on it, was permitted to look at. </p><p>Three messages had slid out of the pneumatic tube while </p><p>Winston was working, but they were simple matters, and </p><p>he had disposed of them before the Two Minutes Hate in- </p><p>terrupted him. When the Hate was over he returned to </p><p>his cubicle, took the Newspeak dictionary from the shelf, </p><p>pushed the speakwrite to one side, cleaned his spectacles, </p><p>and settled down to his main job of the morning. </p><p>Winston’s greatest pleasure in life was in his work. Most </p><p>of it was a tedious routine, but included in it there were also </p><p>jobs so difficult and intricate that you could lose yourself in </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>55 </p><p>them as in the depths of a mathematical problem — delicate </p><p>pieces of forgery in which you had nothing to guide you </p><p>except your knowledge of the principles of Ingsoc and your </p><p>estimate of what the Party wanted you to say. Winston was </p><p>good at this kind of thing. On occasion he had even been </p><p>entrusted with the rectification of ‘The Times’ leading arti- </p><p>cles, which were written entirely in Newspeak. He unrolled </p><p>the message that he had set aside earlier. It ran: </p><p>times 3.12.83 reporting bb day order doubleplusungood refs </p><p>unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling </p><p>In Oldspeak (or standard English) this might be ren- </p><p>dered: </p><p>The reporting of Big Brother’s Order for the Day in ‘The Times’ </p><p>of December 3rd 1983 is extremely unsatisfactory and makes </p><p>references to non-existent persons. Rewrite it in full and </p><p>submit your draft to higher authority before filing. </p><p>Winston read through the offending article. Big Broth- </p><p>er’s Order for the Day, it seemed, had been chiefly devoted </p><p>to praising the work of an organization known as FFCC, </p><p>which supplied cigarettes and other comforts to the sailors </p><p>in the Floating Fortresses. A certain Comrade Withers, a </p><p>prominent member of the Inner Party, had been singled out </p><p>for special mention and awarded a decoration, the Order of </p><p>Conspicuous Merit, Second Class. </p><p>Three months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved </p><p>56 </p><p>1984 </p><p>with no reasons given. One could assume that Withers and </p><p>his associates were now in disgrace, but there had been no </p><p>report of the matter in the Press or on the telescreen. That </p><p>was to be expected, since it was unusual for political offend- </p><p>ers to be put on trial or even publicly denounced. The great </p><p>purges involving thousands of people, with public trials of </p><p>traitors and thought-criminals who made abject confession </p><p>of their crimes and were afterwards executed, were special </p><p>show-pieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of </p><p>years. More commonly, people who had incurred the dis- </p><p>pleasure of the Party simply disappeared and were never </p><p>heard of again. One never had the smallest clue as to what </p><p>had happened to them. In some cases they might not even </p><p>be dead. Perhaps thirty people personally known to Win- </p><p>ston, not counting his parents, had disappeared at one time </p><p>or another. </p><p>Winston stroked his nose gently with a paper-clip. In the </p><p>cubicle across the way Comrade Tillotson was still crouch- </p><p>ing secretively over his speakwrite. He raised his head for </p><p>a moment: again the hostile spectacle-flash. Winston won- </p><p>dered whether Comrade Tillotson was engaged on the same </p><p>job as himself. It was perfectly possible. So tricky a piece of </p><p>work would never be entrusted to a single person: on the </p><p>other hand, to turn it over to a committee would be to ad- </p><p>mit openly that an act of fabrication was taking place. Very </p><p>likely as many as a dozen people were now working away </p><p>on rival versions of what Big Brother had actually said. And </p><p>presently some master brain in the Inner Party would se- </p><p>lect this version or that, would re-edit it and set in motion </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>57 </p><p>the complex processes of cross-referencing that would be </p><p>required, and then the chosen lie would pass into the per- </p><p>manent records and become truth. </p><p>Winston did not know why Withers had been disgraced. </p><p>Perhaps it was for corruption or incompetence. Perhaps Big </p><p>Brother was merely getting rid of a too-popular subordi- </p><p>nate. Perhaps Withers or someone close to him had been </p><p>suspected of heretical tendencies. Or perhaps — what was </p><p>likeliest of all — the thing had simply happened because </p><p>purges and vaporizations were a necessary part of the me- </p><p>chanics of government. The only real clue lay in the words </p><p>‘refs unpersons’, which indicated that Withers was already </p><p>dead. You could not invariably assume this to be the case </p><p>when people were arrested. Sometimes they were released</p><p>and allowed to remain at liberty for as much as a year or </p><p>two years before being executed. Very occasionally some </p><p>person whom you had believed dead long since would make </p><p>a ghostly reappearance at some public trial where he would </p><p>implicate hundreds of others by his testimony before van- </p><p>ishing, this time for ever. Withers, however, was already an </p><p>UNPERSON. He did not exist: he had never existed. Win- </p><p>ston decided that it would not be enough simply to reverse </p><p>the tendency of Big Brother’s speech. It was better to make </p><p>it deal with something totally unconnected with its origi- </p><p>nal subject. </p><p>He might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of </p><p>traitors and thought-criminals, but that was a little too ob- </p><p>vious, while to invent a victory at the front, or some triumph </p><p>of over-production in the Ninth Three-Year Plan, might </p><p>58 </p><p>1984 </p><p>complicate the records too much. What was needed was a </p><p>piece of pure fantasy. Suddenly there sprang into his mind, </p><p>ready made as it were, the image of a certain Comrade Ogil- </p><p>vy, who had recently died in battle, in heroic circumstances. </p><p>There were occasions when Big Brother devoted his Order </p><p>for the Day to commemorating some humble, rank-and-file </p><p>Party member whose life and death he held up as an exam- </p><p>ple worthy to be followed. Today he should commemorate </p><p>Comrade Ogilvy. It was true that there was no such person </p><p>as Comrade Ogilvy, but a few lines of print and a couple of </p><p>faked photographs would soon bring him into existence. </p><p>Winston thought for a moment, then pulled the speak- </p><p>write towards him and began dictating in Big Brother’s </p><p>familiar style: a style at once military and pedantic, and, </p><p>because of a trick of asking questions and then promptly </p><p>answering them (’What lessons do we learn from this fact, </p><p>comrades? The lesson — which is also one of the fundamen- </p><p>tal principles of Ingsoc— that,’ etc., etc.), easy to imitate. </p><p>At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys </p><p>except a drum, a sub-machine gun, and a model helicopter. </p><p>At six — a year early, by a special relaxation of the rules — he </p><p>had joined the Spies, at nine he had been a troop leader. At </p><p>eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought Police </p><p>after overhearing a conversation which appeared to him to </p><p>have criminal tendencies. At seventeen he had been a dis- </p><p>trict organizer of the Junior Anti-Sex League. At nineteen </p><p>he had designed a hand-grenade which had been adopted </p><p>by the Ministry of Peace and which, at its first trial, had </p><p>killed thirty-one Eurasian prisoners in one burst. At twen- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com</p><p>59 </p><p>ty-three he had perished in action. Pursued by enemy jet </p><p>planes while flying over the Indian Ocean with important </p><p>despatches, he had weighted his body with his machine gun </p><p>and leapt out of the helicopter into deep water, despatches </p><p>and all — an end, said Big Brother, which it was impossible </p><p>to contemplate without feelings of envy. Big Brother added a </p><p>few remarks on the purity and single-mindedness of Com- </p><p>rade Ogilvy’s life. He was a total abstainer and a nonsmoker, </p><p>had no recreations except a daily hour in the gymnasium, </p><p>and had taken a vow of celibacy, believing marriage and the </p><p>care of a family to be incompatible with a twenty- four-hour- </p><p>a-day devotion to duty. He had no subjects of conversation </p><p>except the principles of Ingsoc, and no aim in life except </p><p>the defeat of the Eurasian enemy and the hunting- down of </p><p>spies, saboteurs, thoughtcriminals, and traitors generally. </p><p>Winston debated with himself whether to award Com- </p><p>rade Ogilvy the Order of Conspicuous Merit: in the end he </p><p>decided against it because of the unnecessary cross-refer- </p><p>encing that it would entail. </p><p>Once again he glanced at his rival in the opposite cubicle. </p><p>Something seemed to tell him with certainty that Tillotson </p><p>was busy on the same job as himself. There was no way of </p><p>knowing whose job would finally be adopted, but he felt a </p><p>profound conviction that it would be his own. Comrade </p><p>Ogilvy, unimagined an hour ago, was now a fact. It struck </p><p>him as curious that you could create dead men but not liv- </p><p>ing ones. Comrade Ogilvy, who had never existed in the </p><p>present, now existed in the past, and when once the act of </p><p>forgery was forgotten, he would exist just as authentical- </p><p>6 o </p><p>1984 </p><p>ly, and upon the same evidence, as Charlemagne or Julius </p><p>Caesar. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>61 </p><p>Chapter 5 </p><p>I n the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the </p><p>lunch queue jerked slowly forward. The room was al- </p><p>ready very full and deafeningly noisy. From the grille at the </p><p>counter the steam of stew came pouring forth, with a sour </p><p>metallic smell which did not quite overcome the fumes of </p><p>Victory Gin. On the far side of the room there was a small </p><p>bar, a mere hole in the wall, where gin could be bought at </p><p>ten cents the large nip. </p><p>‘Just the man I was looking for,’ said a voice at Winston’s </p><p>back. </p><p>He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in </p><p>the Research Department. Perhaps ‘friend’ was not exact- </p><p>ly the right word. You did not have friends nowadays, you </p><p>had comrades: but there were some comrades whose society </p><p>was pleasanter than that of others. Syme was a philologist, a </p><p>specialist in Newspeak. Indeed, he was one of the enormous </p><p>team of experts now engaged in compiling the Eleventh </p><p>Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a tiny creature, </p><p>smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large, protuber- </p><p>ant eyes, at once mournful and derisive, which seemed to </p><p>search your face closely while he was speaking to you. </p><p>‘I wanted to ask you whether you’d got any razor blades,’ </p><p>he said. </p><p>‘Not one!’ said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. ‘I’ve </p><p>62 </p><p>1984 </p><p>tried all over the place. They don’t exist any longer.’ </p><p>Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he </p><p>had two unused ones which he was hoarding up. There </p><p>had been a famine of them for months past. At any given </p><p>moment there was some necessary article which the Par- </p><p>ty shops were unable to supply. Sometimes it was buttons, </p><p>sometimes it was darning wool, sometimes it was shoelaces; </p><p>at present it was razor blades. You could only get hold of </p><p>them, if at all, by scrounging more or less furtively on the </p><p>‘free’ market. </p><p>‘I’ve been using the same blade for six weeks,’ he added </p><p>untruthfully. </p><p>The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he </p><p>turned and faced Syme again. Each of them took a greasy </p><p>metal tray from a pile at the end of the counter. </p><p>‘Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday?’ said </p><p>Syme.</p><p>‘I was working,’ said Winston indifferently. ‘I shall see it </p><p>on the flicks, I suppose.’ </p><p>‘A very inadequate substitute,’ said Syme. </p><p>His mocking eyes roved over Winston’s face. ‘I know </p><p>you,’ the eyes seemed to say, ‘I see through you. I know very </p><p>well why you didn’t go to see those prisoners hanged.’ In </p><p>an intellectual way, Syme was venomously orthodox. He </p><p>would talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of he- </p><p>licopter raids on enemy villages, and trials and confessions </p><p>of thought-criminals, the executions in the cellars of the </p><p>Ministry of Love. Talking to him was largely a matter of </p><p>getting him away from such subjects and entangling him, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>63 </p><p>if possible, in the technicalities of Newspeak, on which he </p><p>was authoritative and interesting. Winston turned his head </p><p>a little aside to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark eyes. </p><p>‘It was a good hanging,’ said Syme reminiscently. ‘I think </p><p>it spoils it when they tie their feet together. I like to see them </p><p>kicking. And above all, at the end, the tongue sticking right </p><p>out, and blue — a quite bright blue. That’s the detail that ap- </p><p>peals to me.’ </p><p>‘Nex’, please!’ yelled the white-aproned prole with the la- </p><p>dle. </p><p>Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille. </p><p>On to each was dumped swiftly the regulation lunch — a </p><p>metal pannikin of pinkish-grey stew, a hunk of bread, a </p><p>cube of cheese, a mug of milkless Victory Coffee, and one </p><p>saccharine tablet. </p><p>‘There’s a table over there, under that telescreen,’ said </p><p>Syme. ‘Let’s pick up a gin on the way.’ </p><p>The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. </p><p>They threaded their way across the crowded room and un- </p><p>packed their trays on to the metal-topped table, on one </p><p>corner of which someone had left a pool of stew, a filthy </p><p>liquid mess that had the appearance of vomit. Winston </p><p>took up his mug of gin, paused for an instant to collect his </p><p>nerve, and gulped the oily-tasting stuff down. When he </p><p>had winked the tears out of his eyes he suddenly discov- </p><p>ered that he was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of </p><p>the stew, which, in among its general sloppiness, had cubes </p><p>of spongy pinkish stuff which was probably a preparation </p><p>of meat. Neither of them spoke again till they had emptied </p><p>64 </p><p>1984 </p><p>their pannikins. From the table at Winston’s left, a little </p><p>behind his back, someone was talking rapidly and contin- </p><p>uously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck, </p><p>which pierced the general uproar of the room. </p><p>‘How is the Dictionary getting on?’ said Winston, raising </p><p>his voice to overcome the noise. </p><p>‘Slowly,’ said Syme. ‘I’m on the adjectives. It’s fascinat- </p><p>ing.’ </p><p>He had brightened up immediately at the mention of </p><p>Newspeak. He pushed his pannikin aside, took up his hunk </p><p>of bread in one delicate hand and his cheese in the other, </p><p>and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak without </p><p>shouting. </p><p>‘The Eleventh Edition is the definitive edition,’ he said. </p><p>‘We’re getting the language into its final shape — the shape </p><p>it’s going to have when nobody speaks anything else. When </p><p>we’ve finished with it, people like you will have to learn it </p><p>all over again. You think, I dare say, that our chief job is </p><p>inventing new words. But not a bit of it! We’re destroying </p><p>words — scores of them, hundreds of them, every day. We’re </p><p>cutting the language down to the bone. The Eleventh Edi- </p><p>tion won’t contain a single word that will become obsolete </p><p>before the year 2050.’ </p><p>He bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple </p><p>of mouthfuls, then continued speaking, with a sort of ped- </p><p>ant’s passion. His thin dark face had become animated, his </p><p>eyes had lost their mocking expression and grown almost </p><p>dreamy. </p><p>‘It’s a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>65 </p><p>the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there </p><p>are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well. It isn’t </p><p>only the synonyms; there are also the antonyms. After all, </p><p>what justification is there for a word which is simply the </p><p>opposite of some other word? A word contains its opposite </p><p>in itself. Take ‘good’, for instance. If you have a word like </p><p>‘good’, what need is there for a word like ‘bad’? ‘Ungood’</p><p>will do just as well — better, because it’s an exact opposite, </p><p>which the other is not. Or again, if you want a stronger ver- </p><p>sion of ‘good’, what sense is there in having a whole string </p><p>of vague useless words like ‘excellent’ and ‘splendid’ and all </p><p>the rest of them? ‘Plusgood’ covers the meaning, or ‘double- </p><p>plusgood’ if you want something stronger still. Of course </p><p>we use those forms already, but in the final version of New- </p><p>speak there’ll be nothing else. In the end the whole notion </p><p>of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words — </p><p>in reality, only one word. Don’t you see the beauty of that, </p><p>Winston? It was B.B.’s idea originally, of course,’ he added </p><p>as an afterthought. </p><p>A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston’s face at </p><p>the mention of Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately </p><p>detected a certain lack of enthusiasm. </p><p>‘You haven’t a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,’ </p><p>he said almost sadly. ‘Even when you write it you’re still </p><p>thinking in Oldspeak. I’ve read some of those pieces that </p><p>you write in ‘The Times’ occasionally. They’re good enough, </p><p>but they’re translations. In your heart you’d prefer to stick </p><p>to Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades of </p><p>meaning. You don’t grasp the beauty of the destruction of </p><p>66 </p><p>1984 </p><p>words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in </p><p>the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?’ </p><p>Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympa- </p><p>thetically he hoped, not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit </p><p>off another fragment of the dark-coloured bread, chewed it </p><p>briefly, and went on: </p><p>‘Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to </p><p>narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make </p><p>thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no </p><p>words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever </p><p>be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its </p><p>meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings </p><p>rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in the Eleventh Edition, </p><p>we’re not far from that point. But the process will still be </p><p>continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer </p><p>and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a </p><p>little smaller. Even now, of course, there’s no reason or ex- </p><p>cuse for committing thoughtcrime. It’s merely a question </p><p>of self-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won’t </p><p>be any need even for that. The Revolution will be com- </p><p>plete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and </p><p>Ingsoc is Newspeak,’ he added with a sort of mystical satis- </p><p>faction. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Winston, that by the </p><p>year 2050, at the very latest, not a single human being will</p><p>be alive who could understand such a conversation as we </p><p>are having now?’ </p><p>‘Except ’ began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped. </p><p>It had been on the tip of his tongue to say ‘Except the </p><p>proles,’ but he checked himself, not feeling fully certain that </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>67 </p><p>this remark was not in some way unorthodox. Syme, how- </p><p>ever, had divined what he was about to say. </p><p>‘The proles are not human beings,’ he said carelessly. ‘By </p><p>2050 — earlier, probably — all real knowledge of Oldspeak </p><p>will have disappeared. The whole literature of the past will </p><p>have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, By- </p><p>ron — they’ll exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely </p><p>changed into something different, but actually changed </p><p>into something contradictory of what they used to be. Even </p><p>the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will </p><p>change. How could you have a slogan like ‘freedom is slav- </p><p>ery’ when the concept of freedom has been abolished? The </p><p>whole climate of thought will be different. In fact there will </p><p>be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means </p><p>not thinking — not needing to think. Orthodoxy is uncon- </p><p>sciousness.’ </p><p>One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep </p><p>conviction, Syme will be vaporized. He is too intelligent. He </p><p>sees too clearly and speaks too plainly. The Party does not </p><p>like such people. One day he will disappear. It is written in </p><p>his face. </p><p>Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned </p><p>a little sideways in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At </p><p>the table on his left the man with the strident voice was </p><p>still talking remorselessly away. A young woman who was </p><p>perhaps his secretary, and who was sitting with her back </p><p>to Winston, was listening to him and seemed to be eagerly </p><p>agreeing with everything that he said. From time to time </p><p>Winston caught some such remark as ‘I think you’re so right, </p><p>68 </p><p>1984 </p><p>I do so agree with you, uttered in a youthful and rather silly </p><p>feminine voice. But the other voice never stopped for an in-</p><p>stant, even when the girl was speaking. Winston knew the </p><p>man by sight, though he knew no more about him than that </p><p>he held some important post in the Fiction Department. He </p><p>was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a </p><p>large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and </p><p>because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles </p><p>caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs </p><p>instead of eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from </p><p>the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was </p><p>almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once </p><p>Winston caught a phrase — complete and final elimination </p><p>of Goldsteinism’ — jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, </p><p>all in one piece, like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it </p><p>was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet, though </p><p>you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you </p><p>could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might </p><p>be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures </p><p>against thought- criminals and saboteurs, he might be ful- </p><p>minating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he </p><p>might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar </p><p>front — it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could </p><p>be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure </p><p>Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving </p><p>rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling that </p><p>this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. It </p><p>was not the man’s brain that was speaking, it was his larynx. </p><p>The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>69 </p><p>it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in </p><p>unconsciousness, like the quacking of a duck. </p><p>Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the han- </p><p>dle of his spoon was tracing patterns in the puddle of stew. </p><p>The voice from the other table quacked rapidly on, easily </p><p>audible in spite of the surrounding din. </p><p>‘There is a word in Newspeak,’ said Syme, ‘I don’t know </p><p>whether you know it: DUCKSPE AK, to quack like a duck. It </p><p>is one of those interesting words that have two contradic- </p><p>tory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, applied </p><p>to someone you agree with, it is praise.’ </p><p>Unquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston </p><p>thought again. He thought it with a kind of sadness, al- </p><p>though well knowing that Syme despised him and slightly </p><p>disliked him, and was fully capable of denouncing him as </p><p>a thought- criminal if he saw any reason for doing so. There </p><p>was something subtly wrong with Syme. There was some- </p><p>thing that he lacked: discretion, aloofness, a sort of saving </p><p>stupidity. You could not say that he was unorthodox. He be- </p><p>lieved in the principles of Ingsoc, he venerated Big Brother,</p><p>he rejoiced over victories, he hated heretics, not merely with </p><p>sincerity but with a sort of restless zeal, an up-to-dateness </p><p>of information, which the ordinary Party member did not </p><p>approach. Yet a faint air of disreputability always clung to </p><p>him. He said things that would have been better unsaid, he </p><p>had read too many books, he frequented the Chestnut Tree </p><p>Cafe, haunt of painters and musicians. There was no law, </p><p>not even an unwritten law, against frequenting the Chest- </p><p>nut Tree Cafe, yet the place was somehow ill-omened. The </p><p>70 </p><p>1984 </p><p>old, discredited leaders of the Party had been used to gather </p><p>there before they were finally purged. Goldstein himself, it </p><p>was said, had sometimes been seen there, years and decades </p><p>ago. Syme’s fate was not difficult to foresee. And yet it was </p><p>a fact that if Syme grasped, even for three seconds, the na- </p><p>ture of his, Winston’s, secret opinions, he would betray him </p><p>instantly to the Thought Police. So would anybody else, for </p><p>that matter: but Syme more than most. Zeal was not enough. </p><p>Orthodoxy was unconsciousness. </p><p>Syme looked up. ‘Here comes Parsons,’ he said. </p><p>Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add, ‘that </p><p>bloody fool’. Parsons, Winston’s fellow-tenant at Victory </p><p>Mansions, was in fact threading his way across the room — </p><p>a tubby, middle-sized man with fair hair and a froglike face. </p><p>At thirty-five he was already putting on rolls of fat at neck </p><p>and waistline, but his movements were brisk and boyish. </p><p>His whole appearance was that of a little boy grown large, so </p><p>much so that although he was wearing the regulation over- </p><p>alls, it was almost impossible not to think of him as being </p><p>dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirt, and red neckerchief </p><p>of the Spies. In visualizing him one saw always a picture </p><p>of dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy fore- </p><p>arms. Parsons did, indeed, invariably revert to shorts when </p><p>a community hike or any other physical activity gave him </p><p>an excuse for doing so. He greeted them both with a cheery </p><p>‘Hullo, hullo!’ and sat down at the table, giving off an in- </p><p>tense smell of sweat. Beads of moisture stood out all over </p><p>his pink face. His powers of sweating were extraordinary. </p><p>At the Community Centre you could always tell when he </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>7 1 </p><p>had been playing table-tennis by the dampness of the bat</p><p>handle. Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there </p><p>was a long column of words, and was studying it with an </p><p>ink-pencil between his fingers. </p><p>‘Look at him working away in the lunch hour,’ said Par- </p><p>sons, nudging Winston. ‘Keenness, eh? What’s that you’ve </p><p>got there, old boy? Something a bit too brainy for me, I ex- </p><p>pect. Smith, old boy, I’ll tell you why I’m chasing you. It’s </p><p>that sub you forgot to give me.’ </p><p>‘Which sub is that?’ said Winston, automatically feel- </p><p>ing for money. About a quarter of one’s salary had to be </p><p>earmarked for voluntary subscriptions, which were so nu- </p><p>merous that it was difficult to keep track of them. </p><p>‘For Hate Week. You know — the house-by-house fund. </p><p>I’m treasurer for our block. We’re making an all-out effort — </p><p>going to put on a tremendous show. I tell you, it won’t be my </p><p>fault if old Victory Mansions doesn’t have the biggest outfit </p><p>of flags in the whole street. Two dollars you promised me.’ </p><p>Winston found and handed over two creased and filthy </p><p>notes, which Parsons entered in a small notebook, in the </p><p>neat handwriting of the illiterate. </p><p>‘By the way, old boy,’ he said. ‘I hear that little beggar of </p><p>mine let fly at you with his catapult yesterday. I gave him </p><p>a good dressing-down for it. In fact I told him I’d take the </p><p>catapult away if he does it again.’ </p><p>‘I think he was a little upset at not going to the execution,’ </p><p>said Winston. </p><p>‘Ah, well — what I mean to say, shows the right spirit, </p><p>doesn’t it? Mischievous little beggars they are, both of them, </p><p>72 </p><p>1984 </p><p>but talk about keenness! All they think about is the Spies, </p><p>and the war, of course. D’you know what that little girl of </p><p>mine did last Saturday, when her troop was on a hike out </p><p>Berkhamsted way? She got two other girls to go with her, </p><p>slipped off from the hike, and spent the whole afternoon </p><p>following a strange man. They kept on his tail for two hours, </p><p>right through the woods, and then, when they got into Am- </p><p>ersham, handed him over to the patrols.’ </p><p>‘What did they do that for?’ said Winston, somewhat tak- </p><p>en aback. Parsons went on triumphantly: </p><p>‘My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent — </p><p>might have been dropped by parachute, for instance. But </p><p>here’s the point, old boy. What do you think put her on to </p><p>him in the first place? She spotted he was wearing a funny</p><p>kind of shoes — said she’d never seen anyone wearing shoes </p><p>like that before. So the chances were he was a foreigner. </p><p>Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh?’ </p><p>‘What happened to the man?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘Ah, that I couldn’t say, of course. But I wouldn’t be alto- </p><p>gether surprised if ’ Parsons made the motion of aiming </p><p>a rifle, and clicked his tongue for the explosion. </p><p>‘Good,’ said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from </p><p>his strip of paper. </p><p>‘Of course we can’t afford to take chances,’ agreed Win- </p><p>ston dutifully. </p><p>‘What I mean to say, there is a war on,’ said Parsons. </p><p>As though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call float- </p><p>ed from the telescreen just above their heads. However, it </p><p>was not the proclamation of a military victory this time, but </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>73 </p><p>merely an announcement from the Ministry of Plenty. </p><p>‘Comrades!’ cried an eager youthful voice. ‘Attention, </p><p>comrades! We have glorious news for you. We have won the </p><p>battle for production! Returns now completed of the output </p><p>of all classes of consumption goods show that the standard </p><p>of living has risen by no less than 20 per cent over the past </p><p>year. All over Oceania this morning there were irrepressible </p><p>spontaneous demonstrations when workers marched out of </p><p>factories and offices and paraded through the streets with </p><p>banners voicing their gratitude to Big Brother for the new, </p><p>happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed upon us. </p><p>Here are some of the completed figures. Foodstuffs ’ </p><p>The phrase ‘our new, happy life’ recurred several times. It </p><p>had been a favourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Par- </p><p>sons, his attention caught by the trumpet call, sat listening </p><p>with a sort of gaping solemnity, a sort of edified boredom. </p><p>He could not follow the figures, but he was aware that they </p><p>were in some way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged out </p><p>a huge and filthy pipe which was already half full of charred </p><p>tobacco. With the tobacco ration at 100 grammes a week it </p><p>was seldom possible to fill a pipe to the top. Winston was </p><p>smoking a Victory Cigarette which he held carefully hori- </p><p>zontal. The new ration did not start till tomorrow and he </p><p>had only four cigarettes left. For the moment he had shut his </p><p>ears to the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that </p><p>streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that there had</p><p>even been demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising </p><p>the chocolate ration to twenty grammes a week. And only </p><p>yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the ra- </p><p>74 </p><p>1984 </p><p>tion was to be REDUCED to twenty grammes a week. Was it </p><p>possible that they could swallow that, after only twenty-four </p><p>hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons swallowed it easily, </p><p>with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature at the </p><p>other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a fu- </p><p>rious desire to track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone </p><p>who should suggest that last week the ration had been thirty </p><p>grammes. Syme, too — in some more complex way, involv- </p><p>ing doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, ALONE </p><p>in the possession of a memory? </p><p>The fabulous statistics continued to pour out of the tele- </p><p>screen. As compared with last year there was more food, </p><p>more clothes, more houses, more furniture, more cook- </p><p>ing-pots, more fuel, more ships, more helicopters, more </p><p>books, more babies — more of everything except disease, </p><p>crime, and insanity. Year by year and minute by minute, </p><p>everybody and everything was whizzing rapidly upwards. </p><p>As Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up his spoon </p><p>and was dabbling in the pale-coloured gravy that dribbled </p><p>across the table, drawing a long streak of it out into a pat- </p><p>tern. Tie meditated resentfully on the physical texture of </p><p>life. Had it always been like this? Had food always tasted </p><p>like this? He looked round the canteen. A low-ceilinged, </p><p>crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of innu- </p><p>merable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed </p><p>so close together that you sat with elbows touching; bent </p><p>spoons, dented trays, coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy, </p><p>grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad </p><p>gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Al- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>75 </p><p>ways in your stomach and in your skin there was a sort of </p><p>protest, a feeling that you had been cheated of something </p><p>that you had a right to. It was true that he had no memories </p><p>of anything greatly different. In any time that he could ac- </p><p>curately remember, there had never been quite enough to </p><p>eat, one had never had socks or underclothes that were not </p><p>full of holes, furniture had always been battered and rickety, </p><p>rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to</p><p>pieces, bread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tast- </p><p>ing, cigarettes insufficient — nothing cheap and plentiful </p><p>except synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew worse </p><p>as one’s body aged, was it not a sign that this was NOT the </p><p>natural order of things, if one’s heart sickened at the dis- </p><p>comfort and dirt and scarcity, the interminable winters, the </p><p>stickiness of one’s socks, the lifts that never worked, the </p><p>cold water, the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to piec- </p><p>es, the food with its strange evil tastes? Why should one feel </p><p>it to be intolerable unless one had some kind of ancestral </p><p>memory that things had once been different? </p><p>He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was </p><p>ugly, and would still have been ugly even if dressed other- </p><p>wise than in the uniform blue overalls. On the far side of the </p><p>room, sitting at a table alone, a small, curiously beetle-like </p><p>man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting sus- </p><p>picious glances from side to side. How easy it was, thought </p><p>Winston, if you did not look about you, to believe that the </p><p>physical type set up by the Party as an ideal— tall muscu- </p><p>lar youths and deep -bosomed maidens, blond-haired, vital, </p><p>sunburnt, carefree — existed and even predominated. Ac- </p><p>76 </p><p>1984 </p><p>tually, so far as he could judge, the majority of people in </p><p>Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curi- </p><p>ous how that beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries: </p><p>little dumpy men, growing stout very early in life, with </p><p>short legs, swift scuttling movements, and fat inscrutable </p><p>faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to </p><p>flourish best under the dominion of the Party. </p><p>The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended </p><p>on another trumpet call and gave way to tinny music. Par- </p><p>sons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by the bombardment of </p><p>figures, took his pipe out of his mouth. </p><p>‘The Ministry of Plenty’s certainly done a good job this </p><p>year,’ he said with a knowing shake of his head. ‘By the way, </p><p>Smith old boy, I suppose you haven’t got any razor blades </p><p>you can let me have?’ </p><p>‘Not one,’ said Winston. ‘I’ve been using the same blade </p><p>for six weeks myself.’ </p><p>‘Ah, well — just thought I’d ask you, old boy.’ </p><p>‘Sorry,’ said Winston. </p><p>The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily si- </p><p>lenced during the Ministry’s announcement, had started up </p><p>again, as loud as ever. For some reason Winston suddenly</p><p>found himself thinking of Mrs Parsons, with her wispy hair </p><p>and the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years </p><p>those children would be denouncing her to the Thought </p><p>Police. Mrs Parsons would be vaporized. Syme would be </p><p>vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O’Brien would </p><p>be vaporized. Parsons, on the other hand, would never be </p><p>vaporized. The eyeless creature with the quacking voice </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>77 </p><p>would never be vaporized. The little beetle-like men who </p><p>scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine corridors of </p><p>Ministries they, too, would never be vaporized. And the girl </p><p>with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction Department — she </p><p>would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that he </p><p>knew instinctively who would survive and who would per- </p><p>ish: though just what it was that made for survival, it was </p><p>not easy to say. </p><p>At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with </p><p>a violent jerk. The girl at the next table had turned partly </p><p>round and was looking at him. It was the girl with dark hair. </p><p>She was looking at him in a sidelong way, but with curious </p><p>intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away </p><p>again. </p><p>The sweat started out on Winston’s backbone. A horri- </p><p>ble pang of terror went through him. It was gone almost at </p><p>once, but it left a sort of nagging uneasiness behind. Why </p><p>was she watching him? Why did she keep following him </p><p>about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she </p><p>had already been at the table when he arrived, or had come </p><p>there afterwards. But yesterday, at any rate, during the Two </p><p>Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him when </p><p>there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real </p><p>object had been to listen to him and make sure whether he </p><p>was shouting loudly enough. </p><p>His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was </p><p>not actually a member of the Thought Police, but then it </p><p>was precisely the amateur spy who was the greatest danger </p><p>of all. He did not know how long she had been looking at </p><p>78 </p><p>1984 </p><p>him, but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was </p><p>possible that his features had not been perfectly under con-</p><p>trol. It was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander </p><p>when you were in any public place or within range of a tele- </p><p>screen. The smallest thing could give you away. A nervous </p><p>tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering to </p><p>yourself— anything that carried with it the suggestion of </p><p>abnormality, of having something to hide. In any case, to </p><p>wear an improper expression on your face (to look incredu- </p><p>lous when a victory was announced, for example) was itself </p><p>a punishable offence. There was even a word for it in New- </p><p>speak: FACECRIME, it was called. </p><p>The girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after </p><p>all she was not really following him about, perhaps it was </p><p>coincidence that she had sat so close to him two days run- </p><p>ning. His cigarette had gone out, and he laid it carefully on </p><p>the edge of the table. He would finish smoking it after work, </p><p>if he could keep the tobacco in it. Quite likely the person </p><p>at the next table was a spy of the Thought Police, and quite </p><p>likely he would be in the cellars of the Ministry of Love </p><p>within three days, but a cigarette end must not be wasted. </p><p>Syme had folded up his strip of paper and stowed it away in </p><p>his pocket. Parsons had begun talking again. </p><p>‘Did I ever tell you, old boy,’ he said, chuckling round the </p><p>stem of his pipe, ‘about the time when those two nippers </p><p>of mine set fire to the old market-woman’s skirt because </p><p>they saw her wrapping up sausages in a poster of B.B.? </p><p>Sneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of match- </p><p>es. Burned her quite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>79 </p><p>keen as mustard! That’s a first-rate training they give them </p><p>in the Spies nowadays — better than in my day, even. What </p><p>d’you think’s the latest thing they’ve served them out with? </p><p>Ear trumpets for listening through keyholes! My little girl </p><p>brought one home the other night — tried it out on our sit- </p><p>ting-room door, and reckoned she could hear twice as much </p><p>as with her ear to the hole. Of course it’s only a toy, mind </p><p>you. Still, gives 'em the right idea, eh?’ </p><p>At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. </p><p>It was the signal to return to work. All three men sprang to </p><p>their feet to join in the struggle round the lifts, and the re- </p><p>maining tobacco fell out of Winston’s cigarette. </p><p>80 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter 6 </p><p>"^^^"inston was writing in his diary: </p><p>It was three years ago. It was on a dark evening, in a </p><p>narrow side-street near one of the big railway stations. She </p><p>was standing near a doorway in the wall, under a street lamp </p><p>that hardly gave any light. She had a young face, painted </p><p>very thick. It was really the paint that appealed to me, the </p><p>whiteness of it, like a mask, and the bright red lips. Party </p><p>women never paint their faces. There was nobody else in the </p><p>street, and no telescreens. She said two dollars. I </p><p>For the moment it was too difficult to go on. He shut his </p><p>eyes and pressed his fingers against them, trying to squeeze </p><p>out the vision that kept recurring. He had an almost over- </p><p>whelming temptation to shout a string of filthy words at the </p><p>top of his voice. Or to bang his head against the wall, to kick </p><p>over the table, and hurl the inkpot through the window — to </p><p>do any violent or noisy or painful thing that might black </p><p>out the memory that was tormenting him. </p><p>Your worst enemy, he reflected, was your own nervous </p><p>system. At any moment the tension inside you was liable to </p><p>translate itself into some visible symptom. He thought of </p><p>a man whom he had passed in the street a few weeks back; </p><p>a quite ordinary-looking man, a Party member, aged thir- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>81 </p><p>ty-five to forty, tallish and thin, carrying a brief-case. They </p><p>were a few metres apart when the left side of the man’s face </p><p>was suddenly contorted by a sort of spasm. It happened </p><p>again just as they were passing one another: it was only a </p><p>twitch, a quiver, rapid as the clicking of a camera shutter, </p><p>but obviously habitual. He remembered thinking at the </p><p>time: That poor devil is done for. And what was frighten- </p><p>ing was that the action was quite possibly unconscious. The </p><p>most deadly danger of all was talking in your sleep. There </p><p>was no way of guarding against that, so far as he could see. </p><p>He drew his breath and went on writing: </p><p>I went with her through the doorway and across a backyard </p><p>into a basement kitchen. There was a bed against the wall, </p><p>and a lamp on the table, turned down very low. She </p><p>His teeth were set on edge. He would have liked to spit. </p><p>Simultaneously with the woman in the basement kitchen </p><p>he thought of Katharine, his wife. Winston was married — </p><p>had been married, at any rate: probably he still was married, </p><p>so far as he knew his wife was not dead. He seemed to</p><p>breathe again the warm stuffy odour of the basement kitch- </p><p>en, an odour compounded of bugs and dirty clothes and </p><p>villainous cheap scent, but nevertheless alluring, because </p><p>no woman of the Party ever used scent, or could be imag- </p><p>ined as doing so. Only the proles used scent. In his mind the </p><p>smell of it was inextricably mixed up with fornication. </p><p>When he had gone with that woman it had been his first </p><p>lapse in two years or thereabouts. Consorting with prosti- </p><p>82 </p><p>1984 </p><p>tutes was forbidden, of course, but it was one of those rules </p><p>that you could occasionally nerve yourself to break. It was </p><p>dangerous, but it was not a life-and-death matter. To be </p><p>caught with a prostitute might mean five years in a forced- </p><p>labour camp: not more, if you had committed no other </p><p>offence. And it was easy enough, provided that you could </p><p>avoid being caught in the act. The poorer quarters swarmed </p><p>with women who were ready to sell themselves. Some could </p><p>even be purchased for a bottle of gin, which the proles were </p><p>not supposed to drink. Tacitly the Party was even inclined </p><p>to encourage prostitution, as an outlet for instincts which </p><p>could not be altogether suppressed. Mere debauchery did </p><p>not matter very much, so long as it was furtive and joyless </p><p>and only involved the women of a submerged and despised </p><p>class. The unforgivable crime was promiscuity between </p><p>Party members. But — though this was one of the crimes </p><p>that the accused in the great purges invariably confessed </p><p>to — it was difficult to imagine any such thing actually hap- </p><p>pening. </p><p>The aim of the Party was not merely to prevent men and </p><p>women from forming loyalties which it might not be able </p><p>to control. Its real, undeclared purpose was to remove all </p><p>pleasure from the sexual act. Not love so much as eroti- </p><p>cism was the enemy, inside marriage as well as outside it. </p><p>All marriages between Party members had to be approved </p><p>by a committee appointed for the purpose, and — though </p><p>the principle was never clearly stated — permission was al- </p><p>ways refused if the couple concerned gave the impression </p><p>of being physically attracted to one another. The only rec- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>83 </p><p>ognized purpose of marriage was to beget children for the </p><p>service of the Party. Sexual intercourse was to be looked on</p><p>as a slightly disgusting minor operation, like having an en- </p><p>ema. This again was never put into plain words, but in an </p><p>indirect way it was rubbed into every Party member from </p><p>childhood onwards. There were even organizations such </p><p>as the Junior Anti-Sex League, which advocated complete </p><p>celibacy for both sexes. All children were to be begotten </p><p>by artificial insemination (ARTSEM, it was called in New- </p><p>speak) and brought up in public institutions. This, Winston </p><p>was aware, was not meant altogether seriously, but some- </p><p>how it fitted in with the general ideology of the Party. The </p><p>Party was trying to kill the sex instinct, or, if it could not be </p><p>killed, then to distort it and dirty it. He did not know why </p><p>this was so, but it seemed natural that it should be so. And </p><p>as far as the women were concerned, the Party’s efforts were </p><p>largely successful. </p><p>He thought again of Katharine. It must be nine, ten — </p><p>nearly eleven years since they had parted. It was curious </p><p>how seldom he thought of her. For days at a time he was ca- </p><p>pable of forgetting that he had ever been married. They had </p><p>only been together for about fifteen months. The Party did </p><p>not permit divorce, but it rather encouraged separation in </p><p>cases where there were no children. </p><p>Katharine was a tall, fair-haired girl, very straight, with </p><p>splendid movements. She had a bold, aquiline face, a face </p><p>that one might have called noble until one discovered that </p><p>there was as nearly as possible nothing behind it. Very early </p><p>in her married life he had decided — though perhaps it was </p><p>84 </p><p>1984 </p><p>only that he knew her more intimately than he knew most </p><p>people — that she had without exception the most stupid, </p><p>vulgar, empty mind that he had ever encountered. She had </p><p>not a thought in her head that was not a slogan, and there </p><p>was no imbecility, absolutely none that she was not capable </p><p>of swallowing if the Party handed it out to her. ‘The hu- </p><p>man sound-track’ he nicknamed her in his own mind. Yet </p><p>he could have endured living with her if it had not been for </p><p>just one thing — sex. </p><p>As soon as he touched her she seemed to wince and stiff- </p><p>en. To embrace her was like embracing a jointed wooden </p><p>image. And what was strange was that even when she was </p><p>clasping him against her he had the feeling that she was si- </p><p>multaneously pushing him away with all her strength. The </p><p>rigidity of her muscles managed to convey that impres- </p><p>sion. She would lie there with shut eyes, neither resisting </p><p>nor co-operating but SUBMITTING. It was extraordinari- </p><p>ly embarrassing, and, after a while, horrible. But even then </p><p>he could have borne living with her if it had been agreed </p><p>that they should remain celibate. But curiously enough it</p><p>was Katharine who refused this. They must, she said, pro- </p><p>duce a child if they could. So the performance continued to </p><p>happen, once a week quite regulariy, whenever it was not </p><p>impossible. She even used to remind him of it in the morn- </p><p>ing, as something which had to be done that evening and </p><p>which must not be forgotten. She had two names for it. One </p><p>was ‘making a baby’, and the other was ‘our duty to the Par- </p><p>ty’ (yes, she had actually used that phrase). Quite soon he </p><p>grew to have a feeling of positive dread when the appointed </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>85 </p><p>day came round. But luckily no child appeared, and in the </p><p>end she agreed to give up trying, and soon afterwards they </p><p>parted. </p><p>Winston sighed inaudibly. He picked up his pen again </p><p>and wrote: </p><p>She threw herself down on the bed, and at once, without any </p><p>kind of preliminary in the most coarse, horrible way you can </p><p>imagine, pulled up her skirt. I </p><p>He saw himself standing there in the dim lamplight, </p><p>with the smell of bugs and cheap scent in his nostrils, and </p><p>in his heart a feeling of defeat and resentment which even </p><p>at that moment was mixed up with the thought of Kath- </p><p>arine’s white body, frozen for ever by the hypnotic power </p><p>of the Party. Why did it always have to be like this? Why </p><p>could he not have a woman of his own instead of these filthy </p><p>scuffles at intervals of years? But a real love affair was an al- </p><p>most unthinkable event. The women of the Party were all </p><p>alike. Chastity was as deep ingrained in them as Party loy- </p><p>alty. By careful early conditioning, by games and cold water, </p><p>by the rubbish that was dinned into them at school and in </p><p>the Spies and the Youth League, by lectures, parades, songs, </p><p>slogans, and martial music, the natural feeling had been </p><p>driven out of them. His reason told him that there must be </p><p>exceptions, but his heart did not believe it. They were all im- </p><p>pregnable, as the Party intended that they should be. And </p><p>what he wanted, more even than to be loved, was to break </p><p>down that wall of virtue, even if it were only once in his </p><p>86 </p><p>1984 </p><p>whole life. The sexual act, successfully performed, was re- </p><p>bellion. Desire was thoughtcrime. Even to have awakened</p><p>Katharine, if he could have achieved it, would have been </p><p>like a seduction, although she was his wife. </p><p>But the rest of the story had got to be written down. He </p><p>wrote: </p><p>I turned up the lamp. When I saw her in the light </p><p>After the darkness the feeble light of the paraffin lamp </p><p>had seemed very bright. For the first time he could see the </p><p>woman properly. He had taken a step towards her and then </p><p>halted, full of lust and terror. He was painfully conscious of </p><p>the risk he had taken in coming here. It was perfectly pos- </p><p>sible that the patrols would catch him on the way out: for </p><p>that matter they might be waiting outside the door at this </p><p>moment. If he went away without even doing what he had </p><p>come here to do ! </p><p>It had got to be written down, it had got to be confessed. </p><p>What he had suddenly seen in the lamplight was that the </p><p>woman was OLD. The paint was plastered so thick on her </p><p>face that it looked as though it might crack like a cardboard </p><p>mask. There were streaks of white in her hair; but the truly </p><p>dreadful detail was that her mouth had fallen a little open, </p><p>revealing nothing except a cavernous blackness. She had no </p><p>teeth at all. </p><p>He wrote hurriedly, in scrabbling handwriting: </p><p>When I saw her in the light she was quite an old woman, fifty </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>87 </p><p>years old at least. But I went ahead and did it just the same. </p><p>He pressed his fingers against his eyelids again. He had </p><p>written it down at last, but it made no difference. The thera- </p><p>py had not worked. The urge to shout filthy words at the top </p><p>of his voice was as strong as ever. </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter 7 </p><p>^If there is hope,’ wrote Winston, ‘it lies in the proles.’ </p><p>If there was hope, it MUST lie in the proles, because </p><p>only there in those swarming disregarded masses, 85 per</p><p>cent of the population of Oceania, could the force to de- </p><p>stroy the Party ever be generated. The Party could not be </p><p>overthrown from within. Its enemies, if it had any enemies, </p><p>had no way of coming together or even of identifying one </p><p>another. Even if the legendary Brotherhood existed, as just </p><p>possibly it might, it was inconceivable that its members </p><p>could ever assemble in larger numbers than twos and threes. </p><p>Rebellion meant a look in the eyes, an inflexion of the voice, </p><p>at the most, an occasional whispered word. But the proles, </p><p>if only they could somehow become conscious of their own </p><p>strength, would have no need to conspire. They needed only </p><p>to rise up and shake themselves like a horse shaking off flies. </p><p>If they chose they could blow the Party to pieces tomorrow </p><p>morning. Surely sooner or later it must occur to them to do </p><p>it? And yet ! </p><p>He remembered how once he had been walking down </p><p>a crowded street when a tremendous shout of hundreds of </p><p>voices women’s voices — had burst from a side-street a little </p><p>way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger and de- </p><p>spair, a deep, loud ‘Oh-o-o-o-oh!’ that went humming on </p><p>like the reverberation of a bell. His heart had leapt. It’s start- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>89 </p><p>ed! he had thought. A riot! The proles are breaking loose </p><p>at last! When he had reached the spot it was to see a mob </p><p>of two or three hundred women crowding round the stalls </p><p>of a street market, with faces as tragic as though they had </p><p>been the doomed passengers on a sinking ship. But at this </p><p>moment the general despair broke down into a multitude </p><p>of individual quarrels. It appeared that one of the stalls </p><p>had been selling tin saucepans. They were wretched, flimsy </p><p>things, but cooking-pots of any kind were always difficult </p><p>to get. Now the supply had unexpectedly given out. The </p><p>successful women, bumped and jostled by the rest, were </p><p>trying to make off with their saucepans while dozens of </p><p>others clamoured round the stall, accusing the stall-keeper </p><p>of favouritism and of having more saucepans somewhere </p><p>in reserve. There was a fresh outburst of yells. Two bloat- </p><p>ed women, one of them with her hair coming down, had </p><p>got hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear it </p><p>out of one another’s hands. For a moment they were both </p><p>tugging, and then the handle came off. Winston watched </p><p>them disgustedly. And yet, just for a moment, what almost </p><p>frightening power had sounded in that cry from only a few </p><p>hundred throats! Why was it that they could never shout </p><p>like that about anything that mattered? </p><p>He wrote: </p><p>Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until </p><p>after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious. </p><p>That, he reflected, might almost have been a transcrip- </p><p>90 </p><p>1984 </p><p>tion from one of the Party textbooks. The Party claimed, of </p><p>course, to have liberated the proles from bondage. Before </p><p>the Revolution they had been hideously oppressed by the </p><p>capitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had </p><p>been forced to work in the coal mines (women still did work </p><p>in the coal mines, as a matter of fact), children had been </p><p>sold into the factories at the age of six. But simultaneous- </p><p>ly, true to the Principles of doublethink, the Party taught </p><p>that the proles were natural inferiors who must be kept in </p><p>subjection, like animals, by the application of a few simple </p><p>rules. In reality very little was known about the proles. It </p><p>was not necessary to know much. So long as they contin- </p><p>ued to work and breed, their other activities were without </p><p>importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned loose </p><p>upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of </p><p>life that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral </p><p>pattern. They were born, they grew up in the gutters, they </p><p>went to work at twelve, they passed through a brief blos- </p><p>soming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married at </p><p>twenty, they were middle-aged at thirty, they died, for the </p><p>most part, at sixty. Heavy physical work, the care of home </p><p>and children, petty quarrels with neighbours, films, foot- </p><p>ball, beer, and above all, gambling, filled up the horizon </p><p>of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult. </p><p>A few agents of the Thought Police moved always among </p><p>them, spreading false rumours and marking down and </p><p>eliminating the few individuals who were judged capable of </p><p>becoming dangerous; but no attempt was made to indoctri- </p><p>nate them with the ideology of the Party. It was not desirable </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>9i </p><p>that the proles should have strong political feelings. All that </p><p>was required of them was a primitive patriotism which </p><p>could be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make </p><p>them accept longer working-hours or shorter rations. And </p><p>even when they became discontented, as they sometimes </p><p>did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without </p><p>general ideas, they could only focus it on petty specific </p><p>grievances. The larger evils invariably escaped their notice. </p><p>The great majority of proles did not even have telescreens in</p><p>their homes. Even the civil police interfered with them very </p><p>little. There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a </p><p>whole world-within-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes, </p><p>drug-peddlers, and racketeers of every description; but </p><p>since it all happened among the proles themselves, it was </p><p>of no importance. In all questions of morals they were al- </p><p>lowed to follow their ancestral code. The sexual puritanism </p><p>of the Party was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity went </p><p>unpunished, divorce was permitted. For that matter, even </p><p>religious worship would have been permitted if the proles </p><p>had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. They were </p><p>beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: ‘Proles and </p><p>animals are free.’ </p><p>Winston reached down and cautiously scratched his </p><p>varicose ulcer. It had begun itching again. The thing you </p><p>invariably came back to was the impossibility of knowing </p><p>what life before the Revolution had really been like. He took </p><p>out of the drawer a copy of a children’s history textbook </p><p>which he had borrowed from Mrs Parsons, and began copy- </p><p>ing a passage into the diary: </p><p>92 </p><p>1984 </p><p>In the old days (it ran), before the glorious Revolution, </p><p>London was not the beautiful city that we know today. It </p><p>was a dark, dirty, miserable place where hardly anybody </p><p>had enough to eat and where hundreds and thousands of </p><p>poor people had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to </p><p>sleep under. Children no older than you had to work twelve </p><p>hours a day for cruel masters who flogged them with whips </p><p>if they worked too slowly and fed them on nothing but stale </p><p>breadcrusts and water. But in among all this terrible poverty </p><p>there were just a few great big beautiful houses that were </p><p>lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to </p><p>look after them. These rich men were called capitalists. They </p><p>were fat, ugly men with wicked faces, like the one in the </p><p>picture on the opposite page. You can see that he is dressed in </p><p>a long black coat which was called a frock coat, and a queer, </p><p>shiny hat shaped like a stovepipe, which was called a top hat. </p><p>This was the uniform of the capitalists, and no one else was </p><p>allowed to wear it. The capitalists owned everything in the </p><p>world, and everyone else was their slave. Tltey owned all the </p><p>land, all the houses, all the factories, and all the money. If </p><p>anyone disobeyed them they could throw them into prison, or </p><p>they could take his job away and starve him to death. When </p><p>any ordinary person spoke to a capitalist he had to cringe and </p><p>bow to him, and take off his cap and address him as ‘Sir’. The </p><p>chief of all the capitalists was called the King, and </p><p>But he knew the rest of the catalogue. There would be </p><p>mention of the bishops in their lawn sleeves, the judges in</p><p>their ermine robes, the pillory, the stocks, the treadmill, the </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>93 </p><p>cat-o’-nine tails, the Lord Mayor’s Banquet, and the prac- </p><p>tice of kissing the Pope’s toe. There was also something </p><p>called the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, which would probably </p><p>not be mentioned in a textbook for children. It was the law </p><p>by which every capitalist had the right to sleep with any </p><p>woman working in one of his factories. </p><p>How could you tell how much of it was lies? It MIGHT </p><p>be true that the average human being was better off now </p><p>than he had been before the Revolution. The only evidence </p><p>to the contrary was the mute protest in your own bones, the </p><p>instinctive feeling that the conditions you lived in were in- </p><p>tolerable and that at some other time they must have been </p><p>different. It struck him that the truly characteristic thing </p><p>about modern life was not its cruelty and insecurity, but </p><p>simply its bareness, its dinginess, its listlessness. Life, if you </p><p>looked about you, bore no resemblance not only to the lies </p><p>that streamed out of the telescreens, but even to the ideals </p><p>that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it, even </p><p>for a Party member, were neutral and non-political, a mat- </p><p>ter of slogging through dreary jobs, fighting for a place on </p><p>the Tube, darning a worn-out sock, cadging a saccharine </p><p>tablet, saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the Par- </p><p>ty was something huge, terrible, and glittering — a world of </p><p>steel and concrete, of monstrous machines and terrifying </p><p>weapons — a nation of warriors and fanatics, marching for- </p><p>ward in perfect unity, all thinking the same thoughts and </p><p>shouting the same slogans, perpetually working, fighting, </p><p>triumphing, persecuting — three hundred million people all </p><p>with the same face. The reality was decaying, dingy cities </p><p>94 </p><p>1984 </p><p>where underfed people shuffled to and fro in leaky shoes, </p><p>in patched- up nineteenth-century houses that smelt always </p><p>of cabbage and bad lavatories. He seemed to see a vision of </p><p>London, vast and ruinous, city of a million dustbins, and </p><p>mixed up with it was a picture of Mrs Parsons, a woman </p><p>with lined face and wispy hair, fiddling helplessly with a </p><p>blocked waste-pipe. </p><p>He reached down and scratched his ankle again. Day </p><p>and night the telescreens bruised your ears with statistics</p><p>proving that people today had more food, more clothes, </p><p>better houses, better recreations — that they lived longer, </p><p>worked shorter hours, were bigger, healthier, stronger, hap- </p><p>pier, more intelligent, better educated, than the people of </p><p>fifty years ago. Not a word of it could ever be proved or dis- </p><p>proved. The Party claimed, for example, that today 40 per </p><p>cent of adult proles were literate: before the Revolution, it </p><p>was said, the number had only been 15 per cent. The Party </p><p>claimed that the infant mortality rate was now only 160 per </p><p>thousand, whereas before the Revolution it had been 300 — </p><p>and so it went on. It was like a single equation with two </p><p>unknowns. It might very well be that literally every word in </p><p>the history books, even the things that one accepted with- </p><p>out question, was pure fantasy. For all he knew there might </p><p>never have been any such law as the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, </p><p>or any such creature as a capitalist, or any such garment as </p><p>a top hat. </p><p>Everything faded into mist. The past was erased, the era- </p><p>sure was forgotten, the lie became truth. Just once in his </p><p>life he had possessed — AFTER the event: that was what </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>95 </p><p>counted — concrete, unmistakable evidence of an act of fal- </p><p>sification. He had held it between his fingers for as long as </p><p>thirty seconds. In 1973, it must have been — at any rate, it </p><p>was at about the time when he and Katharine had parted. </p><p>But the really relevant date was seven or eight years earlier. </p><p>The story really began in the middle sixties, the period of </p><p>the great purges in which the original leaders of the Revolu- </p><p>tion were wiped out once and for all. By 1970 none of them </p><p>was left, except Big Brother himself. All the rest had by that </p><p>time been exposed as traitors and counter-revolutionar- </p><p>ies. Goldstein had fled and was hiding no one knew where, </p><p>and of the others, a few had simply disappeared, while the </p><p>majority had been executed after spectacular public trials </p><p>at which they made confession of their crimes. Among the </p><p>last survivors were three men named Jones, Aaronson, and </p><p>Rutherford. It must have been in 1965 that these three had </p><p>been arrested. As often happened, they had vanished for a </p><p>year or more, so that one did not know whether they were </p><p>alive or dead, and then had suddenly been brought forth </p><p>to incriminate themselves in the usual way. They had con- </p><p>fessed to intelligence with the enemy (at that date, too, the </p><p>enemy was Eurasia), embezzlement of public funds, the </p><p>murder of various trusted Party members, intrigues against </p><p>the leadership of Big Brother which had started long before </p><p>the Revolution happened, and acts of sabotage causing the </p><p>death of hundreds of thousands of people. After confess- </p><p>ing to these things they had been pardoned, reinstated in </p><p>the Party, and given posts which were in fact sinecures but</p><p>which sounded important. All three had written long, ab- </p><p>96 </p><p>1984 </p><p>ject articles in ‘The Times’, analysing the reasons for their </p><p>defection and promising to make amends. </p><p>Some time after their release Winston had actually seen </p><p>all three of them in the Chestnut Tree Cafe. He remembered </p><p>the sort of terrified fascination with which he had watched </p><p>them out of the corner of his eye. They were men far old- </p><p>er than himself, relics of the ancient world, almost the last </p><p>great figures left over from the heroic days of the Party. The </p><p>glamour of the underground struggle and the civil war still </p><p>faintly clung to them. He had the feeling, though already at </p><p>that time facts and dates were growing blurry, that he had </p><p>known their names years earlier than he had known that of </p><p>Big Brother. But also they were outlaws, enemies, untouch- </p><p>ables, doomed with absolute certainty to extinction within </p><p>a year or two. No one who had once fallen into the hands </p><p>of the Thought Police ever escaped in the end. They were </p><p>corpses waiting to be sent back to the grave. </p><p>There was no one at any of the tables nearest to them. It </p><p>was not wise even to be seen in the neighbourhood of such </p><p>people. They were sitting in silence before glasses of the gin </p><p>flavoured with cloves which was the speciality of the cafe. </p><p>Of the three, it was Rutherford whose appearance had most </p><p>impressed Winston. Rutherford had once been a famous </p><p>caricaturist, whose brutal cartoons had helped to inflame </p><p>popular opinion before and during the Revolution. Even </p><p>now, at long intervals, his cartoons were appearing in The </p><p>Times. They were simply an imitation of his earlier manner, </p><p>and curiously lifeless and unconvincing. Always they were </p><p>a rehashing of the ancient themes — slum tenements, starv- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>97 </p><p>ing children, street battles, capitalists in top hats — even on </p><p>the barricades the capitalists still seemed to cling to their </p><p>top hats an endless, hopeless effort to get back into the past. </p><p>He was a monstrous man, with a mane of greasy grey hair, </p><p>his face pouched and seamed, with thick negroid lips. At </p><p>one time he must have been immensely strong; now his </p><p>great body was sagging, sloping, bulging, falling away in </p><p>every direction. He seemed to be breaking up before one’s </p><p>eyes, like a mountain crumbling.</p><p>It was the lonely hour of fifteen. Winston could not </p><p>now remember how he had come to be in the cafe at such </p><p>a time. The place was almost empty. A tinny music was </p><p>trickling from the telescreens. The three men sat in their </p><p>corner almost motionless, never speaking. Uncommanded, </p><p>the waiter brought fresh glasses of gin. There was a chess- </p><p>board on the table beside them, with the pieces set out but </p><p>no game started. And then, for perhaps half a minute in all, </p><p>something happened to the telescreens. The tune that they </p><p>were playing changed, and the tone of the music changed </p><p>too. There came into it — but it was something hard to de- </p><p>scribe. It was a peculiar, cracked, braying, jeering note: in </p><p>his mind Winston called it a yellow note. And then a voice </p><p>from the telescreen was singing: </p><p>Under the spreading chestnut tree </p><p>I sold you and you sold me: </p><p>7 here lie they, and here lie we </p><p>Under the spreading chestnut tree. </p><p>98 </p><p>1984 </p><p>The three men never stirred. But when Winston glanced </p><p>again at Rutherford’s ruinous face, he saw that his eyes </p><p>were full of tears. And for the first time he noticed, with a </p><p>kind of inward shudder, and yet not knowing AT WHAT </p><p>he shuddered, that both Aaronson and Rutherford had bro- </p><p>ken noses. </p><p>A little later all three were re-arrested. It appeared that </p><p>they had engaged in fresh conspiracies from the very mo- </p><p>ment of their release. At their second trial they confessed to </p><p>all their old crimes over again, with a whole string of new </p><p>ones. They were executed, and their fate was recorded in </p><p>the Party histories, a warning to posterity. About five years </p><p>after this, in 1973, Winston was unrolling a wad of docu- </p><p>ments which had just flopped out of the pneumatic tube on </p><p>to his desk when he came on a fragment of paper which </p><p>had evidently been slipped in among the others and then </p><p>forgotten. The instant he had flattened it out he saw its sig- </p><p>nificance. It was a half-page torn out of ‘The Times’ of about </p><p>ten years earlier — the top half of the page, so that it included </p><p>the date — and it contained a photograph of the delegates at </p><p>some Party function in New York. Prominent in the middle </p><p>of the group were Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. There </p><p>was no mistaking them, in any case their names were in the </p><p>caption at the bottom. </p><p>The point was that at both trials all three men had con- </p><p>fessed that on that date they had been on Eurasian soil. They </p><p>had flown from a secret airfield in Canada to a rendezvous</p><p>somewhere in Siberia, and had conferred with members of </p><p>the Eurasian General Staff, to whom they had betrayed im- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>99 </p><p>portant military secrets. The date had stuck in Winston’s </p><p>memory because it chanced to be midsummer day; but the </p><p>whole story must be on record in countless other places as </p><p>well. There was only one possible conclusion: the confes- </p><p>sions were lies. </p><p>Of course, this was not in itself a discovery. Even at that </p><p>time Winston had not imagined that the people who were </p><p>wiped out in the purges had actually committed the crimes </p><p>that they were accused of. But this was concrete evidence; </p><p>it was a fragment of the abolished past, like a fossil bone </p><p>which turns up in the wrong stratum and destroys a geo- </p><p>logical theory. It was enough to blow the Party to atoms, if </p><p>in some way it could have been published to the world and </p><p>its significance made known. </p><p>He had gone straight on working. As soon as he saw what </p><p>the photograph was, and what it meant, he had covered it </p><p>up with another sheet of paper. Luckily, when he unrolled </p><p>it, it had been upside-down from the point of view of the </p><p>telescreen. </p><p>He took his scribbling pad on his knee and pushed back </p><p>his chair so as to get as far away from the telescreen as pos- </p><p>sible. To keep your face expressionless was not difficult, and </p><p>even your breathing could be controlled, with an effort: </p><p>but you could not control the beating of your heart, and </p><p>the telescreen was quite delicate enough to pick it up. He </p><p>let what he judged to be ten minutes go by, tormented all </p><p>the while by the fear that some accident — a sudden draught </p><p>blowing across his desk, for instance — would betray him. </p><p>Then, without uncovering it again, he dropped the photo- </p><p>100 </p><p>1984 </p><p>graph into the memory hole, along with some other waste </p><p>papers. Within another minute, perhaps, it would have </p><p>crumbled into ashes. </p><p>That was ten — eleven years ago. Today, probably, he </p><p>would have kept that photograph. It was curious that the </p><p>fact of having held it in his fingers seemed to him to make</p><p>a difference even now, when the photograph itself, as well </p><p>as the event it recorded, was only memory. Was the Party’s </p><p>hold upon the past less strong, he wondered, because a piece </p><p>of evidence which existed no longer HAD ONCE existed? </p><p>But today, supposing that it could be somehow resur- </p><p>rected from its ashes, the photograph might not even be </p><p>evidence. Already, at the time when he made his discov- </p><p>ery, Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia, and it must </p><p>have been to the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men </p><p>had betrayed their country. Since then there had been oth- </p><p>er changes — two, three, he could not remember how many. </p><p>Very likely the confessions had been rewritten and rewritten </p><p>until the original facts and dates no longer had the small- </p><p>est significance. The past not only changed, but changed </p><p>continuously. What most afflicted him with the sense of </p><p>nightmare was that he had never clearly understood why </p><p>the huge imposture was undertaken. The immediate advan- </p><p>tages of falsifying the past were obvious, but the ultimate </p><p>motive was mysterious. He took up his pen again and </p><p>wrote: </p><p>I understand HOW: I do not understand WHY. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>101 </p><p>He wondered, as he had many times wondered before, </p><p>whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was </p><p>simply a minority of one. At one time it had been a sign of </p><p>madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; today, </p><p>to believe that the past is inalterable. He might be ALONE </p><p>in holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the </p><p>thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him: the </p><p>horror was that he might also be wrong. </p><p>He picked up the children’s history book and looked at </p><p>the portrait of Big Brother which formed its frontispiece. </p><p>The hypnotic eyes gazed into his own. It was as though </p><p>some huge force were pressing down upon you — something </p><p>that penetrated inside your skull, battering against your </p><p>brain, frightening you out of your beliefs, persuading you, </p><p>almost, to deny the evidence of your senses. In the end the </p><p>Party would announce that two and two made five, and you </p><p>would have to believe it. It was inevitable that they should </p><p>make that claim sooner or later: the logic of their position </p><p>demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the </p><p>very existence of external reality, was tacitly denied by their </p><p>philosophy. The heresy of heresies was common sense. And </p><p>what was terrifying was not that they would kill you for </p><p>thinking otherwise, but that they might be right. For, after </p><p>all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that </p><p>the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchange- </p><p>able? If both the past and the external world exist only in</p><p>the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable what then? </p><p>But no! His courage seemed suddenly to stiffen of its </p><p>own accord. The face of O’Brien, not called up by any obvi- </p><p>102 </p><p>1984 </p><p>ous association, had floated into his mind. He knew, with </p><p>more certainty than before, that O’Brien was on his side. </p><p>He was writing the diary for O’Brien — TO O’Brien: it was </p><p>like an interminable letter which no one would ever read, </p><p>but which was addressed to a particular person and took its </p><p>colour from that fact. </p><p>The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and </p><p>ears. It was their final, most essential command. His heart </p><p>sank as he thought of the enormous power arrayed against </p><p>him, the ease with which any Party intellectual would over- </p><p>throw him in debate, the subtle arguments which he would </p><p>not be able to understand, much less answer. And yet he </p><p>was in the right! They were wrong and he was right. The </p><p>obvious, the silly, and the true had got to be defended. Tru- </p><p>isms are true, hold on to that! The solid world exists, its laws </p><p>do not change. Stones are hard, water is wet, objects unsup- </p><p>ported fall towards the earth’s centre. With the feeling that </p><p>he was speaking to O’Brien, and also that he was setting </p><p>forth an important axiom, he wrote: </p><p>Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If </p><p>that is granted, all else follows. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>103 </p><p>Chapter 8 </p><p>F rom somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of </p><p>roasting coffee — real coffee, not Victory Coffee — came </p><p>floating out into the street. Winston paused involuntarily. </p><p>For perhaps two seconds he was back in the half-forgotten </p><p>world of his childhood. Then a door banged, seeming to cut </p><p>off the smell as abruptly as though it had been a sound. </p><p>He had walked several kilometres over pavements, and </p><p>his varicose ulcer was throbbing. This was the second time </p><p>in three weeks that he had missed an evening at the Com-</p><p>munity Centre: a rash act, since you could be certain that </p><p>the number of your attendances at the Centre was care- </p><p>fully checked. In principle a Party member had no spare </p><p>time, and was never alone except in bed. It was assumed </p><p>that when he was not working, eating, or sleeping he would </p><p>be taking part in some kind of communal recreation: to do </p><p>anything that suggested a taste for solitude, even to go for a </p><p>walk by yourself, was always slightly dangerous. There was </p><p>a word for it in Newspeak: OWNLIFE, it was called, mean- </p><p>ing individualism and eccentricity. But this evening as he </p><p>came out of the Ministry the balminess of the April air had </p><p>tempted him. The sky was a warmer blue than he had seen it </p><p>that year, and suddenly the long, noisy evening at the Cen- </p><p>tre, the boring, exhausting games, the lectures, the creaking </p><p>camaraderie oiled by gin, had seemed intolerable. On im- </p><p>104 </p><p>1984 </p><p>pulse he had turned away from the bus-stop and wandered </p><p>off into the labyrinth of London, first south, then east, then </p><p>north again, losing himself among unknown streets and </p><p>hardly bothering in which direction he was going. </p><p>‘If there is hope,’ he had written in the diary, ‘it lies in </p><p>the proles.’ The words kept coming back to him, statement </p><p>of a mystical truth and a palpable absurdity. He was some- </p><p>where in the vague, brown-coloured slums to the north and </p><p>east of what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He was </p><p>walking up a cobbled street of little two-storey houses with </p><p>battered doorways which gave straight on the pavement </p><p>and which were somehow curiously suggestive of ratholes. </p><p>There were puddles of filthy water here and there among the </p><p>cobbles. In and out of the dark doorways, and down narrow </p><p>alley-ways that branched off on either side, people swarmed </p><p>in astonishing numbers — girls in full bloom, with crude- </p><p>ly lipsticked mouths, and youths who chased the girls, and </p><p>swollen waddling women who showed you what the girls </p><p>would be like in ten years’ time, and old bent creatures shuf- </p><p>fling along on splayed feet, and ragged barefooted children </p><p>who played in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells </p><p>from their mothers. Perhaps a quarter of the windows in </p><p>the street were broken and boarded up. Most of the people </p><p>paid no attention to Winston; a few eyed him with a sort of </p><p>guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red </p><p>forearms folded across their aprons were talking outside a </p><p>doorway. Winston caught scraps of conversation as he ap- </p><p>proached. </p><p>°Yes,’ I says to ‘er, ‘that’s all very well,’ I says. ‘But if you’d </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>105 </p><p>of been in my place you’d of done the same as what I done. </p><p>It’s easy to criticize,’ I says, ‘but you ain’t got the same prob- </p><p>lems as what I got.“ </p><p>‘Ah,’ said the other, ‘that’s jest it. That’s jest where it is.’ </p><p>The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women stud- </p><p>ied him in hostile silence as he went past. But it was not </p><p>hostility, exactly; merely a kind of wariness, a momentary </p><p>stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar animal. The </p><p>blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in </p><p>a street like this. Indeed, it was unwise to be seen in such </p><p>places, unless you had definite business there. The patrols </p><p>might stop you if you happened to run into them. ‘May I see </p><p>your papers, comrade? What are you doing here? What time </p><p>did you leave work? Is this your usual way home?’ — and so </p><p>on and so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking </p><p>home by an unusual route: but it was enough to draw atten- </p><p>tion to you if the Thought Police heard about it. </p><p>Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There </p><p>were yells of warning from all sides. People were shooting </p><p>into the doorways like rabbits. A young woman leapt out </p><p>of a doorway a little ahead of Winston, grabbed up a tiny </p><p>child playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it, and </p><p>leapt back again, all in one movement. At the same instant a </p><p>man in a concertina-like black suit, who had emerged from </p><p>a side alley, ran towards Winston, pointing excitedly to the </p><p>sky. </p><p>‘Steamer!’ he yelled. ‘Look out, guv’nor! Bang over’ead! </p><p>Lay down quick!’ </p><p>‘Steamer’ was a nickname which, for some reason, the </p><p>106 </p><p>1984 </p><p>proles applied to rocket bombs. Winston promptly flung </p><p>himself on his face. The proles were nearly always right </p><p>when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed </p><p>to possess some kind of instinct which told them several </p><p>seconds in advance when a rocket was coming, although </p><p>the rockets supposedly travelled faster than sound. Win- </p><p>ston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar </p><p>that seemed to make the pavement heave; a shower of light </p><p>objects pattered on to his back. When he stood up he found </p><p>that he was covered with fragments of glass from the near- </p><p>est window.</p><p>He walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of </p><p>houses 200 metres up the street. A black plume of smoke </p><p>hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of plaster dust in which </p><p>a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There was a </p><p>little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him, and </p><p>in the middle of it he could see a bright red streak. When he </p><p>got up to it he saw that it was a human hand severed at the </p><p>wrist. Apart from the bloody stump, the hand was so com- </p><p>pletely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast. </p><p>He kicked the thing into the gutter, and then, to avoid </p><p>the crowd, turned down a side-street to the right. With- </p><p>in three or four minutes he was out of the area which the </p><p>bomb had affected, and the sordid swarming life of the </p><p>streets was going on as though nothing had happened. It </p><p>was nearly twenty hours, and the drinking-shops which the </p><p>proles frequented (’pubs’, they called them) were choked </p><p>with customers. From their grimy swing doors, endlessly </p><p>opening and shutting, there came forth a smell of urine, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>107 </p><p>sawdust, and sour beer. In an angle formed by a projecting </p><p>house-front three men were standing very close togeth- </p><p>er, the middle one of them holding a folded-up newspaper </p><p>which the other two were studying over his shoulder. Even </p><p>before he was near enough to make out the expression on </p><p>their faces, Winston could see absorption in every line of </p><p>their bodies. It was obviously some serious piece of news </p><p>that they were reading. He was a few paces away from them </p><p>when suddenly the group broke up and two of the men were </p><p>in violent altercation. For a moment they seemed almost on </p><p>the point of blows. </p><p>‘Can’t you bleeding well listen to what I say? I tell you </p><p>no number ending in seven ain’t won for over fourteen </p><p>months!’ </p><p>‘Yes, it ‘as, then!’ </p><p>‘No, it ‘as not! Back ‘ome I got the ‘ole lot of 'em for over </p><p>two years wrote down on a piece of paper. I takes 'em down </p><p>reg’lar as the clock. An’ I tell you, no number ending in </p><p>seven ’ </p><p>‘Yes, a seven ‘AS won! I could pretty near tell you the </p><p>bleeding number. Four oh seven, it ended in. It were in Feb- </p><p>ruary — second week in February.’ </p><p>‘February your grandmother! I got it all down in black </p><p>and white. An’ I tell you, no number ’ </p><p>‘Oh, pack it in!’ said the third man. </p><p>They were talking about the Lottery. Winston looked </p><p>back when he had gone thirty metres. They were still ar- </p><p>guing, with vivid, passionate faces. The Lottery, with its </p><p>weekly pay-out of enormous prizes, was the one public event </p><p>108 </p><p>1984 </p><p>to which the proles paid serious attention. It was probable </p><p>that there were some millions of proles for whom the Lot- </p><p>tery was the principal if not the only reason for remaining </p><p>alive. It was their delight, their folly, their anodyne, their </p><p>intellectual stimulant. Where the Lottery was concerned, </p><p>even people who could barely read and write seemed capa- </p><p>ble of intricate calculations and staggering feats of memory. </p><p>There was a whole tribe of men who made a living simply by </p><p>selling systems, forecasts, and lucky amulets. Winston had </p><p>nothing to do with the running of the Lottery, which was </p><p>managed by the Ministry of Plenty, but he was aware (in- </p><p>deed everyone in the party was aware) that the prizes were </p><p>largely imaginary. Only small sums were actually paid out, </p><p>the winners of the big prizes being non-existent persons. In </p><p>the absence of any real intercommunication between one </p><p>part of Oceania and another, this was not difficult to ar- </p><p>range. </p><p>But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling </p><p>on to that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable: </p><p>it was when you looked at the human beings passing you on </p><p>the pavement that it became an act of faith. The street into </p><p>which he had turned ran downhill. He had a feeling that he </p><p>had been in this neighbourhood before, and that there was </p><p>a main thoroughfare not far away. From somewhere ahead </p><p>there came a din of shouting voices. The street took a sharp </p><p>turn and then ended in a flight of steps which led down into </p><p>a sunken alley where a few stall-keepers were selling tired- </p><p>looking vegetables. At this moment Winston remembered </p><p>where he was. The alley led out into the main street, and </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>109 </p><p>down the next turning, not five minutes away, was the junk- </p><p>shop where he had bought the blank book which was now </p><p>his diary. And in a small stationer’s shop not far away he </p><p>had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink. </p><p>He paused for a moment at the top of the steps. On the </p><p>opposite side of the alley there was a dingy little pub whose </p><p>windows appeared to be frosted over but in reality were </p><p>merely coated with dust. A very old man, bent but active, </p><p>with white moustaches that bristled forward like those of a </p><p>prawn, pushed open the swing door and went in. As Win- </p><p>ston stood watching, it occurred to him that the old man, </p><p>who must be eighty at the least, had already been middle- </p><p>aged when the Revolution happened. He and a few others </p><p>like him were the last links that now existed with the van- </p><p>ished world of capitalism. In the Party itself there were not </p><p>many people left whose ideas had been formed before the </p><p>Revolution. The older generation had mostly been wiped out </p><p>in the great purges of the fifties and sixties, and the few who </p><p>survived had long ago been terrified into complete intellec- </p><p>tual surrender. If there was any one still alive who could </p><p>give you a truthful account of conditions in the early part </p><p>of the century, it could only be a prole. Suddenly the pas- </p><p>sage from the history book that he had copied into his diary </p><p>came back into Winston’s mind, and a lunatic impulse took </p><p>hold of him. He would go into the pub, he would scrape ac- </p><p>quaintance with that old man and question him. He would </p><p>say to him: ‘Tell me about your life when you were a boy. </p><p>What was it like in those days? Were things better than they </p><p>are now, or were they worse?’ </p><p>110 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Hurriedly, lest he should have time to become frightened, </p><p>he descended the steps and crossed the narrow street. It </p><p>was madness of course. As usual, there was no definite rule </p><p>against talking to proles and frequenting their pubs, but it </p><p>was far too unusual an action to pass unnoticed. If the pa- </p><p>trols appeared he might plead an attack of faintness, but it </p><p>was not likely that they would believe him. He pushed open </p><p>the door, and a hideous cheesy smell of sour beer hit him in </p><p>the face. As he entered the din of voices dropped to about </p><p>half its volume. Behind his back he could feel everyone eye- </p><p>ing his blue overalls. A game of darts which was going on at </p><p>the other end of the room interrupted itself for perhaps as </p><p>much as thirty seconds. The old man whom he had followed </p><p>was standing at the bar, having some kind of altercation </p><p>with the barman, a large, stout, hook-nosed young man </p><p>with enormous forearms. A knot of others, standing round </p><p>with glasses in their hands, were watching the scene. </p><p>‘I arst you civil enough, didn’t I?’ said the old man, </p><p>straightening his shoulders pugnaciously. ‘You telling me </p><p>you ain’t got a pint mug in the ‘ole bleeding boozer?’ </p><p>‘And what in hell’s name IS a pint?’ said the barman, lean- </p><p>ing forward with the tips of his fingers on the counter. </p><p>°Ark at ‘im! Calls ‘isself a barman and don’t know what </p><p>a pint is! Why, a pint’s the ‘alf of a quart, and there’s four </p><p>quarts to the gallon. ‘Ave to teach you the A, B, C next.’ </p><p>‘Never heard of 'em,’ said the barman shortly. ‘Litre and </p><p>half litre — that’s all we serve. There’s the glasses on the shelf </p><p>in front of you.’ </p><p>‘I likes a pint,’ persisted the old man. ‘You could ‘a drawed </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>m </p><p>me off a pint easy enough. We didn’t ‘ave these bleeding li- </p><p>tres when I was a young man.’ </p><p>‘When you were a young man we were all living in the </p><p>treetops,’ said the barman, with a glance at the other cus- </p><p>tomers. </p><p>There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused </p><p>by Winston’s entry seemed to disappear. The old man’s whit- </p><p>estubbled face had flushed pink. He turned away, muttering </p><p>to himself, and bumped into Winston. Winston caught him </p><p>gently by the arm. </p><p>‘May I offer you a drink?’ he said. </p><p>‘You’re a gent,’ said the other, straightening his shoul- </p><p>ders again. He appeared not to have noticed Winston’s blue </p><p>overalls. ‘Pint!’ he added aggressively to the barman. ‘Pint </p><p>of wallop.’ </p><p>The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer </p><p>into thick glasses which he had rinsed in a bucket under </p><p>the counter. Beer was the only drink you could get in prole </p><p>pubs. The proles were supposed not to drink gin, though in </p><p>practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The game of </p><p>darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar </p><p>had begun talking about lottery tickets. Winston’s presence </p><p>was forgotten for a moment. There was a deal table under </p><p>the window where he and the old man could talk without </p><p>fear of being overheard. It was horribly dangerous, but at </p><p>any rate there was no telescreen in the room, a point he had </p><p>made sure of as soon as he came in. </p><p>°E could ‘a drawed me off a pint,’ grumbled the old man </p><p>as he settled down behind a glass. ‘A ‘alf litre ain’t enough. It </p><p>112 </p><p>1984 </p><p>don’t satisfy. And a ‘ole litre’s too much. It starts my bladder </p><p>running. Let alone the price.’ </p><p>‘You must have seen great changes since you were a young </p><p>man,’ said Winston tentatively. </p><p>The old man’s pale blue eyes moved from the darts board </p><p>to the bar, and from the bar to the door of the Gents, as </p><p>though it were in the bar-room that he expected the chang- </p><p>es to have occurred. </p><p>‘The beer was better,’ he said finally. ‘And cheaper! When </p><p>I was a young man, mild beer — wallop we used to call it — </p><p>was fourpence a pint. That was before the war, of course.’ </p><p>‘Which war was that?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘It’s all wars,’ said the old man vaguely. He took up his </p><p>glass, and his shoulders straightened again. "Ere’s wishing </p><p>you the very best of ‘ealth!’ </p><p>In his lean throat the sharp -pointed Adam’s apple made </p><p>a surprisingly rapid up-and-down movement, and the beer </p><p>vanished. Winston went to the bar and came back with two </p><p>more half-litres. The old man appeared to have forgotten </p><p>his prejudice against drinking a full litre. </p><p>‘You are very much older than I am,’ said Winston. ‘You </p><p>must have been a grown man before I was born. You can </p><p>remember what it was like in the old days, before the Revo- </p><p>lution. People of my age don’t really know anything about </p><p>those times. We can only read about them in books, and </p><p>what it says in the books may not be true. I should like your </p><p>opinion on that. The history books say that life before the </p><p>Revolution was completely different from what it is now. </p><p>There was the most terrible oppression, injustice, poverty </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>113 </p><p>worse than anything we can imagine. Here in London, the </p><p>great mass of the people never had enough to eat from birth </p><p>to death. Half of them hadn’t even boots on their feet. They </p><p>worked twelve hours a day, they left school at nine, they </p><p>slept ten in a room. And at the same time there were a very </p><p>few people, only a few thousands — the capitalists, they were </p><p>called — who were rich and powerful. They owned every- </p><p>thing that there was to own. They lived in great gorgeous </p><p>houses with thirty servants, they rode about in motor-cars </p><p>and four-horse carriages, they drank champagne, they wore </p><p>top hats ’ </p><p>The old man brightened suddenly. </p><p>‘Top ‘ats!’ he said. ‘Funny you should mention ‘em. The </p><p>same thing come into my ‘ead only yesterday, I dono why. I </p><p>was jest thinking, I ain’t seen a top ‘at in years. Gorn right </p><p>out, they ‘ave. The last time I wore one was at my sister-in- </p><p>law’s funeral. And that was — well, I couldn’t give you the </p><p>date, but it must ’a been fifty years ago. Of course it was only </p><p>‘ired for the occasion, you understand.’ </p><p>‘It isn’t very important about the top hats,’ said Winston </p><p>patiently. ‘The point is, these capitalists — they and a few </p><p>lawyers and priests and so forth who lived on them — were </p><p>the lords of the earth. Everything existed for their benefit. </p><p>You — the ordinary people, the workers — were their slaves. </p><p>They could do what they liked with you. They could ship </p><p>you off to Canada like cattle. They could sleep with your </p><p>daughters if they chose. They could order you to be flogged </p><p>with something called a cat-o’-nine tails. You had to take </p><p>your cap off when you passed them. Every capitalist went </p><p>114 </p><p>1984 </p><p>about with a gang of lackeys who ’ </p><p>The old man brightened again. </p><p>‘Lackeys!’ he said. ‘Now there’s a word I ain’t ‘eard since </p><p>ever so long. Lackeys! That reg’lar takes me back, that does. </p><p>I recollect oh, donkey’s years ago — I used to sometimes go </p><p>to ‘Yde Park of a Sunday afternoon to ‘ear the blokes making </p><p>speeches. Salvation Army, Roman Catholics, Jews, Indi- </p><p>ans — all sorts there was. And there was one bloke — well, I </p><p>couldn’t give you ‘is name, but a real powerful speaker ‘e </p><p>was. ‘E didn’t ‘alf give it 'em! ‘Lackeys!’ ‘e says, ‘lackeys of </p><p>the bourgeoisie! Flunkies of the ruling class!’ Parasites — </p><p>that was another of them. And ‘yenas — ’e definitely called </p><p>‘em ‘yenas. Of course ‘e was referring to the Labour Party, </p><p>you understand.’ </p><p>Winston had the feeling that they were talking at cross- </p><p>purposes. </p><p>‘What I really wanted to know was this,’ he said. ‘Do you </p><p>feel that you have more freedom now than you had in those </p><p>days? Are you treated more like a human being? In the old </p><p>days, the rich people, the people at the top ’ </p><p>‘The ‘Ouse of Lords,’ put in the old man reminiscently. </p><p>‘The House of Lords, if you like. What I am asking is, </p><p>were these people able to treat you as an inferior, simply </p><p>because they were rich and you were poor? Is it a fact, for</p><p>instance, that you had to call them ‘Sir’ and take off your </p><p>cap when you passed them?’ </p><p>The old man appeared to think deeply. He drank off </p><p>about a quarter of his beer before answering. </p><p>‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They liked you to touch your cap to ‘em. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>115 </p><p>It showed respect, like. I didn’t agree with it, myself, but I </p><p>done it often enough. Had to, as you might say.’ </p><p>‘And was it usual — I’m only quoting what I’ve read in his- </p><p>tory books — was it usual for these people and their servants </p><p>to push you off the pavement into the gutter?’ </p><p>‘One of 'em pushed me once,’ said the old man. ‘I recol- </p><p>lect it as if it was yesterday. It was Boat Race night — terribly </p><p>rowdy they used to get on Boat Race night — and I bumps </p><p>into a young bloke on Shaftesbury Avenue. Quite a gent, </p><p>‘e was — dress shirt, top ‘at, black overcoat. ‘E was kind of </p><p>zig-zagging across the pavement, and I bumps into ‘im acci- </p><p>dental-like. ‘E says, ‘Why can’t you look where you’re going?’ </p><p>‘e says. I say, ‘Ju think you’ve bought the bleeding pavement?’ </p><p>‘E says, ‘I’ll twist your bloody ‘ead off if you get fresh with </p><p>me.’ I says, ‘You’re drunk. I’ll give you in charge in ‘alf a </p><p>minute,’ I says. An’ if you’ll believe me, ‘e puts ‘is ‘and on my </p><p>chest and gives me a shove as pretty near sent me under the </p><p>wheels of a bus. Well, I was young in them days, and I was </p><p>going to ‘ave fetched ‘im one, only ’ </p><p>A sense of helplessness took hold of Winston. The old </p><p>man’s memory was nothing but a rubbish-heap of details. </p><p>One could question him all day without getting any real </p><p>information. The party histories might still be true, after a </p><p>fashion: they might even be completely true. He made a last </p><p>attempt. </p><p>‘Perhaps I have not made myself clear,’ he said. ‘What I’m </p><p>trying to say is this. You have been alive a very long time; </p><p>you lived half your life before the Revolution. In 1925, for </p><p>instance, you were already grown up. Would you say from </p><p>ll6 </p><p>1984 </p><p>what you can remember, that life in 1925 was better than it</p><p>is now, or worse? If you could choose, would you prefer to </p><p>live then or now?’ </p><p>The old man looked meditatively at the darts board. He </p><p>finished up his beer, more slowly than before. When he </p><p>spoke it was with a tolerant philosophical air, as though the </p><p>beer had mellowed him. </p><p>‘I know what you expect me to say,’ he said. ‘You expect </p><p>me to say as I’d sooner be young again. Most people’d say </p><p>they’d sooner be young, if you arst’ 'em. You got your ‘ealth </p><p>and strength when you’re young. When you get to my time </p><p>of life you ain’t never well. I suffer something wicked from </p><p>my feet, and my bladder’s jest terrible. Six and seven times </p><p>a night it ‘as me out of bed. On the other ‘and, there’s great </p><p>advantages in being a old man. You ain’t got the same wor- </p><p>ries. No truck with women, and that’s a great thing. I ain’t </p><p>‘ad a woman for near on thirty year, if you’d credit it. Nor </p><p>wanted to, what’s more.’ </p><p>Winston sat back against the window-sill. It was no use </p><p>going on. He was about to buy some more beer when the old </p><p>man suddenly got up and shuffled rapidly into the stink- </p><p>ing urinal at the side of the room. The extra half-litre was </p><p>already working on him. Winston sat for a minute or two </p><p>gazing at his empty glass, and hardly noticed when his feet </p><p>carried him out into the street again. Within twenty years </p><p>at the most, he reflected, the huge and simple question, </p><p>‘Was life better before the Revolution than it is now?’ would </p><p>have ceased once and for all to be answerable. But in effect </p><p>it was unanswerable even now, since the few scattered sur- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>117 </p><p>vivors from the ancient world were incapable of comparing </p><p>one age with another. They remembered a million useless </p><p>things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicy- </p><p>cle pump, the expression on a long- dead sister’s face, the </p><p>swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but </p><p>all the relevant facts were outside the range of their vision. </p><p>They were like the ant, which can see small objects but not </p><p>large ones. And when memory failed and written records </p><p>were falsified — when that happened, the claim of the Party </p><p>to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be </p><p>accepted, because there did not exist, and never again could </p><p>exist, any standard against which it could be tested. </p><p>At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly. </p><p>He halted and looked up. He was in a narrow street, with a </p><p>few dark little shops, interspersed among dwelling-houses. </p><p>Immediately above his head there hung three discoloured </p><p>metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded. </p><p>He seemed to know the place. Of course! He was standing</p><p>outside the junk-shop where he had bought the diary. </p><p>A twinge of fear went through him. It had been a suf- </p><p>ficiently rash act to buy the book in the beginning, and he </p><p>had sworn never to come near the place again. And yet the </p><p>instant that he allowed his thoughts to wander, his feet had </p><p>brought him back here of their own accord. It was precisely </p><p>against suicidal impulses of this kind that he had hoped to </p><p>guard himself by opening the diary. At the same time he </p><p>noticed that although it was nearly twenty- one hours the </p><p>shop was still open. With the feeling that he would be less </p><p>conspicuous inside than hanging about on the pavement, </p><p>ns </p><p>1984 </p><p>he stepped through the doorway. If questioned, he could </p><p>plausibly say that he was trying to buy razor blades. </p><p>The proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp which </p><p>gave off an unclean but friendly smell. He was a man of per- </p><p>haps sixty, frail and bowed, with a long, benevolent nose, </p><p>and mild eyes distorted by thick spectacles. His hair was al- </p><p>most white, but his eyebrows were bushy and still black. His </p><p>spectacles, his gentle, fussy movements, and the fact that he </p><p>was wearing an aged jacket of black velvet, gave him a vague </p><p>air of intellectuality, as though he had been some kind of </p><p>literary man, or perhaps a musician. His voice was soft, as </p><p>though faded, and his accent less debased than that of the </p><p>majority of proles. </p><p>‘I recognized you on the pavement,’ he said immediately. </p><p>‘You’re the gentleman that bought the young lady’s keepsake </p><p>album. That was a beautiful bit of paper, that was. Cream- </p><p>laid, it used to be called. There’s been no paper like that </p><p>made for — oh, I dare say fifty years.’ He peered at Winston </p><p>over the top of his spectacles. ‘Is there anything special I </p><p>can do for you? Or did you just want to look round?’ </p><p>‘I was passing,’ said Winston vaguely. ‘I just looked in. I </p><p>don’t want anything in particular.’ </p><p>‘It’s just as well,’ said the other, ‘because I don’t suppose </p><p>I could have satisfied you.’ He made an apologetic gesture </p><p>with his softpalmed hand. ‘You see how it is; an empty shop, </p><p>you might say. Between you and me, the antique trade’s just </p><p>about finished. No demand any longer, and no stock either. </p><p>Furniture, china, glass it’s all been broken up by degrees. </p><p>And of course the metal stuff’s mostly been melted down. I </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>119 </p><p>haven’t seen a brass candlestick in years.’ </p><p>The tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably </p><p>full, but there was almost nothing in it of the slightest val- </p><p>ue. The floorspace was very restricted, because all round </p><p>the walls were stacked innumerable dusty picture-frames. </p><p>In the window there were trays of nuts and bolts, worn-out </p><p>chisels, penknives with broken blades, tarnished watches </p><p>that did not even pretend to be in going order, and other </p><p>miscellaneous rubbish. Only on a small table in the corner </p><p>was there a litter of odds and ends — lacquered snuffbox- </p><p>es, agate brooches, and the like — which looked as though </p><p>they might include something interesting. As Winston </p><p>wandered towards the table his eye was caught by a round, </p><p>smooth thing that gleamed softly in the lamplight, and he </p><p>picked it up. </p><p>It was a heavy lump of glass, curved on one side, flat </p><p>on the other, making almost a hemisphere. There was a </p><p>peculiar softness, as of rainwater, in both the colour and </p><p>the texture of the glass. At the heart of it, magnified by the </p><p>curved surface, there was a strange, pink, convoluted object </p><p>that recalled a rose or a sea anemone. </p><p>‘What is it?’ said Winston, fascinated. </p><p>‘That’s coral, that is,’ said the old man. ‘It must have come </p><p>from the Indian Ocean. They used to kind of embed it in </p><p>the glass. That wasn’t made less than a hundred years ago. </p><p>More, by the look of it.’ </p><p>‘It’s a beautiful thing,’ said Winston. </p><p>‘It is a beautiful thing,’ said the other appreciatively. ‘But </p><p>there’s not many that’d say so nowadays.’ He coughed. ‘Now, </p><p>120 </p><p>1984 </p><p>if it so happened that you wanted to buy it, that’d cost you </p><p>four dollars. I can remember when a thing like that would </p><p>have fetched eight pounds, and eight pounds was — well, I </p><p>can’t work it out, but it was a lot of money. But who cares </p><p>about genuine antiques nowadays — even the few that’s </p><p>left?’ </p><p>Winston immediately paid over the four dollars and slid </p><p>the coveted thing into his pocket. What appealed to him </p><p>about it was not so much its beauty as the air it seemed to </p><p>possess of belonging to an age quite different from the pres-</p><p>ent one. The soft, rainwatery glass was not like any glass that </p><p>he had ever seen. The thing was doubly attractive because </p><p>of its apparent uselessness, though he could guess that it </p><p>must once have been intended as a paperweight. It was very </p><p>heavy in his pocket, but fortunately it did not make much </p><p>of a bulge. It was a queer thing, even a compromising thing, </p><p>for a Party member to have in his possession. Anything old, </p><p>and for that matter anything beautiful, was always vaguely </p><p>suspect. The old man had grown noticeably more cheerful </p><p>after receiving the four dollars. Winston realized that he </p><p>would have accepted three or even two. </p><p>‘There’s another room upstairs that you might care to </p><p>take a look at,’ he said. ‘There’s not much in it. Just a few </p><p>pieces. We’ll do with a light if we’re going upstairs.’ </p><p>He lit another lamp, and, with bowed back, led the way </p><p>slowly up the steep and worn stairs and along a tiny passage, </p><p>into a room which did not give on the street but looked out </p><p>on a cobbled yard and a forest of chimney-pots. Winston </p><p>noticed that the furniture was still arranged as though the </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>121 </p><p>room were meant to be lived in. There was a strip of car- </p><p>pet on the floor, a picture or two on the walls, and a deep, </p><p>slatternly arm-chair drawn up to the fireplace. An old-fash- </p><p>ioned glass clock with a twelve-hour face was ticking away </p><p>on the mantelpiece. Under the window, and occupying </p><p>nearly a quarter of the room, was an enormous bed with </p><p>the mattress still on it. </p><p>‘We lived here till my wife died,’ said the old man half </p><p>apologetically. ‘I’m selling the furniture off by little and </p><p>little. Now that’s a beautiful mahogany bed, or at least it </p><p>would be if you could get the bugs out of it. But I dare say </p><p>you’d find it a little bit cumbersome.’ </p><p>He was holding the lamp high up, so as to illuminate the </p><p>whole room, and in the warm dim light the place looked </p><p>curiously inviting. The thought flitted through Winston’s </p><p>mind that it would probably be quite easy to rent the room </p><p>for a few dollars a week, if he dared to take the risk. It was a </p><p>wild, impossible notion, to be abandoned as soon as thought </p><p>of; but the room had awakened in him a sort of nostalgia, a </p><p>sort of ancestral memory. It seemed to him that he knew </p><p>exactly what it felt like to sit in a room like this, in an arm- </p><p>chair beside an open fire with your feet in the fender and a </p><p>kettle on the hob; utterly alone, utterly secure, with nobody </p><p>watching you, no voice pursuing you, no sound except the </p><p>singing of the kettle and the friendly ticking of the clock. </p><p>‘There’s no telescreen!’ he could not help murmuring.</p><p>‘Ah,’ said the old man, ‘I never had one of those things. </p><p>Too expensive. And I never seemed to feel the need of it, </p><p>somehow. Now that’s a nice gateleg table in the corner there. </p><p>122 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Though of course you’d have to put new hinges on it if you </p><p>wanted to use the flaps.’ </p><p>There was a small bookcase in the other corner, and </p><p>Winston had already gravitated towards it. It contained </p><p>nothing but rubbish. The hunting-down and destruction of </p><p>books had been done with the same thoroughness in the </p><p>prole quarters as everywhere else. It was very unlikely that </p><p>there existed anywhere in Oceania a copy of a book printed </p><p>earlier than 1960. The old man, still carrying the lamp, was </p><p>standing in front of a picture in a rosewood frame which </p><p>hung on the other side of the fireplace, opposite the bed. </p><p>‘Now, if you happen to be interested in old prints at all — </p><p>— ’ he began delicately. </p><p>Winston came across to examine the picture. It was a </p><p>steel engraving of an oval building with rectangular win- </p><p>dows, and a small tower in front. There was a railing </p><p>running round the building, and at the rear end there was </p><p>what appeared to be a statue. Winston gazed at it for some </p><p>moments. It seemed vaguely familiar, though he did not re- </p><p>member the statue. </p><p>‘The frame’s fixed to the wall,’ said the old man, ‘but I </p><p>could unscrew it for you, I dare say.’ </p><p>‘I know that building,’ said Winston finally. ‘It’s a ruin </p><p>now. It’s in the middle of the street outside the Palace of </p><p>Justice.’ </p><p>‘That’s right. Outside the Law Courts. It was bombed in — </p><p>oh, many years ago. It was a church at one time, St Clement </p><p>Danes, its name was.’ He smiled apologetically, as though </p><p>conscious of saying something slightly ridiculous, and add- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>123 </p><p>ed: ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s!’ </p><p>‘What’s that?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘Oh — ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s.’ </p><p>That was a rhyme we had when I was a little boy. How it goes </p><p>on I don’t remember, but I do know it ended up, ‘Here comes </p><p>a candle to light you to bed, Here comes a chopper to chop </p><p>off your head.’ It was a kind of a dance. They held out their </p><p>arms for you to pass under, and when they came to ‘Here </p><p>comes a chopper to chop off your head’ they brought their </p><p>arms down and caught you. It was just names of churches. </p><p>All the London churches were in it — all the principal ones, </p><p>that is.’ </p><p>Winston wondered vaguely to what century the church </p><p>belonged. It was always difficult to determine the age of a </p><p>London building. Anything large and impressive, if it was </p><p>reasonably new in appearance, was automatically claimed </p><p>as having been built since the Revolution, while anything </p><p>that was obviously of earlier date was ascribed to some dim </p><p>period called the Middle Ages. The centuries of capitalism </p><p>were held to have produced nothing of any value. One could </p><p>not learn history from architecture any more than one </p><p>could learn it from books. Statues, inscriptions, memori- </p><p>al stones, the names of streets — anything that might throw </p><p>light upon the past had been systematically altered. </p><p>‘I never knew it had been a church,’ he said. </p><p>‘There’s a lot of them left, really,’ said the old man, ‘though </p><p>they’ve been put to other uses. Now, how did that rhyme go? </p><p>Ah! I’ve got it! </p><p>‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s, You </p><p>124 </p><p>1984 </p><p>owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s ‘ </p><p>there, now, that’s as far as I can get. A farthing, that was </p><p>a small copper coin, looked something like a cent.’ </p><p>‘Where was St Martin’s?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘St Martin’s? That’s still standing. It’s in Victory Square, </p><p>alongside the picture gallery. A building with a kind of a tri- </p><p>angular porch and pillars in front, and a big flight of steps.’ </p><p>Winston knew the place well. It was a museum used </p><p>for propaganda displays of various kinds — scale models of </p><p>rocket bombs and Floating Fortresses, waxwork tableaux il- </p><p>lustrating enemy atrocities, and the like. </p><p>‘St Martin’s-in-the-Fields it used to be called,’ supple- </p><p>mented the old man, ‘though I don’t recollect any fields</p><p>anywhere in those parts.’ </p><p>Winston did not buy the picture. It would have been an </p><p>even more incongruous possession than the glass paper- </p><p>weight, and impossible to carry home, unless it were taken </p><p>out of its frame. But he lingered for some minutes more, </p><p>talking to the old man, whose name, he discovered, was not </p><p>Weeks — as one might have gathered from the inscription </p><p>over the shop-front — but Charrington. Mr Charrington, it </p><p>seemed, was a widower aged sixty-three and had inhabit- </p><p>ed this shop for thirty years. Throughout that time he had </p><p>been intending to alter the name over the window, but had </p><p>never quite got to the point of doing it. All the while that </p><p>they were talking the half-remembered rhyme kept run- </p><p>ning through Winston’s head. Oranges and lemons say the </p><p>bells of St Clement’s, You owe me three farthings, say the </p><p>bells of St Martin’s! It was curious, but when you said it to </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>125 </p><p>yourself you had the illusion of actually hearing bells, the </p><p>bells of a lost London that still existed somewhere or other, </p><p>disguised and forgotten. From one ghostly steeple after an- </p><p>other he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so far as </p><p>he could remember he had never in real life heard church </p><p>bells ringing. </p><p>He got away from Mr Charrington and went down the </p><p>stairs alone, so as not to let the old man see him recon- </p><p>noitring the street before stepping out of the door. He had </p><p>already made up his mind that after a suitable interval — a </p><p>month, say — he would take the risk of visiting the shop </p><p>again. It was perhaps not more dangerous than shirking an </p><p>evening at the Centre. The serious piece of folly had been to </p><p>come back here in the first place, after buying the diary and </p><p>without knowing whether the proprietor of the shop could </p><p>be trusted. However ! </p><p>Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He would </p><p>buy further scraps of beautiful rubbish. He would buy the </p><p>engraving of St Clement Danes, take it out of its frame, and </p><p>carry it home concealed under the jacket of his overalls. He </p><p>would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr Charrington’s </p><p>memory. Even the lunatic project of renting the room up- </p><p>stairs flashed momentarily through his mind again. For </p><p>perhaps five seconds exaltation made him careless, and he </p><p>stepped out on to the pavement without so much as a pre- </p><p>liminary glance through the window. He had even started </p><p>humming to an improvised tune </p><p>Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s, You </p><p>owe me three farthings, say the </p><p>126 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bow- </p><p>els to water. A figure in blue overalls was coming down </p><p>the pavement, not ten metres away. It was the girl from the </p><p>Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The light was </p><p>failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She </p><p>looked him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as </p><p>though she had not seen him. </p><p>For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. </p><p>Then he turned to the right and walked heavily away, not </p><p>noticing for the moment that he was going in the wrong </p><p>direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There was </p><p>no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She </p><p>must have followed him here, because it was not credible </p><p>that by pure chance she should have happened to be walk- </p><p>ing on the same evening up the same obscure backstreet, </p><p>kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members </p><p>lived. It was too great a coincidence. Whether she was really </p><p>an agent of the Thought Police, or simply an amateur spy </p><p>actuated by officiousness, hardly mattered. It was enough </p><p>that she was watching him. Probably she had seen him go </p><p>into the pub as well. </p><p>It was an effort to walk. The lump of glass in his pocket </p><p>banged against his thigh at each step, and he was half mind- </p><p>ed to take it out and throw it away. The worst thing was the </p><p>pain in his belly. For a couple of minutes he had the feeling </p><p>that he would die if he did not reach a lavatory soon. But </p><p>there would be no public lavatories in a quarter like this. </p><p>Then the spasm passed, leaving a dull ache behind. </p><p>The street was a blind alley. Winston halted, stood </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>127 </p><p>for several seconds wondering vaguely what to do, then </p><p>turned round and began to retrace his steps. As he turned </p><p>it occurred to him that the girl had only passed him three </p><p>minutes ago and that by running he could probably catch </p><p>up with her. He could keep on her track till they were in </p><p>some quiet place, and then smash her skull in with a cob- </p><p>blestone. The piece of glass in his pocket would be heavy </p><p>enough for the job. But he abandoned the idea immediately, </p><p>because even the thought of making any physical effort was </p><p>unbearable. He could not run, he could not strike a blow.</p><p>Besides, she was young and lusty and would defend herself. </p><p>He thought also of hurrying to the Community Centre and </p><p>staying there till the place closed, so as to establish a partial </p><p>alibi for the evening. But that too was impossible. A deadly </p><p>lassitude had taken hold of him. All he wanted was to get </p><p>home quickly and then sit down and be quiet. </p><p>It was after twenty-two hours when he got back to the </p><p>flat. The lights would be switched off at the main at twenty- </p><p>three thirty. He went into the kitchen and swallowed nearly </p><p>a teacupful of Victory Gin. Then he went to the table in the </p><p>alcove, sat down, and took the diary out of the drawer. But </p><p>he did not open it at once. From the telescreen a brassy fe- </p><p>male voice was squalling a patriotic song. He sat staring at </p><p>the marbled cover of the book, trying without success to </p><p>shut the voice out of his consciousness. </p><p>It was at night that they came for you, always at night. The </p><p>proper thing was to kill yourself before they got you. Un- </p><p>doubtedly some people did so. Many of the disappearances </p><p>were actually suicides. But it needed desperate courage to </p><p>128 </p><p>1984 </p><p>kill yourself in a world where firearms, or any quick and </p><p>certain poison, were completely unprocurable. He thought </p><p>with a kind of astonishment of the biological uselessness </p><p>of pain and fear, the treachery of the human body which </p><p>always freezes into inertia at exactly the moment when a </p><p>special effort is needed. He might have silenced the dark- </p><p>haired girl if only he had acted quickly enough: but precisely </p><p>because of the extremity of his danger he had lost the power </p><p>to act. It struck him that in moments of crisis one is nev- </p><p>er fighting against an external enemy, but always against </p><p>one’s own body. Even now, in spite of the gin, the dull ache </p><p>in his belly made consecutive thought impossible. And it </p><p>is the same, he perceived, in all seemingly heroic or trag- </p><p>ic situations. On the battlefield, in the torture chamber, on </p><p>a sinking ship, the issues that you are fighting for are al- </p><p>ways forgotten, because the body swells up until it fills the </p><p>universe, and even when you are not paralysed by fright or </p><p>screaming with pain, life is a moment-to-moment struggle </p><p>against hunger or cold or sleeplessness, against a sour stom- </p><p>ach or an aching tooth. </p><p>He opened the diary. It was important to write some- </p><p>thing down. The woman on the telescreen had started a new </p><p>song. Her voice seemed to stick into his brain like jagged </p><p>splinters of glass. He tried to think of O’Brien, for whom, </p><p>or to whom, the diary was written, but instead he began </p><p>thinking of the things that would happen to him after the </p><p>Thought Police took him away. It would not matter if they </p><p>killed you at once. To be killed was what you expected. But</p><p>before death (nobody spoke of such things, yet everybody </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>129 </p><p>knew of them) there was the routine of confession that had </p><p>to be gone through: the grovelling on the floor and scream- </p><p>ing for mercy, the crack of broken bones, the smashed teeth, </p><p>and bloody clots of hair. </p><p>Why did you have to endure it, since the end was al- </p><p>ways the same? Why was it not possible to cut a few days </p><p>or weeks out of your life? Nobody ever escaped detection, </p><p>and nobody ever failed to confess. When once you had suc- </p><p>cumbed to thoughtcrime it was certain that by a given date </p><p>you would be dead. Why then did that horror, which altered </p><p>nothing, have to lie embedded in future time? </p><p>He tried with a little more success than before to sum- </p><p>mon up the image of O’Brien. ‘We shall meet in the place </p><p>where there is no darkness,’ O’Brien had said to him. He </p><p>knew what it meant, or thought he knew. The place where </p><p>there is no darkness was the imagined future, which one </p><p>would never see, but which, by foreknowledge, one could </p><p>mystically share in. But with the voice from the telescreen </p><p>nagging at his ears he could not follow the train of thought </p><p>further. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Half the tobacco </p><p>promptly fell out on to his tongue, a bitter dust which was </p><p>difficult to spit out again. The face of Big Brother swam into </p><p>his mind, displacing that of O’Brien. Just as he had done a </p><p>few days earlier, he slid a coin out of his pocket and looked </p><p>at it. The face gazed up at him, heavy, calm, protecting: but </p><p>what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache? </p><p>Like a leaden knell the words came back at him: </p><p>WAR IS PEACE </p><p>130 </p><p>1984 </p><p>FREEDOM IS SLAVERY </p><p>IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>Part Two</p><p>132 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter i </p><p>I t was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left </p><p>the cubicle to go to the lavatory. </p><p>A solitary figure was coming towards him from the oth- </p><p>er end of the long, brightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with </p><p>dark hair. Four days had gone past since the evening when </p><p>he had run into her outside the junk-shop. As she came </p><p>nearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling, not notice- </p><p>able at a distance because it was of the same colour as her </p><p>overalls. Probably she had crushed her hand while swing- </p><p>ing round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots </p><p>of novels were ‘roughed in’. It was a common accident in the </p><p>Fiction Department. </p><p>They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stum- </p><p>bled and fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was </p><p>wrung out of her. She must have fallen right on the injured </p><p>arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees. </p><p>Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which </p><p>her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed </p><p>on his, with an appealing expression that looked more like </p><p>fear than pain. </p><p>A curious emotion stirred in Winston’s heart. In front of </p><p>him was an enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of </p><p>him, also, was a human creature, in pain and perhaps with </p><p>a broken bone. Already he had instinctively started forward </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>133 </p><p>to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the </p><p>bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his </p><p>own body. </p><p>‘You’re hurt?’ he said. </p><p>‘It’s nothing. My arm. It’ll be all right in a second.’ </p><p>She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had </p><p>certainly turned very pale. </p><p>‘You haven’t broken anything?’ </p><p>‘No, I’m all right. It hurt for a moment, that’s all.’ </p><p>She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. </p><p>She had regained some of her colour, and appeared very </p><p>much better. </p><p>‘It’s nothing,’ she repeated shortly. ‘I only gave my wrist a </p><p>bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!’ </p><p>And with that she walked on in the direction in which </p><p>she had been going, as briskly as though it had really been </p><p>nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much </p><p>as half a minute. Not to let one’s feelings appear in one’s </p><p>face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, </p><p>and in any case they had been standing straight in front of </p><p>a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had </p><p>been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for </p><p>in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up </p><p>the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no </p><p>question that she had done it intentionally. It was some- </p><p>thing small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door </p><p>he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his </p><p>fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square. </p><p>While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little </p><p>134 </p><p>1984 </p><p>more fingering, to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be </p><p>a message of some kind written on it. For a moment he was </p><p>tempted to take it into one of the water-closets and read it </p><p>at once. But that would be shocking folly, as he well knew. </p><p>There was no place where you could be more certain that </p><p>the telescreens were watched continuously. </p><p>He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the frag- </p><p>ment of paper casually among the other papers on the desk, </p><p>put on his spectacles and hitched the speakwrite towards </p><p>him. ‘Five minutes,’ he told himself, ‘five minutes at the </p><p>very least!’ His heart bumped in his breast with frightening </p><p>loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on </p><p>was mere routine, the rectification of a long list of figures, </p><p>not needing close attention. </p><p>Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some </p><p>kind of political meaning. So far as he could see there were </p><p>two possibilities. One, much the more likely, was that the </p><p>girl was an agent of the Thought Police, just as he had feared. </p><p>He did not know why the Thought Police should choose to </p><p>deliver their messages in such a fashion, but perhaps they </p><p>had their reasons. The thing that was written on the paper</p><p>might be a threat, a summons, an order to commit suicide, </p><p>a trap of some description. But there was another, wilder </p><p>possibility that kept raising its head, though he tried vain- </p><p>ly to suppress it. This was, that the message did not come </p><p>from the Thought Police at all, but from some kind of un- </p><p>derground organization. Perhaps the Brotherhood existed </p><p>after all! Perhaps the girl was part of it! No doubt the idea </p><p>was absurd, but it had sprung into his mind in the very in- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>135 </p><p>stant of feeling the scrap of paper in his hand. It was not till </p><p>a couple of minutes later that the other, more probable ex- </p><p>planation had occurred to him. And even now, though his </p><p>intellect told him that the message probably meant death — </p><p>still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable </p><p>hope persisted, and his heart banged, and it was with diffi- </p><p>culty that he kept his voice from trembling as he murmured </p><p>his figures into the speakwrite. </p><p>He rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it </p><p>into the pneumatic tube. Eight minutes had gone by. He re- </p><p>adjusted his spectacles on his nose, sighed, and drew the </p><p>next batch of work towards him, with the scrap of paper on </p><p>top of it. He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large un- </p><p>formed handwriting: </p><p>I LOVE YOU. </p><p>For several seconds he was too stunned even to throw </p><p>the incriminating thing into the memory hole. When he </p><p>did so, although he knew very well the danger of showing </p><p>too much interest, he could not resist reading it once again, </p><p>just to make sure that the words were really there. </p><p>For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. </p><p>What was even worse than having to focus his mind on a </p><p>series of niggling jobs was the need to conceal his agitation </p><p>from the telescreen. He felt as though a fire were burning </p><p>in his belly. Funch in the hot, crowded, noise-filled canteen </p><p>was torment. He had hoped to be alone for a little while </p><p>during the lunch hour, but as bad luck would have it the </p><p>136 </p><p>1984 </p><p>imbecile Parsons flopped down beside him, the tang of his </p><p>sweat almost defeating the tinny smell of stew, and kept up</p><p>a stream of talk about the preparations for Hate Week. He </p><p>was particularly enthusiastic about a papier-mache model of </p><p>Big Brother’s head, two metres wide, which was being made </p><p>for the occasion by his daughter’s troop of Spies. The irri- </p><p>tating thing was that in the racket of voices Winston could </p><p>hardly hear what Parsons was saying, and was constantly </p><p>having to ask for some fatuous remark to be repeated. Just </p><p>once he caught a glimpse of the girl, at a table with two oth- </p><p>er girls at the far end of the room. She appeared not to have </p><p>seen him, and he did not look in that direction again. </p><p>The afternoon was morebearable. Immediately after lunch </p><p>there arrived a delicate, difficult piece of work which would </p><p>take several hours and necessitated putting everything else </p><p>aside. It consisted in falsifying a series of production re- </p><p>ports of two years ago, in such a way as to cast discredit on a </p><p>prominent member of the Inner Party, who was now under </p><p>a cloud. This was the kind of thing that Winston was good </p><p>at, and for more than two hours he succeeded in shutting </p><p>the girl out of his mind altogether. Then the memory of her </p><p>face came back, and with it a raging, intolerable desire to </p><p>be alone. Until he could be alone it was impossible to think </p><p>this new development out. Tonight was one of his nights at </p><p>the Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal </p><p>in the canteen, hurried off to the Centre, took part in the </p><p>solemn foolery of a ‘discussion group’, played two games </p><p>of table tennis, swallowed several glasses of gin, and sat for </p><p>half an hour through a lecture entitled ‘Ingsoc in relation to </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>137 </p><p>chess’. His soul writhed with boredom, but for once he had </p><p>had no impulse to shirk his evening at the Centre. At the </p><p>sight of the words I LOVE YOU the desire to stay alive had </p><p>welled up in him, and the taking of minor risks suddenly </p><p>seemed stupid. It was not till twenty-three hours, when he </p><p>was home and in bed — in the darkness, where you were safe </p><p>even from the telescreen so long as you kept silent — that he </p><p>was able to think continuously. </p><p>It was a physical problem that had to be solved: how to </p><p>get in touch with the girl and arrange a meeting. He did </p><p>not consider any longer the possibility that she might be </p><p>laying some kind of trap for him. He knew that it was not </p><p>so, because of her unmistakable agitation when she handed </p><p>him the note. Obviously she had been frightened out of her </p><p>wits, as well she might be. Nor did the idea of refusing her </p><p>advances even cross his mind. Only five nights ago he had </p><p>contemplated smashing her skull in with a cobblestone, but </p><p>that was of no importance. He thought of her naked, youth- </p><p>ful body, as he had seen it in his dream. He had imagined </p><p>her a fool like all the rest of them, her head stuffed with lies </p><p>and hatred, her belly full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at</p><p>the thought that he might lose her, the white youthful body </p><p>might slip away from him! What he feared more than any- </p><p>thing else was that she would simply change her mind if he </p><p>did not get in touch with her quickly. But the physical dif- </p><p>ficulty of meeting was enormous. It was like trying to make </p><p>a move at chess when you were already mated. Whichever </p><p>way you turned, the telescreen faced you. Actually, all the </p><p>possible ways of communicating with her had occurred to </p><p>138 </p><p>1984 </p><p>him within five minutes of reading the note; but now, with </p><p>time to think, he went over them one by one, as though lay- </p><p>ing out a row of instruments on a table. </p><p>Obviously the kind of encounter that had happened this </p><p>morning could not be repeated. If she had worked in the Re- </p><p>cords Department it might have been comparatively simple, </p><p>but he had only a very dim idea whereabouts in the building </p><p>the Fiction Department lay, and he had no pretext for going </p><p>there. If he had known where she lived, and at what time </p><p>she left work, he could have contrived to meet her some- </p><p>where on her way home; but to try to follow her home was </p><p>not safe, because it would mean loitering about outside the </p><p>Ministry, which was bound to be noticed. As for sending </p><p>a letter through the mails, it was out of the question. By </p><p>a routine that was not even secret, all letters were opened </p><p>in transit. Actually, few people ever wrote letters. For the </p><p>messages that it was occasionally necessary to send, there </p><p>were printed postcards with long lists of phrases, and you </p><p>struck out the ones that were inapplicable. In any case he </p><p>did not know the girl’s name, let alone her address. Final- </p><p>ly he decided that the safest place was the canteen. If he </p><p>could get her at a table by herself, somewhere in the middle </p><p>of the room, not too near the telescreens, and with a suf- </p><p>ficient buzz of conversation all round — if these conditions </p><p>endured for, say, thirty seconds, it might be possible to ex- </p><p>change a few words. </p><p>For a week after this, life was like a restless dream. On </p><p>the next day she did not appear in the canteen until he </p><p>was leaving it, the whistle having already blown. Presum- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>139 </p><p>ably she had been changed on to a later shift. They passed </p><p>each other without a glance. On the day after that she was</p><p>in the canteen at the usual time, but with three other girls </p><p>and immediately under a telescreen. Then for three dread- </p><p>ful days she did not appear at all. His whole mind and body </p><p>seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable sensitivity, a sort </p><p>of transparency, which made every movement, every sound, </p><p>every contact, every word that he had to speak or listen </p><p>to, an agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape </p><p>from her image. He did not touch the diary during those </p><p>days. If there was any relief, it was in his work, in which he </p><p>could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at a stretch. </p><p>He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her. </p><p>There was no enquiry he could make. She might have been </p><p>vaporized, she might have committed suicide, she might </p><p>have been transferred to the other end of Oceania: worst </p><p>and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind </p><p>and decided to avoid him. </p><p>The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling </p><p>and she had a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The </p><p>relief of seeing her was so great that he could not resist star- </p><p>ing directly at her for several seconds. On the following day </p><p>he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he came </p><p>into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the </p><p>wall, and was quite alone. It was early, and the place was </p><p>not very full. The queue edged forward till Winston was </p><p>almost at the counter, then was held up for two minutes </p><p>because someone in front was complaining that he had not </p><p>received his tablet of saccharine. But the girl was still alone </p><p>140 </p><p>1984 </p><p>when Winston secured his tray and began to make for her </p><p>table. He walked casually towards her, his eyes searching </p><p>for a place at some table beyond her. She was perhaps three </p><p>metres away from him. Another two seconds would do it. </p><p>Then a voice behind him called, ‘Smith!’ He pretended not </p><p>to hear. ‘Smith!’ repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no </p><p>use. He turned round. A blond-headed, silly-faced young </p><p>man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, was inviting </p><p>him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was not </p><p>safe to refuse. After having been recognized, he could not </p><p>go and sit at a table with an unattended girl. It was too no- </p><p>ticeable. He sat down with a friendly smile. The silly blond </p><p>face beamed into his. Winston had a hallucination of him- </p><p>self smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it. The </p><p>girl’s table filled up a few minutes later. </p><p>But she must have seen him coming towards her, and </p><p>perhaps she would take the hint. Next day he took care to </p><p>arrive early. Surely enough, she was at a table in about the </p><p>same place, and again alone. The person immediately ahead </p><p>of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like </p><p>man with a flat face and tiny, suspicious eyes. As Winston</p><p>turned away from the counter with his tray, he saw that the </p><p>little man was making straight for the girl’s table. His hopes </p><p>sank again. There was a vacant place at a table further away, </p><p>but something in the little man’s appearance suggested </p><p>that he would be sufficiently attentive to his own comfort </p><p>to choose the emptiest table. With ice at his heart Winston </p><p>followed. It was no use unless he could get the girl alone. </p><p>At this moment there was a tremendous crash. The little </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>141 </p><p>man was sprawling on all fours, his tray had gone flying, </p><p>two streams of soup and coffee were flowing across the floor. </p><p>He started to his feet with a malignant glance at Winston, </p><p>whom he evidently suspected of having tripped him up. But </p><p>it was all right. Five seconds later, with a thundering heart, </p><p>Winston was sitting at the girl’s table. </p><p>He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and prompt- </p><p>ly began eating. It was all-important to speak at once, </p><p>before anyone else came, but now a terrible fear had taken </p><p>possession of him. A week had gone by since she had first </p><p>approached him. She would have changed her mind, she </p><p>must have changed her mind! It was impossible that this af- </p><p>fair should end successfully; such things did not happen in </p><p>real life. He might have flinched altogether from speaking if </p><p>at this moment he had not seen Ampleforth, the hairy-eared </p><p>poet, wandering limply round the room with a tray, look- </p><p>ing for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth </p><p>was attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at </p><p>his table if he caught sight of him. There was perhaps a min- </p><p>ute in which to act. Both Winston and the girl were eating </p><p>steadily. The stuff they were eating was a thin stew, actually </p><p>a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began </p><p>speaking. Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned </p><p>the watery stuff into their mouths, and between spoonfuls </p><p>exchanged the few necessary words in low expressionless </p><p>voices. </p><p>‘What time do you leave work?’ </p><p>‘Eighteen-thirty.’ </p><p>‘Where can we meet?’ </p><p>142 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘Victory Square, near the monument.’ </p><p>‘It’s full of telescreens.’ </p><p>‘It doesn’t matter if there’s a crowd.’ </p><p>‘Any signal?’ </p><p>‘No. Don’t come up to me until you see me among a lot </p><p>of people. And don’t look at me. Just keep somewhere near </p><p>me.’ </p><p>‘What time?’ </p><p>‘Nineteen hours.’ </p><p>All right.’ </p><p>Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at an- </p><p>other table. They did not speak again, and, so far as it was </p><p>possible for two people sitting on opposite sides of the same </p><p>table, they did not look at one another. The girl finished her </p><p>lunch quickly and made off, while Winston stayed to smoke </p><p>a cigarette. </p><p>Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed </p><p>time. He wandered round the base of the enormous flut- </p><p>ed column, at the top of which Big Brother’s statue gazed </p><p>southward towards the skies where he had vanquished the </p><p>Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been, </p><p>a few years ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One. In the street </p><p>in front of it there was a statue of a man on horseback which </p><p>was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell. At five minutes </p><p>past the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the ter- </p><p>rible fear seized upon Winston. She was not coming, she </p><p>had changed her mind! He walked slowly up to the north </p><p>side of the square and got a sort of pale- coloured pleasure </p><p>from identifying St Martin’s Church, whose bells, when it </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>143 </p><p>had bells, had chimed ‘You owe me three farthings.’ Then </p><p>he saw the girl standing at the base of the monument, read- </p><p>ing or pretending to read a poster which ran spirally up the </p><p>column. It was not safe to go near her until some more peo- </p><p>ple had accumulated. There were telescreens all round the </p><p>pediment. But at this moment there was a din of shouting </p><p>and a zoom of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left. </p><p>Suddenly everyone seemed to be running across the square. </p><p>The girl nipped nimbly round the lions at the base of the </p><p>monument and joined in the rush. Winston followed. As he </p><p>ran, he gathered from some shouted remarks that a convoy </p><p>of Eurasian prisoners was passing.</p><p>Already a dense mass of people was blocking the south </p><p>side of the square. Winston, at normal times the kind of </p><p>person who gravitates to the outer edge of any kind of </p><p>scrimmage, shoved, butted, squirmed his way forward into </p><p>the heart of the crowd. Soon he was within arm’s length of </p><p>the girl, but the way was blocked by an enormous prole and </p><p>an almost equally enormous woman, presumably his wife, </p><p>who seemed to form an impenetrable wall of flesh. Winston </p><p>wriggled himself sideways, and with a violent lunge man- </p><p>aged to drive his shoulder between them. For a moment it </p><p>felt as though his entrails were being ground to pulp be- </p><p>tween the two muscular hips, then he had broken through, </p><p>sweating a little. He was next to the girl. They were shoulder </p><p>to shoulder, both staring fixedly in front of them. </p><p>A long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed </p><p>with sub -machine guns standing upright in each corner, was </p><p>passing slowly down the street. In the trucks little yellow </p><p>144 </p><p>1984 </p><p>men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting, jammed </p><p>close together. Their sad, Mongolian faces gazed out over </p><p>the sides of the trucks utterly incurious. Occasionally when </p><p>a truck jolted there was a clank-clank of metal: all the pris- </p><p>oners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-load after truck-load of </p><p>the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there but he </p><p>saw them only intermittently. The girl’s shoulder, and her </p><p>arm right down to the elbow, were pressed against his. Her </p><p>cheek was almost near enough for him to feel its warmth. </p><p>She had immediately taken charge of the situation, just as </p><p>she had done in the canteen. She began speaking in the </p><p>same expressionless voice as before, with lips barely mov- </p><p>ing, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and </p><p>the rumbling of the trucks. </p><p>‘Can you hear me?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘Can you get Sunday afternoon off?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘Then listen carefully. You’ll have to remember this. Go </p><p>to Paddington Station ’ </p><p>With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she </p><p>outlined the route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway </p><p>journey; turn left outside the station; two kilometres along </p><p>the road; a gate with the top bar missing; a path across a </p><p>field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes; a dead</p><p>tree with moss on it. It was as though she had a map inside </p><p>her head. ‘Can you remember all that?’ she murmured fi- </p><p>nally. </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>145 </p><p>‘You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate’s </p><p>got no top bar.’ </p><p>‘Yes. What time?’ </p><p>‘About fifteen. You may have to wait. I’ll get there by an- </p><p>other way. Are you sure you remember everything?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘Then get away from me as quick as you can.’ </p><p>She need not have told him that. But for the moment </p><p>they could not extricate themselves from the crowd. The </p><p>trucks were still filing past, the people still insatiably gap- </p><p>ing. At the start there had been a few boos and hisses, but </p><p>it came only from the Party members among the crowd, </p><p>and had soon stopped. The prevailing emotion was simply </p><p>curiosity. Foreigners, whether from Eurasia or from Easta- </p><p>sia, were a kind of strange animal. One literally never saw </p><p>them except in the guise of prisoners, and even as prison- </p><p>ers one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them. </p><p>Nor did one know what became of them, apart from the </p><p>few who were hanged as war-criminals: the others simply </p><p>vanished, presumably into forced-labour camps. The round </p><p>Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more European type, </p><p>dirty, bearded and exhausted. From over scrubby cheek- </p><p>bones eyes looked into Winston’s, sometimes with strange </p><p>intensity, and flashed away again. The convoy was drawing </p><p>to an end. In the last truck he could see an aged man, his </p><p>face a mass of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists </p><p>crossed in front of him, as though he were used to having </p><p>them bound together. It was almost time for Winston and </p><p>the girl to part. But at the last moment, while the crowd still </p><p>146 </p><p>1984 </p><p>hemmed them in, her hand felt for his and gave it a fleeting </p><p>squeeze.</p><p>It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a </p><p>long time that their hands were clasped together. He had </p><p>time to learn every detail of her hand. He explored the long </p><p>fingers, the shapely nails, the work-hardened palm with its </p><p>row of callouses, the smooth flesh under the wrist. Merely </p><p>from feeling it he would have known it by sight. In the same </p><p>instant it occurred to him that he did not know what colour </p><p>the girl’s eyes were. They were probably brown, but people </p><p>with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To turn his head </p><p>and look at her would have been inconceivable folly. With </p><p>hands locked together, invisible among the press of bodies, </p><p>they stared steadily in front of them, and instead of the eyes </p><p>of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully </p><p>at Winston out of nests of hair. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>147 </p><p>Chapter 2 </p><p>W inston picked his way up the lane through dappled </p><p>light and shade, stepping out into pools of gold wher- </p><p>ever the boughs parted. Under the trees to the left of him </p><p>the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to kiss </p><p>one’s skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deep- </p><p>er in the heart of the wood came the droning of ring doves. </p><p>He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about </p><p>the journey, and the girl was so evidently experienced that </p><p>he was less frightened than he would normally have been. </p><p>Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe place. In </p><p>general you could not assume that you were much safer in </p><p>the country than in London. There were no telescreens, of </p><p>course, but there was always the danger of concealed mi- </p><p>crophones by which your voice might be picked up and </p><p>recognized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey by </p><p>yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less </p><p>than 100 kilometres it was not necessary to get your pass- </p><p>port endorsed, but sometimes there were patrols hanging </p><p>about the railway stations, who examined the papers of any </p><p>Party member they found there and asked awkward ques- </p><p>tions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk </p><p>from the station he had made sure by cautious backward </p><p>glances that he was not being followed. The train was full </p><p>of proles, in holiday mood because of the summery weather. </p><p>148 </p><p>1984 </p><p>The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was filled </p><p>to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from </p><p>a toothless great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going </p><p>out to spend an afternoon with ‘in-laws’ in the country, and, </p><p>as they freely explained to Winston, to get hold of a little </p><p>blackmarket butter. </p><p>The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the foot- </p><p>path she had told him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged </p><p>between the bushes. He had no watch, but it could not be </p><p>fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick underfoot that it was </p><p>impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and began </p><p>picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from </p><p>a vague idea that he would like to have a bunch of flowers </p><p>to offer to the girl when they met. He had got together a </p><p>big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly scent when a </p><p>sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle of a </p><p>foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best </p><p>thing to do. It might be the girl, or he might have been fol- </p><p>lowed after all. To look round was to show guilt. He picked </p><p>another and another. A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. </p><p>He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evi- </p><p>dently as a warning that he must keep silent, then parted </p><p>the bushes and quickly led the way along the narrow track </p><p>into the wood. Obviously she had been that way before, for </p><p>she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston fol- </p><p>lowed, still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling </p><p>was relief, but as he watched the strong slender body mov- </p><p>ing in front of him, with the scarlet sash that was just tight </p><p>enough to bring out the curve of her hips, the sense of his </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>149 </p><p>own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it seemed </p><p>quite likely that when she turned round and looked at him </p><p>she would draw back after all. The sweetness of the air and </p><p>the greenness of the leaves daunted him. Already on the </p><p>walk from the station the May sunshine had made him feel </p><p>dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors, with the sooty </p><p>dust of London in the pores of his skin. It occurred to him </p><p>that till now she had probably never seen him in broad day- </p><p>light in the open. They came to the fallen tree that she had </p><p>spoken of. The girl hopped over and forced apart the bush- </p><p>es, in which there did not seem to be an opening. When </p><p>Winston followed her, he found that they were in a natural </p><p>clearing, a tiny grassy knoll surrounded by tall saplings that </p><p>shut it in completely. The girl stopped and turned. </p><p>‘Here we are,’ she said. </p><p>He was facing her at several paces’ distance. As yet he did </p><p>not dare move nearer to her. </p><p>‘I didn’t want to say anything in the lane,’ she went on, </p><p>‘in case there’s a mike hidden there. I don’t suppose there is, </p><p>but there could be. There’s always the chance of one of those </p><p>swine recognizing your voice. We’re all right here.’ </p><p>He still had not the courage to approach her. ‘We’re all </p><p>right here?’ he repeated stupidly. </p><p>‘Yes. Look at the trees.’ They were small ashes, which at </p><p>some time had been cut down and had sprouted up again </p><p>into a forest of poles, none of them thicker than one’s wrist. </p><p>‘There’s nothing big enough to hide a mike in. Besides, I’ve </p><p>been here before.’ </p><p>They were only making conversation. He had managed </p><p>150 </p><p>1984 </p><p>to move closer to her now. She stood before him very up- </p><p>right, with a smile on her face that looked faintly ironical, as </p><p>though she were wondering why he was so slow to act. The </p><p>bluebells had cascaded on to the ground. They seemed to </p><p>have fallen of their own accord. He took her hand. </p><p>‘Would you believe,’ he said, ‘that till this moment I </p><p>didn’t know what colour your eyes were?’ They were brown, </p><p>he noted, a rather light shade of brown, with dark lashes. </p><p>‘Now that you’ve seen what I’m really like, can you still bear </p><p>to look at me?’ </p><p>‘Yes, easily.’ </p><p>‘I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve got a wife that I can’t get </p><p>rid of. I’ve got varicose veins. I’ve got five false teeth.’ </p><p>‘I couldn’t care less,’ said the girl. </p><p>The next moment, it was hard to say by whose act, she was </p><p>in his his arms. At the beginning he had no feeling except </p><p>sheer incredulity. The youthful body was strained against </p><p>his own, the mass of dark hair was against his face, and yes! </p><p>actually she had turned her face up and he was kissing the </p><p>wide red mouth. She had clasped her arms about his neck, </p><p>she was calling him darling, precious one, loved one. He </p><p>had pulled her down on to the ground, she was utterly un- </p><p>resisting, he could do what he liked with her. But the truth </p><p>was that he had no physical sensation, except that of mere </p><p>contact. All he felt was incredulity and pride. He was glad </p><p>that this was happening, but he had no physical desire. It </p><p>was too soon, her youth and prettiness had frightened him,</p><p>he was too much used to living without women — he did </p><p>not know the reason. The girl picked herself up and pulled </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>151 </p><p>a bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him, putting her </p><p>arm round his waist. </p><p>‘Never mind, dear. There’s no hurry. We’ve got the whole </p><p>afternoon. Isn’t this a splendid hide-out? I found it when I </p><p>got lost once on a community hike. If anyone was coming </p><p>you could hear them a hundred metres away.’ </p><p>‘What is your name?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘Julia. I know yours. It’s Winston — Winston Smith.’ </p><p>‘How did you find that out?’ </p><p>‘I expect I’m better at finding things out than you are, </p><p>dear. Tell me, what did you think of me before that day I </p><p>gave you the note?’ </p><p>He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was </p><p>even a sort of love-offering to start off by telling the worst. </p><p>‘I hated the sight of you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to rape you </p><p>and then murder you afterwards. Two weeks ago I thought </p><p>seriously of smashing your head in with a cobblestone. If </p><p>you really want to know, I imagined that you had some- </p><p>thing to do with the Thought Police.’ </p><p>The girl laughed delightedly, evidently taking this as a </p><p>tribute to the excellence of her disguise. </p><p>‘Not the Thought Police! You didn’t honestly think that?’ </p><p>‘Well, perhaps not exactly that. But from your general </p><p>appearance — merely because you’re young and fresh and </p><p>healthy, you understand — I thought that probably ’ </p><p>‘You thought I was a good Party member. Pure in word </p><p>and deed. Banners, processions, slogans, games, commu- </p><p>nity hikes all that stuff. And you thought that if I had a </p><p>quarter of a chance I’d denounce you as a thought-criminal </p><p>152 </p><p>1984 </p><p>and get you killed off?’ </p><p>‘Yes, something of that kind. A great many young girls </p><p>are like that, you know.’ </p><p>‘It’s this bloody thing that does it,’ she said, ripping off </p><p>the scarlet sash of the Junior Anti-Sex League and flinging </p><p>it on to a bough. Then, as though touching her waist had </p><p>reminded her of something, she felt in the pocket of her </p><p>overalls and produced a small slab of chocolate. She broke </p><p>it in half and gave one of the pieces to Winston. Even be- </p><p>fore he had taken it he knew by the smell that it was very </p><p>unusual chocolate. It was dark and shiny, and was wrapped </p><p>in silver paper. Chocolate normally was dull-brown crum- </p><p>bly stuff that tasted, as nearly as one could describe it, like </p><p>the smoke of a rubbish fire. But at some time or another he </p><p>had tasted chocolate like the piece she had given him. The </p><p>first whiff of its scent had stirred up some memory which </p><p>he could not pin down, but which was powerful and trou- </p><p>bling. </p><p>‘Where did you get this stuff?’ he said. </p><p>‘Black market,’ she said indifferently. ‘Actually I am that </p><p>sort of girl, to look at. I’m good at games. I was a troop-lead- </p><p>er in the Spies. I do voluntary work three evenings a week </p><p>for the Junior Anti- Sex League. Hours and hours I’ve spent </p><p>pasting their bloody rot all over London. I always carry one </p><p>end of a banner in the processions. I always look cheer- </p><p>ful and I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd, </p><p>that’s what I say. It’s the only way to be safe.’ </p><p>The first fragment of chocolate had melted on Win- </p><p>ston’s tongue. The taste was delightful. But there was still </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>153 </p><p>that memory moving round the edges of his consciousness, </p><p>something strongly felt but not reducible to definite shape, </p><p>like an object seen out of the corner of one’s eye. He pushed </p><p>it away from him, aware only that it was the memory of </p><p>some action which he would have liked to undo but could </p><p>not. </p><p>‘You are very young,’ he said. ‘You are ten or fifteen years </p><p>younger than I am. What could you see to attract you in a </p><p>man like me?’ </p><p>‘It was something in your face. I thought I’d take a chance. </p><p>I’m good at spotting people who don’t belong. As soon as I </p><p>saw you I knew you were against THEM.’ </p><p>THEM, it appeared, meant the Party, and above all the </p><p>Inner Party, about whom she talked with an open jeering </p><p>hatred which made Winston feel uneasy, although he knew </p><p>that they were safe here if they could be safe anywhere. A </p><p>thing that astonished him about her was the coarseness of </p><p>her language. Party members were supposed not to swear, </p><p>and Winston himself very seldom did swear, aloud, at any </p><p>rate. Julia, however, seemed unable to mention the Party, </p><p>and especially the Inner Party, without using the kind of </p><p>words that you saw chalked up in dripping alley-ways. He </p><p>did not dislike it. It was merely one symptom of her revolt </p><p>against the Party and all its ways, and somehow it seemed </p><p>natural and healthy, like the sneeze of a horse that smells </p><p>bad hay. They had left the clearing and were wandering </p><p>again through the chequered shade, with their arms round </p><p>each other’s waists whenever it was wide enough to walk </p><p>two abreast. He noticed how much softer her waist seemed </p><p>154 </p><p>1984 </p><p>to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not speak above </p><p>a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was better to </p><p>go quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the little </p><p>wood. She stopped him. </p><p>‘Don’t go out into the open. There might be someone </p><p>watching. Were all right if we keep behind the boughs.’ </p><p>They were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The </p><p>sunlight, filtering through innumerable leaves, was still hot </p><p>on their faces. Winston looked out into the field beyond, </p><p>and underwent a curious, slow shock of recognition. He </p><p>knew it by sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a foot- </p><p>path wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In </p><p>the ragged hedge on the opposite side the boughs of the elm </p><p>trees swayed just perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves </p><p>stirred faintly in dense masses like women’s hair. Surely </p><p>somewhere nearby, but out of sight, there must be a stream </p><p>with green pools where dace were swimming? </p><p>‘Isn’t there a stream somewhere near here?’ he whis- </p><p>pered. </p><p>‘That’s right, there is a stream. It’s at the edge of the next </p><p>field, actually. There are fish in it, great big ones. You can </p><p>watch them lying in the pools under the willow trees, wav- </p><p>ing their tails.’ </p><p>‘It’s the Golden Country — almost,’ he murmured. </p><p>‘The Golden Country?’ </p><p>‘It’s nothing, really. A landscape I’ve seen sometimes in</p><p>a dream.’ </p><p>‘Look!’ whispered Julia. </p><p>A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>155 </p><p>almost at the level of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen </p><p>them. It was in the sun, they in the shade. It spread out its </p><p>wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its </p><p>head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to </p><p>the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In </p><p>the afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Win- </p><p>ston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on </p><p>and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, </p><p>never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were </p><p>deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped </p><p>for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then </p><p>swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Win- </p><p>ston watched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for </p><p>what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watch- </p><p>ing it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and </p><p>pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether af- </p><p>ter all there was a microphone hidden somewhere near. He </p><p>and Julia had spoken only in low whispers, and it would not </p><p>pick up what they had said, but it would pick up the thrush. </p><p>Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, bee- </p><p>tle-like man was listening intently — listening to that. But </p><p>by degrees the flood of music drove all speculations out of </p><p>his mind. It was as though it were a kind of liquid stuff that </p><p>poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight </p><p>that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and </p><p>merely felt. The girl’s waist in the bend of his arm was soft </p><p>and warm. He pulled her round so that they were breast </p><p>to breast; her body seemed to melt into his. Wherever his </p><p>hands moved it was all as yielding as water. Their mouths </p><p>156 </p><p>1984 </p><p>clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses </p><p>they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces </p><p>apart again both of them sighed deeply. The bird took fright </p><p>and fled with a clatter of wings. </p><p>Winston put his lips against her ear. ‘NOW,’ he whis- </p><p>pered.</p><p>‘Not here,’ she whispered back. ‘Come back to the hide- </p><p>out. It’s safer.’ </p><p>Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they </p><p>threaded their way back to the clearing. When they were </p><p>once inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him. </p><p>They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared </p><p>round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him </p><p>for an instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And, </p><p>yes! it was almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he </p><p>had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she </p><p>flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture </p><p>by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her </p><p>body gleamed white in the sun. But for a moment he did </p><p>not look at her body; his eyes were anchored by the freckled </p><p>face with its faint, bold smile. He knelt down before her and </p><p>took her hands in his. </p><p>‘Have you done this before?’ </p><p>‘Of course. Hundreds of times — well, scores of times, </p><p>anyway.’ </p><p>‘With Party members?’ </p><p>‘Yes, always with Party members.’ </p><p>‘With members of the Inner Party?’ </p><p>‘Not with those swine, no. But there’s plenty that WOULD </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>157 </p><p>if they got half a chance. They’re not so holy as they make </p><p>out.’ </p><p>His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: he wished </p><p>it had been hundreds — thousands. Anything that hinted at </p><p>corruption always filled him with a wild hope. Who knew, </p><p>perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, its cult of </p><p>strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing in- </p><p>iquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with </p><p>leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Any- </p><p>thing to rot, to weaken, to undermine! He pulled her down </p><p>so that they were kneeling face to face. </p><p>‘Listen. The more men you’ve had, the more I love you. </p><p>Do you understand that?’ </p><p>‘Yes, perfectly.’ </p><p>‘I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don’t want any virtue</p><p>to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the </p><p>bones.’ </p><p>‘Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I’m corrupt to the </p><p>bones.’ </p><p>‘You like doing this? I don’t mean simply me: I mean the </p><p>thing in itself?’ </p><p>‘I adore it.’ </p><p>That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely </p><p>the love of one person but the animal instinct, the simple </p><p>undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear </p><p>the Party to pieces. He pressed her down upon the grass, </p><p>among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no difficul- </p><p>ty. Presently the rising and falling of their breasts slowed </p><p>to normal speed, and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they </p><p>158 </p><p>1984 </p><p>fell apart. The sun seemed to have grown hotter. They were </p><p>both sleepy. He reached out for the discarded overalls and </p><p>pulled them partly over her. Almost immediately they fell </p><p>asleep and slept for about half an hour. </p><p>Winston woke first. He sat up and watched the freck- </p><p>led face, still peacefully asleep, pillowed on the palm of her </p><p>hand. Except for her mouth, you could not call her beauti- </p><p>ful. There was a line or two round the eyes, if you looked </p><p>closely. The short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and </p><p>soft. It occurred to him that he still did not know her sur- </p><p>name or where she lived. </p><p>The young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in </p><p>him a pitying, protecting feeling. But the mindless tender- </p><p>ness that he had felt under the hazel tree, while the thrush </p><p>was singing, had not quite come back. He pulled the over- </p><p>alls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the old </p><p>days, he thought, a man looked at a girl’s body and saw that </p><p>it was desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you </p><p>could not have pure love or pure lust nowadays. No emo- </p><p>tion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear </p><p>and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a </p><p>victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a po- </p><p>litical act. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>159 </p><p>Chapter 3 </p><p>^ We can come here once again,’ said Julia. ‘It’s generally safe </p><p>to use any hide-out twice. But not for another month or </p><p>two, of course.’ </p><p>As soon as she woke up her demeanour had changed. She </p><p>became alert and business-like, put her clothes on, knot- </p><p>ted the scarlet sash about her waist, and began arranging </p><p>the details of the journey home. It seemed natural to leave </p><p>this to her. She obviously had a practical cunning which </p><p>Winston lacked, and she seemed also to have an exhaus- </p><p>tive knowledge of the countryside round London, stored </p><p>away from innumerable community hikes. The route she </p><p>gave him was quite different from the one by which he had </p><p>come, and brought him out at a different railway station. </p><p>‘Never go home the same way as you went out,’ she said, as </p><p>though enunciating an important general principle. She </p><p>would leave first, and Winston was to wait half an hour be- </p><p>fore following her. </p><p>She had named a place where they could meet after work, </p><p>four evenings hence. It was a street in one of the poorer </p><p>quarters, where there was an open market which was gener- </p><p>ally crowded and noisy. She would be hanging about among </p><p>the stalls, pretending to be in search of shoelaces or sewing- </p><p>thread. If she judged that the coast was clear she would blow </p><p>her nose when he approached; otherwise he was to walk </p><p>l60 </p><p>1984 </p><p>past her without recognition. But with luck, in the middle </p><p>of the crowd, it would be safe to talk for a quarter of an hour </p><p>and arrange another meeting. </p><p>‘And now I must go,’ she said as soon as he had mastered </p><p>his instructions. ‘I’m due back at nineteen-thirty. I’ve got to </p><p>put in two hours for the Junior Anti-Sex League, handing </p><p>out leaflets, or something. Isn’t it bloody? Give me a brush- </p><p>down, would you? Have I got any twigs in my hair? Are you </p><p>sure? Then good-bye, my love, good-bye!’ </p><p>She flung herself into his arms, kissed him almost vi- </p><p>olently, and a moment later pushed her way through the </p><p>saplings and disappeared into the wood with very little </p><p>noise. Even now he had not found out her surname or her </p><p>address. However, it made no difference, for it was incon- </p><p>ceivable that they could ever meet indoors or exchange any </p><p>kind of written communication. </p><p>As it happened, they never went back to the clearing in </p><p>the wood. During the month of May there was only one </p><p>further occasion on which they actually succeeded in mak- </p><p>ing love. That was in another hiding-place known to Julia, </p><p>the belfry of a ruinous church in an almost- deserted stretch </p><p>of country where an atomic bomb had fallen thirty years </p><p>earlier. It was a good hiding-place when once you got there, </p><p>but the getting there was very dangerous. For the rest they </p><p>could meet only in the streets, in a different place every eve- </p><p>ning and never for more than half an hour at a time. In the </p><p>street it was usually possible to talk, after a fashion. As they </p><p>drifted down the crowded pavements, not quite abreast </p><p>and never looking at one another, they carried on a curi- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>161 </p><p>ous, intermittent conversation which flicked on and offlike </p><p>the beams of a lighthouse, suddenly nipped into silence by </p><p>the approach of a Party uniform or the proximity of a tele- </p><p>screen, then taken up again minutes later in the middle of </p><p>a sentence, then abruptly cut short as they parted at the </p><p>agreed spot, then continued almost without introduction </p><p>on the following day. Julia appeared to be quite used to this </p><p>kind of conversation, which she called ‘talking by instal- </p><p>ments’. She was also surprisingly adept at speaking without </p><p>moving her lips. Just once in almost a month of nightly </p><p>meetings they managed to exchange a kiss. They were pass- </p><p>ing in silence down a side-street (Julia would never speak </p><p>when they were away from the main streets) when there was </p><p>a deafening roar, the earth heaved, and the air darkened, </p><p>and Winston found himself lying on his side, bruised and </p><p>terrified. A rocket bomb must have dropped quite near at </p><p>hand. Suddenly he became aware of Julia’s face a few centi- </p><p>metres from his own, deathly white, as white as chalk. Even </p><p>her lips were white. She was dead! He clasped her against </p><p>him and found that he was kissing a live warm face. But </p><p>there was some powdery stuff that got in the way of his lips. </p><p>Both of their faces were thickly coated with plaster. </p><p>There were evenings when they reached their rendezvous </p><p>and then had to walk past one another without a sign, be- </p><p>cause a patrol had just come round the corner or a helicopter </p><p>was hovering overhead. Even if it had been less dangerous, </p><p>it would still have been difficult to find time to meet. Win- </p><p>ston’s working week was sixty hours, Julia’s was even longer, </p><p>and their free days varied according to the pressure of work </p><p>162 </p><p>1984 </p><p>and did not often coincide. Julia, in any case, seldom had an </p><p>evening completely free. She spent an astonishing amount </p><p>of time in attending lectures and demonstrations, distrib- </p><p>uting literature for the junior Anti-Sex League, preparing </p><p>banners for Hate Week, making collections for the savings </p><p>campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said, it was </p><p>camouflage. If you kept the small rules, you could break the </p><p>big ones. She even induced Winston to mortgage yet an- </p><p>other of his evenings by enrolling himself for the part-time </p><p>munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Par- </p><p>ty members. So, one evening every week, Winston spent </p><p>four hours of paralysing boredom, screwing together small </p><p>bits of metal which were probably parts of bomb fuses, in a </p><p>draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers </p><p>mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens. </p><p>When they met in the church tower the gaps in their </p><p>fragmentary conversation were filled up. It was a blazing af- </p><p>ternoon. The air in the little square chamber above the bells </p><p>was hot and stagnant, and smelt overpoweringly of pigeon </p><p>dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty, twig-littered </p><p>floor, one or other of them getting up from time to time to </p><p>cast a glance through the arrowslits and make sure that no </p><p>one was coming. </p><p>Julia was twenty- six years old. She lived in a hostel with </p><p>thirty other girls (Always in the stink of women! How I </p><p>hate women!’ she said parenthetically), and she worked, as </p><p>he had guessed, on the novel-writing machines in the Fic- </p><p>tion Department. She enjoyed her work, which consisted </p><p>chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky elec- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>163 </p><p>trie motor. She was ‘not clever’, but was fond of using her </p><p>hands and felt at home with machinery. She could describe </p><p>the whole process of composing a novel, from the general </p><p>directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the </p><p>final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not in- </p><p>terested in the finished product. She ‘didn’t much care for </p><p>reading,’ she said. Books were just a commodity that had to </p><p>be produced, like jam or bootlaces. </p><p>She had no memories of anything before the early six- </p><p>ties and the only person she had ever known who talked </p><p>frequently of the days before the Revolution was a grand- </p><p>father who had disappeared when she was eight. At school </p><p>she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the </p><p>gymnastics trophy two years running. She had been a troop- </p><p>leader in the Spies and a branch secretary in the Youth </p><p>League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex League. She had</p><p>always borne an excellent character. She had even (an infal- </p><p>lible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in </p><p>Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which </p><p>turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the </p><p>proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who </p><p>worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for a </p><p>year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with ti- </p><p>tles like ‘Spanking Stories’ or ‘One Night in a Girls’ School’, </p><p>to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were un- </p><p>der the impression that they were buying something illegal. </p><p>‘What are these books like?’ said Winston curiously. </p><p>‘Oh, ghastly rubbish. They’re boring, really. They only </p><p>have six plots, but they swap them round a bit. Of course </p><p>164 </p><p>1984 </p><p>I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I was never in the Rewrite </p><p>Squad. I’m not literary, dear — not even enough for that.’ </p><p>He learned with astonishment that all the workers in </p><p>Pornosec, except the heads of the departments, were girls. </p><p>The theory was that men, whose sex instincts were less con- </p><p>trollable than those of women, were in greater danger of </p><p>being corrupted by the filth they handled. </p><p>‘They don’t even like having married women there,’ she </p><p>added. Girls are always supposed to be so pure. Here’s one </p><p>who isn’t, anyway. </p><p>She had had her first love-affair when she was sixteen, </p><p>with a Party member of sixty who later committed suicide </p><p>to avoid arrest. ‘And a good job too,’ said Julia, ‘otherwise </p><p>they’d have had my name out of him when he confessed.’ </p><p>Since then there had been various others. Life as she saw it </p><p>was quite simple. You wanted a good time; ‘they’, meaning </p><p>the Party, wanted to stop you having it; you broke the rules </p><p>as best you could. She seemed to think it just as natural that </p><p>‘they’ should want to rob you of your pleasures as that you </p><p>should want to avoid being caught. She hated the Party, and </p><p>said so in the crudest words, but she made no general criti- </p><p>cism of it. Except where it touched upon her own life she </p><p>had no interest in Party doctrine. He noticed that she never </p><p>used Newspeak words except the ones that had passed into </p><p>everyday use. She had never heard of the Brotherhood, and </p><p>refused to believe in its existence. Any kind of organized </p><p>revolt against the Party, which was bound to be a failure, </p><p>struck her as stupid. The clever thing was to break the rules </p><p>and stay alive all the same. He wondered vaguely how many </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com</p><p>165 </p><p>others like her there might be in the younger generation </p><p>people who had grown up in the world of the Revolution, </p><p>knowing nothing else, accepting the Party as something </p><p>unalterable, like the sky, not rebelling against its authority </p><p>but simply evading it, as a rabbit dodges a dog. </p><p>They did not discuss the possibility of getting married. </p><p>It was too remote to be worth thinking about. No imagin- </p><p>able committee would ever sanction such a marriage even </p><p>if Katharine, Winston’s wife, could somehow have been got </p><p>rid of. It was hopeless even as a daydream. </p><p>‘What was she like, your wife?’ said Julia. </p><p>‘She was — do you know the Newspeak word GOOD- </p><p>THINKFUL? Meaning naturally orthodox, incapable of </p><p>thinking a bad thought?’ </p><p>‘No, I didn’t know the word, but I know the kind of per- </p><p>son, right enough.’ </p><p>He began telling her the story of his married life, but cu- </p><p>riously enough she appeared to know the essential parts of </p><p>it already. She described to him, almost as though she had </p><p>seen or felt it, the stiffening of Katharine’s body as soon </p><p>as he touched her, the way in which she still seemed to be </p><p>pushing him from her with all her strength, even when her </p><p>arms were clasped tightly round him. With Julia he felt no </p><p>difficulty in talking about such things: Katharine, in any </p><p>case, had long ceased to be a painful memory and became </p><p>merely a distasteful one. </p><p>‘I could have stood it if it hadn’t been for one thing,’ he </p><p>said. He told her about the frigid little ceremony that Kath- </p><p>arine had forced him to go through on the same night every </p><p>166 </p><p>1984 </p><p>week. ‘She hated it, but nothing would make her stop doing </p><p>it. She used to call it — but you’ll never guess.’ </p><p>‘Our duty to the Party,’ said Julia promptly. </p><p>‘How did you know that?’ </p><p>‘I’ve been at school too, dear. Sex talks once a month for </p><p>the over-sixteens. And in the Youth Movement. They rub it</p><p>into you for years. I dare say it works in a lot of cases. But of </p><p>course you can never tell; people are such hypocrites.’ </p><p>She began to enlarge upon the subject. With Julia, every- </p><p>thing came back to her own sexuality. As soon as this was </p><p>touched upon in any way she was capable of great acuteness. </p><p>Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner meaning of the </p><p>Party’s sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex </p><p>instinct created a world of its own which was outside the </p><p>Party’s control and which therefore had to be destroyed if </p><p>possible. What was more important was that sexual priva- </p><p>tion induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could </p><p>be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship. The way </p><p>she put it was: </p><p>‘When you make love you’re using up energy; and after- </p><p>wards you feel happy and don’t give a damn for anything. </p><p>They can’t bear you to feel like that. They want you to be </p><p>bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and </p><p>down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour. </p><p>If you’re happy inside yourself, why should you get excited </p><p>about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two </p><p>Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot?’ </p><p>That was very true, he thought. There was a direct inti- </p><p>mate connexion between chastity and political orthodoxy. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>167 </p><p>For how could the fear, the hatred, and the lunatic credulity </p><p>which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right </p><p>pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and </p><p>using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to </p><p>the Party, and the Party had turned it to account. They had </p><p>played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood. The </p><p>family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people </p><p>were encouraged to be fond of their children, in almost the </p><p>old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand, were </p><p>systematically turned against their parents and taught to </p><p>spy on them and report their deviations. The family had </p><p>become in effect an extension of the Thought Police. It was </p><p>a device by means of which everyone could be surrounded </p><p>night and day by informers who knew him intimately. </p><p>Abruptly his mind went back to Katharine. Katharine </p><p>would unquestionably have denounced him to the Thought </p><p>Police if she had not happened to be too stupid to detect the </p><p>unorthodoxy of his opinions. But what really recalled her </p><p>to him at this moment was the stifling heat of the afternoon, </p><p>which had brought the sweat out on his forehead. He began </p><p>telling Julia of something that had happened, or rather had </p><p>failed to happen, on another sweltering summer afternoon, </p><p>eleven years ago.</p><p>It was three or four months after they were married. They </p><p>had lost their way on a community hike somewhere in Kent. </p><p>They had only lagged behind the others for a couple of min- </p><p>utes, but they took a wrong turning, and presently found </p><p>themselves pulled up short by the edge of an old chalk </p><p>quarry. It was a sheer drop of ten or twenty metres, with </p><p>168 </p><p>1984 </p><p>boulders at the bottom. There was nobody of whom they </p><p>could ask the way. As soon as she realized that they were </p><p>lost Katharine became very uneasy. To be away from the </p><p>noisy mob of hikers even for a moment gave her a feeling of </p><p>wrong-doing. She wanted to hurry back by the way they had </p><p>come and start searching in the other direction. But at this </p><p>moment Winston noticed some tufts of loosestrife growing </p><p>in the cracks of the cliff beneath them. One tuft was of two </p><p>colours, magenta and brick-red, apparently growing on the </p><p>same root. He had never seen anything of the kind before, </p><p>and he called to Katharine to come and look at it. </p><p>‘Look, Katharine! Look at those flowers. That clump </p><p>down near the bottom. Do you see they’re two different co- </p><p>lours?’ </p><p>She had already turned to go, but she did rather fretfully </p><p>come back for a moment. She even leaned out over the cliff </p><p>face to see where he was pointing. He was standing a little </p><p>behind her, and he put his hand on her waist to steady her. </p><p>At this moment it suddenly occurred to him how completely </p><p>alone they were. There was not a human creature anywhere, </p><p>not a leaf stirring, not even a bird awake. In a place like </p><p>this the danger that there would be a hidden microphone </p><p>was very small, and even if there was a microphone it would </p><p>only pick up sounds. It was the hottest sleepiest hour of the </p><p>afternoon. The sun blazed down upon them, the sweat tick- </p><p>led his face. And the thought struck him... </p><p>‘Why didn’t you give her a good shove?’ said Julia. ‘I </p><p>would have.’ </p><p>‘Yes, dear, you would have. I would, if I’d been the same </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>169 </p><p>person then as I am now. Or perhaps I would — I’m not cer-</p><p>tain.’ </p><p>‘Are you sorry you didn’t?’ </p><p>‘Yes. On the whole I’m sorry I didn’t.’ </p><p>They were sitting side by side on the dusty floor. He </p><p>pulled her closer against him. Her head rested on his shoul- </p><p>der, the pleasant smell of her hair conquering the pigeon </p><p>dung. She was very young, he thought, she still expected </p><p>something from life, she did not understand that to push an </p><p>inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing. </p><p>‘Actually it would have made no difference,’ he said. </p><p>‘Then why are you sorry you didn’t do it?’ </p><p>‘Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this </p><p>game that we’re playing, we can’t win. Some kinds of failure </p><p>are better than other kinds, that’s all.’ </p><p>He felt her shoulders give a wriggle of dissent. She al- </p><p>ways contradicted him when he said anything of this kind. </p><p>She would not accept it as a law of nature that the individ- </p><p>ual is always defeated. In a way she realized that she herself </p><p>was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would </p><p>catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind </p><p>she believed that it was somehow possible to construct a se- </p><p>cret world in which you could live as you chose. All you </p><p>needed was luck and cunning and boldness. She did not un- </p><p>derstand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the </p><p>only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead, </p><p>that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was </p><p>better to think of yourself as a corpse. </p><p>‘We are the dead,’ he said. </p><p>170 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘Were not dead yet,’ said Julia prosaically. </p><p>‘Not physically. Six months, a year — five years, conceiv- </p><p>ably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably </p><p>you’re more afraid of it than I am. Obviously we shall put it </p><p>off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So </p><p>long as human beings stay human, death and life are the </p><p>same thing.’ </p><p>‘Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or </p><p>a skeleton? Don’t you enjoy being alive? Don’t you like feel- </p><p>ing: This is me, this is my hand, this is my leg, I’m real. I’m </p><p>solid, I’m alive! Don’t you like THIS?’ </p><p>She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against</p><p>him. He could feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her </p><p>overalls. Her body seemed to be pouring some of its youth </p><p>and vigour into his. </p><p>‘Yes, I like that,’ he said. </p><p>‘Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear, </p><p>we’ve got to fix up about the next time we meet. We may as </p><p>well go back to the place in the wood. We’ve given it a good </p><p>long rest. But you must get there by a different way this time. </p><p>I’ve got it all planned out. You take the train — but look, I’ll </p><p>draw it out for you.’ </p><p>And in her practical way she scraped together a small </p><p>square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon’s nest began </p><p>drawing a map on the floor. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>171 </p><p>Chapter 4 </p><p>W inston looked round the shabby little room above Mr </p><p>Charrington’s shop. Beside the window the enormous </p><p>bed was made up, with ragged blankets and a coverless bol- </p><p>ster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was </p><p>ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gate- </p><p>leg table, the glass paperweight which he had bought on his </p><p>last visit gleamed softly out of the half-darkness. </p><p>In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and </p><p>two cups, provided by Mr Charrington. Winston lit the </p><p>burner and set a pan of water to boil. He had brought an </p><p>envelope full of Victory Coffee and some saccharine tablets. </p><p>The clock’s hands said seventeen-twenty: it was nineteen- </p><p>twenty really. She was coming at nineteen-thirty. </p><p>Folly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous, </p><p>suicidal folly. Of all the crimes that a Party member could </p><p>commit, this one was the least possible to conceal. Actu- </p><p>ally the idea had first floated into his head in the form of a </p><p>vision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the surface of </p><p>the gateleg table. As he had foreseen, Mr Charrington had </p><p>made no difficulty about letting the room. He was obviously </p><p>glad of the few dollars that it would bring him. Nor did he </p><p>seem shocked or become offensively knowing when it was </p><p>made clear that Winston wanted the room for the purpose </p><p>of a love-affair. Instead he looked into the middle distance </p><p>172 </p><p>1984 </p><p>and spoke in generalities, with so delicate an air as to give </p><p>the impression that he had become partly invisible. Privacy, </p><p>he said, was a very valuable thing. Everyone wanted a place </p><p>where they could be alone occasionally. And when they had </p><p>such a place, it was only common courtesy in anyone else </p><p>who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even, </p><p>seeming almost to fade out of existence as he did so, add- </p><p>ed that there were two entries to the house, one of them </p><p>through the back yard, which gave on an alley. </p><p>Under the window somebody was singing. Winston </p><p>peeped out, secure in the protection of the muslin curtain. </p><p>The June sun was still high in the sky, and in the sun-filled </p><p>court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pil- </p><p>lar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped </p><p>about her middle, was stumping to and fro between a wash- </p><p>tub and a clothes line, pegging out a series of square white </p><p>things which Winston recognized as babies’ diapers. When- </p><p>ever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she was </p><p>singing in a powerful contralto: </p><p>It was only an ‘opeless fancy. </p><p>It passed like an Ipril dye, </p><p>But a look an a word an the dreams they stirred! </p><p>They ‘ave </p><p>stolen my ‘eart awye! </p><p>The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It </p><p>was one of countless similar songs published for the ben- </p><p>efit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>173 </p><p>The words of these songs were composed without any hu- </p><p>man intervention whatever on an instrument known as a </p><p>versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the </p><p>dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound. He could </p><p>hear the woman singing and the scrape of her shoes on the </p><p>flagstones, and the cries of the children in the street, and </p><p>somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and yet </p><p>the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of </p><p>a telescreen. </p><p>Folly, folly, folly! he thought again. It was inconceiv- </p><p>able that they could frequent this place for more than a few</p><p>weeks without being caught. But the temptation of having a </p><p>hiding-place that was truly their own, indoors and near at </p><p>hand, had been too much for both of them. For some time </p><p>after their visit to the church belfry it had been impossible </p><p>to arrange meetings. Working hours had been drastically </p><p>increased in anticipation of Hate Week. It was more than </p><p>a month distant, but the enormous, complex preparations </p><p>that it entailed were throwing extra work on to everybody. </p><p>Finally both of them managed to secure a free afternoon on </p><p>the same day. They had agreed to go back to the clearing </p><p>in the wood. On the evening beforehand they met briefly </p><p>in the street. As usual, Winston hardly looked at Julia as </p><p>they drifted towards one another in the crowd, but from </p><p>the short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was </p><p>paler than usual. </p><p>‘It’s all off,’ she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to </p><p>speak. ‘Tomorrow, I mean.’ </p><p>‘What?’ </p><p>174 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘Tomorrow afternoon. I can’t come.’ </p><p>‘Why not?’ </p><p>‘Oh, the usual reason. It’s started early this time.’ </p><p>For a moment he was violently angry. During the month </p><p>that he had known her the nature of his desire for her had </p><p>changed. At the beginning there had been little true sensu- </p><p>ality in it. Their first love-making had been simply an act </p><p>of the will. But after the second time it was different. The </p><p>smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her </p><p>skin seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round </p><p>him. She had become a physical necessity, something that </p><p>he not only wanted but felt that he had a right to. When she </p><p>said that she could not come, he had the feeling that she was </p><p>cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd pressed </p><p>them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave </p><p>the tips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to in- </p><p>vite not desire but affection. It struck him that when one </p><p>lived with a woman this particular disappointment must be </p><p>a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness, such as </p><p>he had not felt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He </p><p>wished that they were a married couple of ten years’ stand- </p><p>ing. He wished that he were walking through the streets </p><p>with her just as they were doing now but openly and with- </p><p>out fear, talking of trivialities and buying odds and ends </p><p>for the household. He wished above all that they had some </p><p>place where they could be alone together without feeling </p><p>the obligation to make love every time they met. It was not</p><p>actually at that moment, but at some time on the following </p><p>day, that the idea of renting Mr Charrington’s room had oc- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>175 </p><p>curred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed </p><p>with unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was </p><p>lunacy. It was as though they were intentionally stepping </p><p>nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the edge of the </p><p>bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love. </p><p>It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and </p><p>out of one’s consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times, </p><p>preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not </p><p>avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it: and yet instead, </p><p>every now and again, by a conscious, wilful act, one chose </p><p>to shorten the interval before it happened. </p><p>At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia </p><p>burst into the room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse </p><p>brown canvas, such as he had sometimes seen her carrying </p><p>to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward to take her in </p><p>his arms, but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly, partly </p><p>because she was still holding the tool-bag. </p><p>‘Half a second,’ she said. ‘Just let me show you what I’ve </p><p>brought. Did you bring some of that filthy Victory Coffee? </p><p>I thought you would. You can chuck it away again, because </p><p>we shan’t be needing it. Look here.’ </p><p>She fell on her knees, threw open the bag, and tumbled </p><p>out some spanners and a screwdriver that filled the top part </p><p>of it. Underneath were a number of neat paper packets. The </p><p>first packet that she passed to Winston had a strange and </p><p>yet vaguely familiar feeling. It was filled with some kind of </p><p>heavy, sand-like stuff which yielded wherever you touched </p><p>it. </p><p>‘It isn’t sugar?’ he said. </p><p>176 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here’s a loaf of </p><p>bread — proper white bread, not our bloody stuff— and a lit- </p><p>tle pot of jam. And here’s a tin of milk — but look! This is the </p><p>one I’m really proud of. I had to wrap a bit of sacking round </p><p>it, because ’ </p><p>But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it </p><p>up. The smell was already filling the room, a rich hot smell </p><p>which seemed like an emanation from his early childhood, </p><p>but which one did occasionally meet with even now, blow- </p><p>ing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or diffusing </p><p>itself mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant </p><p>and then lost again. </p><p>‘It’s coffee,’ he murmured, ‘real coffee.’ </p><p>‘It’s Inner Party coffee. There’s a whole kilo here,’ she </p><p>said. </p><p>‘How did you manage to get hold of all these things?’ </p><p>‘It’s all Inner Party stuff. There’s nothing those swine </p><p>don’t have, nothing. But of course waiters and servants and </p><p>people pinch things, and — look, I got a little packet of tea </p><p>as well.’ </p><p>Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a </p><p>corner of the packet. </p><p>‘It’s real tea. Not blackberry leaves.’ </p><p>‘There’s been a lot of tea about lately. They’ve captured In- </p><p>dia, or something,’ she said vaguely. ‘But listen, dear. I want </p><p>you to turn your back on me for three minutes. Go and sit </p><p>on the other side of the bed. Don’t go too near the window. </p><p>And don’t turn round till I tell you.’ </p><p>Winston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>177 </p><p>Down in the yard the red-armed woman was still marching </p><p>to and fro between the washtub and the line. She took two </p><p>more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep feeling: </p><p>Uwy sye that time ‘eals all things, </p><p>They sye you can always forget; </p><p>But the smiles an the tears acrorss the years </p><p>They twist my </p><p>‘eart-strings yet! </p><p>She knew the whole drivelling song by heart, it seemed. </p><p>Her voice floated upward with the sweet summer air, very </p><p>tuneful, charged with a sort of happy melancholy. One had </p><p>the feeling that she would have been perfectly content, if the </p><p>June evening had been endless and the supply of clothes in- </p><p>exhaustible, to remain there for a thousand years, pegging</p><p>out diapers and singing rubbish. It struck him as a curious </p><p>fact that he had never heard a member of the Party singing </p><p>alone and spontaneously. It would even have seemed slightly </p><p>unorthodox, a dangerous eccentricity, like talking to one- </p><p>self. Perhaps it was only when people were somewhere near </p><p>the starvation level that they had anything to sing about. </p><p>‘You can turn round now,’ said Julia. </p><p>He turned round, and for a second almost failed to rec- </p><p>ognize her. What he had actually expected was to see her </p><p>naked. But she was not naked. The transformation that had </p><p>happened was much more surprising than that. She had </p><p>painted her face. </p><p>She must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian </p><p>178 </p><p>1984 </p><p>quarters and bought herself a complete set of make-up ma- </p><p>terials. Her lips were deeply reddened, her cheeks rouged, </p><p>her nose powdered; there was even a touch of something </p><p>under the eyes to make them brighter. It was not very skil- </p><p>fully done, but Winston’s standards in such matters were </p><p>not high. He had never before seen or imagined a woman of </p><p>the Party with cosmetics on her face. The improvement in </p><p>her appearance was startling. With just a few dabs of colour </p><p>in the right places she had become not only very much pret- </p><p>tier, but, above all, far more feminine. Her short hair and </p><p>boyish overalls merely added to the effect. As he took her in </p><p>his arms a wave of synthetic violets flooded his nostrils. He </p><p>remembered the half- darkness of a basement kitchen, and a </p><p>woman’s cavernous mouth. It was the very same scent that </p><p>she had used; but at the moment it did not seem to matter. </p><p>‘Scent too!’ he said. </p><p>‘Yes, dear, scent too. And do you know what I’m going to </p><p>do next? I’m going to get hold of a real woman’s frock from </p><p>somewhere and wear it instead of these bloody trousers. I’ll </p><p>wear silk stockings and high-heeled shoes! In this room I’m </p><p>going to be a woman, not a Party comrade.’ </p><p>They flung their clothes off and climbed into the huge </p><p>mahogany bed. It was the first time that he had stripped </p><p>himself naked in her presence. Until now he had been too </p><p>much ashamed of his pale and meagre body, with the vari- </p><p>cose veins standing out on his calves and the discoloured </p><p>patch over his ankle. There were no sheets, but the blanket </p><p>they lay on was threadbare and smooth, and the size and </p><p>springiness of the bed astonished both of them. ‘It’s sure </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com</p><p>179 </p><p>to be full of bugs, but who cares?’ said Julia. One never saw </p><p>a double bed nowadays, except in the homes of the proles. </p><p>Winston had occasionally slept in one in his boyhood: Julia </p><p>had never been in one before, so far as she could remember. </p><p>Presently they fell asleep for a little while. When Win- </p><p>ston woke up the hands of the clock had crept round to </p><p>nearly nine. He did not stir, because Julia was sleeping with </p><p>her head in the crook of his arm. Most of her make-up had </p><p>transferred itself to his own face or the bolster, but a light </p><p>stain of rouge still brought out the beauty of her cheekbone. </p><p>A yellow ray from the sinking sun fell across the foot of the </p><p>bed and lighted up the fireplace, where the water in the pan </p><p>was boiling fast. Down in the yard the woman had stopped </p><p>singing, but the faint shouts of children floated in from the </p><p>street. He wondered vaguely whether in the abolished past </p><p>it had been a normal experience to lie in bed like this, in </p><p>the cool of a summer evening, a man and a woman with no </p><p>clothes on, making love when they chose, talking of what </p><p>they chose, not feeling any compulsion to get up, simply ly- </p><p>ing there and listening to peaceful sounds outside. Surely </p><p>there could never have been a time when that seemed ordi- </p><p>nary? Julia woke up, rubbed her eyes, and raised herself on </p><p>her elbow to look at the oilstove. </p><p>‘Half that water’s boiled away,’ she said. ‘I’ll get up and </p><p>make some coffee in another moment. We’ve got an hour. </p><p>What time do they cut the lights off at your flats?’ </p><p>‘Twenty-three thirty.’ </p><p>‘It’s twenty-three at the hostel. But you have to get in ear- </p><p>lier than that, because — Hi! Get out, you filthy brute!’ </p><p>l80 </p><p>1984 </p><p>She suddenly twisted herself over in the bed, seized a </p><p>shoe from the floor, and sent it hurtling into the corner with </p><p>a boyish jerk of her arm, exactly as he had seen her fling the </p><p>dictionary at Goldstein, that morning during the Two Min- </p><p>utes Hate. </p><p>‘What was it?’ he said in surprise. </p><p>‘A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wain- </p><p>scoting. There’s a hole down there. I gave him a good fright, </p><p>anyway.’</p><p>‘Rats!’ murmured Winston. ‘In this room!’ </p><p>‘They’re all over the place,’ said Julia indifferently as she </p><p>lay down again. ‘We’ve even got them in the kitchen at the </p><p>hostel. Some parts of London are swarming with them. Did </p><p>you know they attack children? Yes, they do. In some of </p><p>these streets a woman daren’t leave a baby alone for two </p><p>minutes. It’s the great huge brown ones that do it. And the </p><p>nasty thing is that the brutes always ’ </p><p>‘DON’T GO ON!’ said Winston, with his eyes tightly </p><p>shut. </p><p>‘Dearest! You’ve gone quite pale. What’s the matter? Do </p><p>they make you feel sick?’ </p><p>‘Of all horrors in the world — a rat!’ </p><p>She pressed herself against him and wound her limbs </p><p>round him, as though to reassure him with the warmth </p><p>of her body. He did not reopen his eyes immediately. For </p><p>several moments he had had the feeling of being back in a </p><p>nightmare which had recurred from time to time through- </p><p>out his life. It was always very much the same. He was </p><p>standing in front of a wall of darkness, and on the other </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>181 </p><p>side of it there was something unendurable, something too </p><p>dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was </p><p>always one of self-deception, because he did in fact know </p><p>what was behind the wall of darkness. With a deadly effort, </p><p>like wrenching a piece out of his own brain, he could even </p><p>have dragged the thing into the open. He always woke up </p><p>without discovering what it was: but somehow it was con- </p><p>nected with what Julia had been saying when he cut her </p><p>short. </p><p>‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing. I don’t like rats, that’s </p><p>all.’ </p><p>‘Don’t worry, dear, we’re not going to have the filthy </p><p>brutes in here. I’ll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before </p><p>we go. And next time we come here I’ll bring some plaster </p><p>and bung it up properly.’ </p><p>Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten. </p><p>Feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he sat up against the </p><p>bedhead. Julia got out of bed, pulled on her overalls, and </p><p>made the coffee. The smell that rose from the saucepan was </p><p>so powerful and exciting that they shut the window lest</p><p>anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive. </p><p>What was even better than the taste of the coffee was the </p><p>silky texture given to it by the sugar, a thing Winston had </p><p>almost forgotten after years of saccharine. With one hand </p><p>in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other, Ju- </p><p>lia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the </p><p>bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gate- </p><p>leg table, plumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to </p><p>see if it was comfortable, and examining the absurd twelve- </p><p>182 </p><p>1984 </p><p>hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought </p><p>the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a </p><p>better light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always, </p><p>by the soft, rainwatery appearance of the glass. </p><p>‘What is it, do you think?’ said Julia. </p><p>‘I don’t think it’s anything — I mean, I don’t think it was </p><p>ever put to any use. That’s what I like about it. It’s a little </p><p>chunk of history that they’ve forgotten to alter. It’s a mes- </p><p>sage from a hundred years ago, if one knew how to read it.’ </p><p>‘And that picture over there’ — she nodded at the engrav- </p><p>ing on the opposite wall — ’would that be a hundred years </p><p>old?’ </p><p>‘More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can’t tell. It’s impos- </p><p>sible to discover the age of anything nowadays.’ </p><p>She went over to look at it. ‘Here’s where that brute stuck </p><p>his nose out,’ she said, kicking the wainscoting immediate- </p><p>ly below the picture. ‘What is this place? I’ve seen it before </p><p>somewhere.’ </p><p>‘It’s a church, or at least it used to be. St Clement Danes </p><p>its name was.’ The fragment of rhyme that Mr Charrington </p><p>had taught him came back into his head, and he added </p><p>half-nostalgically: ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St </p><p>Clement’s!’ </p><p>To his astonishment she capped the line: </p><p>’ You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s, </p><p>When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey ’ </p><p>‘I can’t remember how it goes on after that. But anyway </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>183 </p><p>I remember it ends up, ‘Here comes a candle to light you to </p><p>bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head!“ </p><p>It was like the two halves of a countersign. But there </p><p>must be another line after ‘the bells of Old Bailey’. Perhaps </p><p>it could be dug out of Mr Charrington’s memory, if he were </p><p>suitably prompted. </p><p>‘Who taught you that?’ he said. </p><p>‘My grandfather. He used to say it to me when I was a lit- </p><p>tle girl. He was vaporized when I was eight — at any rate, he </p><p>disappeared. I wonder what a lemon was,’ she added incon- </p><p>sequently. ‘I’ve seen oranges. They’re a kind of round yellow </p><p>fruit with a thick skin.’ </p><p>‘I can remember lemons,’ said Winston. ‘They were quite </p><p>common in the fifties. They were so sour that it set your </p><p>teeth on edge even to smell them.’ </p><p>‘I bet that picture’s got bugs behind it,’ said Julia. ‘I’ll </p><p>take it down and give it a good clean some day. I suppose </p><p>it’s almost time we were leaving. I must start washing this </p><p>paint off. What a bore! I’ll get the lipstick off your face af- </p><p>terwards.’ </p><p>Winston did not get up for a few minutes more. The </p><p>room was darkening. He turned over towards the light and </p><p>lay gazing into the glass paperweight. The inexhaustibly </p><p>interesting thing was not the fragment of coral but the in- </p><p>terior of the glass itself. There was such a depth of it, and </p><p>yet it was almost as transparent as air. It was as though the </p><p>surface of the glass had been the arch of the sky, enclosing </p><p>a tiny world with its atmosphere complete. He had the feel- </p><p>ing that he could get inside it, and that in fact he was inside </p><p>184 </p><p>1984 </p><p>it, along with the mahogany bed and the gateleg table, and </p><p>the clock and the steel engraving and the paperweight itself. </p><p>The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was </p><p>Julia’s life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart </p><p>of the crystal. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>185 </p><p>Chapter 5 </p><p>S yme had vanished. A morning came, and he was miss- </p><p>ing from work: a few thoughtless people commented on </p><p>his absence. On the next day nobody mentioned him. On </p><p>the third day Winston went into the vestibule of the Re- </p><p>cords Department to look at the notice-board. One of the </p><p>notices carried a printed list of the members of the Chess </p><p>Committee, of whom Syme had been one. It looked almost </p><p>exactly as it had looked before — nothing had been crossed </p><p>out — but it was one name shorter. It was enough. Syme had </p><p>ceased to exist: he had never existed. </p><p>The weather was baking hot. In the labyrinthine Ministry </p><p>the windowless, air-conditioned rooms kept their normal </p><p>temperature, but outside the pavements scorched one’s feet </p><p>and the stench of the Tubes at the rush hours was a hor- </p><p>ror. The preparations for Hate Week were in full swing, and </p><p>the staffs of all the Ministries were working overtime. Pro- </p><p>cessions, meetings, military parades, lectures, waxworks, </p><p>displays, film shows, telescreen programmes all had to be </p><p>organized; stands had to be erected, effigies built, slogans </p><p>coined, songs written, rumours circulated, photographs </p><p>faked. Julia’s unit in the Fiction Department had been tak- </p><p>en off the production of novels and was rushing out a series </p><p>of atrocity pamphlets. Winston, in addition to his regular </p><p>work, spent long periods every day in going through back </p><p>186 </p><p>1984 </p><p>files of ‘The Times’ and altering and embellishing news </p><p>items which were to be quoted in speeches. Late at night, </p><p>when crowds of rowdy proles roamed the streets, the town </p><p>had a curiously febrile air. The rocket bombs crashed of- </p><p>tener than ever, and sometimes in the far distance there </p><p>were enormous explosions which no one could explain and </p><p>about which there were wild rumours. </p><p>The new tune which was to be the theme-song of Hate </p><p>Week (the Hate Song, it was called) had already been com- </p><p>posed and was being endlessly plugged on the telescreens. </p><p>It had a savage, barking rhythm which could not exactly be </p><p>called music, but resembled the beating of a drum. Roared </p><p>out by hundreds of voices to the tramp of marching feet, it </p><p>was terrifying. The proles had taken a fancy to it, and in the </p><p>midnight streets it competed with the still-popular ‘It was </p><p>only a hopeless fancy’. The Parsons children played it at all </p><p>hours of the night and day, unbearably, on a comb and a</p><p>piece of toilet paper. Winston’s evenings were fuller than </p><p>ever. Squads of volunteers, organized by Parsons, were pre- </p><p>paring the street for Hate Week, stitching banners, painting </p><p>posters, erecting flagstaffs on the roofs, and perilously sling- </p><p>ing wires across the street for the reception of streamers. </p><p>Parsons boasted that Victory Mansions alone would display </p><p>four hundred metres of bunting. He was in his native ele- </p><p>ment and as happy as a lark. The heat and the manual work </p><p>had even given him a pretext for reverting to shorts and </p><p>an open shirt in the evenings. He was everywhere at once, </p><p>pushing, pulling, sawing, hammering, improvising, jolly- </p><p>ing everyone along with comradely exhortations and giving </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>187 </p><p>out from every fold of his body what seemed an inexhaust- </p><p>ible supply of acrid-smelling sweat. </p><p>A new poster had suddenly appeared all over London. It </p><p>had no caption, and represented simply the monstrous fig- </p><p>ure of a Eurasian soldier, three or four metres high, striding </p><p>forward with expressionless Mongolian face and enor- </p><p>mous boots, a submachine gun pointed from his hip. From </p><p>whatever angle you looked at the poster, the muzzle of the </p><p>gun, magnified by the foreshortening, seemed to be point- </p><p>ed straight at you. The thing had been plastered on every </p><p>blank space on every wall, even outnumbering the por- </p><p>traits of Big Brother. The proles, normally apathetic about </p><p>the war, were being lashed into one of their periodical fren- </p><p>zies of patriotism. As though to harmonize with the general </p><p>mood, the rocket bombs had been killing larger numbers </p><p>of people than usual. One fell on a crowded film theatre in </p><p>Stepney, burying several hundred victims among the ruins. </p><p>The whole population of the neighbourhood turned out for </p><p>a long, trailing funeral which went on for hours and was in </p><p>effect an indignation meeting. Another bomb fell on a piece </p><p>of waste ground which was used as a playground and sever- </p><p>al dozen children were blown to pieces. There were further </p><p>angry demonstrations, Goldstein was burned in effigy, hun- </p><p>dreds of copies of the poster of the Eurasian soldier were </p><p>torn down and added to the flames, and a number of shops </p><p>were looted in the turmoil; then a rumour flew round that </p><p>spies were directing the rocket bombs by means of wireless </p><p>waves, and an old couple who were suspected of being of </p><p>foreign extraction had their house set on fire and perished </p><p>188 </p><p>1984 </p><p>of suffocation. </p><p>In the room over Mr Charrington’s shop, when they could </p><p>get there, Julia and Winston lay side by side on a stripped </p><p>bed under the open window, naked for the sake of coolness. </p><p>The rat had never come back, but the bugs had multiplied </p><p>hideously in the heat. It did not seem to matter. Dirty or </p><p>clean, the room was paradise. As soon as they arrived they </p><p>would sprinkle everything with pepper bought on the black </p><p>market, tear off their clothes, and make love with sweating </p><p>bodies, then fall asleep and wake to find that the bugs had </p><p>rallied and were massing for the counter-attack. </p><p>Four, five, six — seven times they met during the month </p><p>of June. Winston had dropped his habit of drinking gin at </p><p>all hours. He seemed to have lost the need for it. He had </p><p>grown fatter, his varicose ulcer had subsided, leaving only </p><p>a brown stain on the skin above his ankle, his fits of cough- </p><p>ing in the early morning had stopped. The process of life </p><p>had ceased to be intolerable, he had no longer any impulse </p><p>to make faces at the telescreen or shout curses at the top of </p><p>his voice. Now that they had a secure hiding-place, almost a </p><p>home, it did not even seem a hardship that they could only </p><p>meet infrequently and for a couple of hours at a time. What </p><p>mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist. </p><p>To know that it was there, inviolate, was almost the same as </p><p>being in it. The room was a world, a pocket of the past where </p><p>extinct animals could walk. Mr Charrington, thought Win- </p><p>ston, was another extinct animal. He usually stopped to talk </p><p>with Mr Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs. </p><p>The old man seemed seldom or never to go out of doors, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>189 </p><p>and on the other hand to have almost no customers. He </p><p>led a ghostlike existence between the tiny, dark shop, and </p><p>an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his meals </p><p>and which contained, among other things, an unbelievably </p><p>ancient gramophone with an enormous horn. He seemed </p><p>glad of the opportunity to talk. Wandering about among </p><p>his worthless stock, with his long nose and thick spectacles </p><p>and his bowed shoulders in the velvet jacket, he had always </p><p>vaguely the air of being a collector rather than a tradesman. </p><p>With a sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this scrap </p><p>of rubbish or that — a china bottle-stopper, the painted lid of </p><p>a broken snuffbox, a pinchbeck locket containing a strand </p><p>of some long-dead baby’s hair — never asking that Winston </p><p>should buy it, merely that he should admire it. To talk to </p><p>him was like listening to the tinkling of a worn-out musical- </p><p>box. He had dragged out from the corners of his memory </p><p>some more fragments of forgotten rhymes. There was one </p><p>about four and twenty blackbirds, and another about a cow</p><p>with a crumpled horn, and another about the death of poor </p><p>Cock Robin. ‘It just occurred to me you might be interested,’ </p><p>he would say with a deprecating little laugh whenever he </p><p>produced a new fragment. But he could never recall more </p><p>than a few lines of any one rhyme. </p><p>Both of them knew — in a way, it was never out of their </p><p>minds that what was now happening could not last long. </p><p>There were times when the fact of impending death seemed </p><p>as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they would cling to- </p><p>gether with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned </p><p>soul grasping at his last morsel of pleasure when the clock </p><p>190 </p><p>1984 </p><p>is within five minutes of striking. But there were also times </p><p>when they had the illusion not only of safety but of per- </p><p>manence. So long as they were actually in this room, they </p><p>both felt, no harm could come to them. Getting there was </p><p>difficult and dangerous, but the room itself was sanctuary. </p><p>It was as when Winston had gazed into the heart of the pa- </p><p>perweight, with the feeling that it would be possible to get </p><p>inside that glassy world, and that once inside it time could </p><p>be arrested. Often they gave themselves up to daydreams of </p><p>escape. Their luck would hold indefinitely, and they would </p><p>carry on their intrigue, just like this, for the remainder of </p><p>their natural lives. Or Katharine would die, and by subtle </p><p>manoeuvrings Winston and Julia would succeed in get- </p><p>ting married. Or they would commit suicide together. Or </p><p>they would disappear, alter themselves out of recognition, </p><p>learn to speak with proletarian accents, get jobs in a factory </p><p>and live out their lives undetected in a back-street. It was </p><p>all nonsense, as they both knew. In reality there was no es- </p><p>cape. Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they </p><p>had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to </p><p>day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had </p><p>no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one’s </p><p>lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is </p><p>air available. </p><p>Sometimes, too, they talked of engaging in active rebel- </p><p>lion against the Party, but with no notion of how to take </p><p>the first step. Even if the fabulous Brotherhood was a real- </p><p>ity, there still remained the difficulty of finding one’s way </p><p>into it. He told her of the strange intimacy that existed, or </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>191 </p><p>seemed to exist, between himself and O’Brien, and of the </p><p>impulse he sometimes felt, simply to walk into O’Brien’s </p><p>presence, announce that he was the enemy of the Party, and </p><p>demand his help. Curiously enough, this did not strike her </p><p>as an impossibly rash thing to do. She was used to judg- </p><p>ing people by their faces, and it seemed natural to her that </p><p>Winston should believe O’Brien to be trustworthy on the </p><p>strength of a single flash of the eyes. Moreover she took it </p><p>for granted that everyone, or nearly everyone, secretly hated </p><p>the Party and would break the rules if he thought it safe to </p><p>do so. But she refused to believe that widespread, organized </p><p>opposition existed or could exist. The tales about Goldstein </p><p>and his underground army, she said, were simply a lot of </p><p>rubbish which the Party had invented for its own purposes </p><p>and which you had to pretend to believe in. Times beyond </p><p>number, at Party rallies and spontaneous demonstrations, </p><p>she had shouted at the top of her voice for the execution of </p><p>people whose names she had never heard and in whose sup- </p><p>posed crimes she had not the faintest belief. When public </p><p>trials were happening she had taken her place in the detach- </p><p>ments from the Youth League who surrounded the courts </p><p>from morning to night, chanting at intervals ‘Death to the </p><p>traitors!’ During the Two Minutes Hate she always excelled </p><p>all others in shouting insults at Goldstein. Yet she had only </p><p>the dimmest idea of who Goldstein was and what doctrines </p><p>he was supposed to represent. She had grown up since the </p><p>Revolution and was too young to remember the ideological </p><p>battles of the fifties and sixties. Such a thing as an indepen- </p><p>dent political movement was outside her imagination: and </p><p>192 </p><p>1984 </p><p>in any case the Party was invincible. It would always ex- </p><p>ist, and it would always be the same. You could only rebel </p><p>against it by secret disobedience or, at most, by isolated acts </p><p>of violence such as killing somebody or blowing something </p><p>up. </p><p>In some ways she was far more acute than Winston, and </p><p>far less susceptible to Party propaganda. Once when he </p><p>happened in some connexion to mention the war against </p><p>Eurasia, she startled him by saying casually that in her opin- </p><p>ion the war was not happening. The rocket bombs which fell </p><p>daily on London were probably fired by the Government </p><p>of Oceania itself, ‘just to keep people frightened’. This was </p><p>an idea that had literally never occurred to him. She also </p><p>stirred a sort of envy in him by telling him that during the </p><p>Two Minutes Hate her great difficulty was to avoid bursting </p><p>out laughing. But she only questioned the teachings of the </p><p>Party when they in some way touched upon her own life. </p><p>Often she was ready to accept the official mythology, simply </p><p>because the difference between truth and falsehood did not</p><p>seem important to her. She believed, for instance, having </p><p>learnt it at school, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. </p><p>(In his own schooldays, Winston remembered, in the late </p><p>fifties, it was only the helicopter that the Party claimed to </p><p>have invented; a dozen years later, when Julia was at school, </p><p>it was already claiming the aeroplane; one generation more, </p><p>and it would be claiming the steam engine.) And when he </p><p>told her that aeroplanes had been in existence before he was </p><p>born and long before the Revolution, the fact struck her as </p><p>totally uninteresting. After all, what did it matter who had </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>193 </p><p>invented aeroplanes? It was rather more of a shock to him </p><p>when he discovered from some chance remark that she did </p><p>not remember that Oceania, four years ago, had been at war </p><p>with Eastasia and at peace with Eurasia. It was true that she </p><p>regarded the whole war as a sham: but apparently she had </p><p>not even noticed that the name of the enemy had changed. </p><p>‘I thought we’d always been at war with Eurasia,’ she said </p><p>vaguely. It frightened him a little. The invention of aero- </p><p>planes dated from long before her birth, but the switchover </p><p>in the war had happened only four years ago, well after she </p><p>was grown up. He argued with her about it for perhaps a </p><p>quarter of an hour. In the end he succeeded in forcing her </p><p>memory back until she did dimly recall that at one time </p><p>Eastasia and not Eurasia had been the enemy. But the issue </p><p>still struck her as unimportant. ‘Who cares?’ she said im- </p><p>patiently. ‘It’s always one bloody war after another, and one </p><p>knows the news is all lies anyway.’ </p><p>Sometimes he talked to her of the Records Department </p><p>and the impudent forgeries that he committed there. Such </p><p>things did not appear to horrify her. She did not feel the </p><p>abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought of lies becom- </p><p>ing truths. He told her the story of Jones, Aaronson, and </p><p>Rutherford and the momentous slip of paper which he had </p><p>once held between his fingers. It did not make much im- </p><p>pression on her. At first, indeed, she failed to grasp the point </p><p>of the story. </p><p>‘Were they friends of yours?’ she said. </p><p>‘No, I never knew them. They were Inner Party members. </p><p>Besides, they were far older men than I was. They belonged </p><p>194 </p><p>1984 </p><p>to the old days, before the Revolution. I barely knew them </p><p>by sight.’ </p><p>‘Then what was there to worry about? People are being </p><p>killed off all the time, aren’t they?’ </p><p>He tried to make her understand. ‘This was an excep- </p><p>tional case. It wasn’t just a question of somebody being </p><p>killed. Do you realize that the past, starting from yester- </p><p>day, has been actually abolished? If it survives anywhere, </p><p>it’s in a few solid objects with no words attached to them, </p><p>like that lump of glass there. Already we know almost lit- </p><p>erally nothing about the Revolution and the years before </p><p>the Revolution. Every record has been destroyed or falsi- </p><p>fied, every book has been rewritten, every picture has been </p><p>repainted, every statue and street and building has been </p><p>renamed, every date has been altered. And that process is </p><p>continuing day by day and minute by minute. History has </p><p>stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which </p><p>the Party is always right. I know, of course, that the past is </p><p>falsified, but it would never be possible for me to prove it, </p><p>even when I did the falsification myself. After the thing is </p><p>done, no evidence ever remains. The only evidence is inside </p><p>my own mind, and I don’t know with any certainty that any </p><p>other human being shares my memories. Just in that one </p><p>instance, in my whole life, I did possess actual concrete evi- </p><p>dence after the event — years after it.’ </p><p>‘And what good was that?’ </p><p>‘It was no good, because I threw it away a few minutes lat- </p><p>er. But if the same thing happened today, I should keep it.’ </p><p>‘Well, I wouldn’t!’ said Julia. ‘I’m quite ready to take </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>195 </p><p>risks, but only for something worth while, not for bits of </p><p>old newspaper. What could you have done with it even if </p><p>you had kept it?’ </p><p>‘Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have </p><p>planted a few doubts here and there, supposing that I’d </p><p>dared to show it to anybody. I don’t imagine that we can </p><p>alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine lit- </p><p>tle knots of resistance springing up here and there — small </p><p>groups of people banding themselves together, and gradu- </p><p>ally growing, and even leaving a few records behind, so that </p><p>the next generations can carry on where we leave off.’ </p><p>‘I’m not interested in the next generation, dear. I’m inter- </p><p>ested in US.’ </p><p>‘You’re only a rebel from the waist downwards,’ he told </p><p>her. </p><p>She thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms </p><p>round him in delight. </p><p>In the ramifications of party doctrine she had not the </p><p>faintest interest. Whenever he began to talk of the princi- </p><p>ples of Ingsoc, doublethink, the mutability of the past, and </p><p>the denial of objective reality, and to use Newspeak words, </p><p>she became bored and confused and said that she never paid </p><p>any attention to that kind of thing. One knew that it was all </p><p>rubbish, so why let oneself be worried by it? She knew when </p><p>to cheer and when to boo, and that was all one needed. If he </p><p>persisted in talking of such subjects, she had a disconcerting </p><p>habit of falling asleep. She was one of those people who can </p><p>go to sleep at any hour and in any position. Talking to her, </p><p>he realized how easy it was to present an appearance of or- </p><p>196 </p><p>1984 </p><p>thodoxy while having no grasp whatever of what orthodoxy </p><p>meant. In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself </p><p>most successfully on people incapable of understanding it. </p><p>They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations </p><p>of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity </p><p>of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently </p><p>interested in public events to notice what was happening. </p><p>By lack of understanding they remained sane. They simply </p><p>swallowed everything, and what they swallowed did them </p><p>no harm, because it left no residue behind, just as a grain of </p><p>corn will pass undigested through the body of a bird. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>197 </p><p>Chapter 6 </p><p>I t had happened at last. The expected message had come. </p><p>All his life, it seemed to him, he had been waiting for this </p><p>to happen. </p><p>He was walking down the long corridor at the Minis- </p><p>try and he was almost at the spot where Julia had slipped </p><p>the note into his hand when he became aware that some- </p><p>one larger than himself was walking just behind him. The</p><p>person, whoever it was, gave a small cough, evidently as a </p><p>prelude to speaking. Winston stopped abruptly and turned. </p><p>It was O’Brien. </p><p>At last they were face to face, and it seemed that his only </p><p>impulse was to run away. His heart bounded violently. He </p><p>would have been incapable of speaking. O’Brien, however, </p><p>had continued forward in the same movement, laying a </p><p>friendly hand for a moment on Winston’s arm, so that the </p><p>two of them were walking side by side. He began speak- </p><p>ing with the peculiar grave courtesy that differentiated him </p><p>from the majority of Inner Party members. </p><p>‘I had been hoping for an opportunity of talking to you,’ </p><p>he said. ‘I was reading one of your Newspeak articles in </p><p>‘The Times’ the other day. You take a scholarly interest in </p><p>Newspeak, I believe?’ </p><p>Winston had recovered part of his self-possession. </p><p>‘Hardly scholarly,’ he said. ‘I’m only an amateur. It’s not my </p><p>198 </p><p>1984 </p><p>subject. I have never had anything to do with the actual </p><p>construction of the language.’ </p><p>‘But you write it very elegantly,’ said O’Brien. ‘That is not </p><p>only my own opinion. I was talking recently to a friend of </p><p>yours who is certainly an expert. His name has slipped my </p><p>memory for the moment.’ </p><p>Again Winston’s heart stirred painfully. It was incon- </p><p>ceivable that this was anything other than a reference to </p><p>Syme. But Syme was not only dead, he was abolished, an </p><p>unperson. Any identifiable reference to him would have </p><p>been mortally dangerous. O’Brien’s remark must obviously </p><p>have been intended as a signal, a codeword. By sharing a </p><p>small act of thoughtcrime he had turned the two of them </p><p>into accomplices. They had continued to stroll slowly down </p><p>the corridor, but now O’Brien halted. With the curious, dis- </p><p>arming friendliness that he always managed to put in to the </p><p>gesture he resettled his spectacles on his nose. Then he went </p><p>on: </p><p>‘What I had really intended to say was that in your article </p><p>I noticed you had used two words which have become obso- </p><p>lete. But they have only become so very recently. Have you </p><p>seen the tenth edition of the Newspeak Dictionary?’ </p><p>‘No,’ said Winston. ‘I didn’t think it had been issued yet. </p><p>We are still using the ninth in the Records Department.’ </p><p>‘The tenth edition is not due to appear for some months, </p><p>I believe. But a few advance copies have been circulated.</p><p>I have one myself. It might interest you to look at it, per- </p><p>haps?’ </p><p>‘Very much so,’ said Winston, immediately seeing where </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>199 </p><p>this tended. </p><p>‘Some of the new developments are most ingenious. The </p><p>reduction in the number of verbs — that is the point that will </p><p>appeal to you, I think. Let me see, shall I send a messenger </p><p>to you with the dictionary? But I am afraid I invariably for- </p><p>get anything of that kind. Perhaps you could pick it up at </p><p>my flat at some time that suited you? Wait. Let me give you </p><p>my address.’ </p><p>They were standing in front of a telescreen. Somewhat </p><p>absentmindedly O’Brien felt two of his pockets and then </p><p>produced a small leather- covered notebook and a gold </p><p>ink-pencil. Immediately beneath the telescreen, in such a </p><p>position that anyone who was watching at the other end of </p><p>the instrument could read what he was writing, he scribbled </p><p>an address, tore out the page and handed it to Winston. </p><p>‘I am usually at home in the evenings,’ he said. ‘If not, my </p><p>servant will give you the dictionary.’ </p><p>He was gone, leaving Winston holding the scrap of paper, </p><p>which this time there was no need to conceal. Nevertheless </p><p>he carefully memorized what was written on it, and some </p><p>hours later dropped it into the memory hole along with a </p><p>mass of other papers. </p><p>They had been talking to one another for a couple of </p><p>minutes at the most. There was only one meaning that the </p><p>episode could possibly have. It had been contrived as a way </p><p>of letting Winston know O’Brien’s address. This was neces- </p><p>sary, because except by direct enquiry it was never possible </p><p>to discover where anyone lived. There were no directories </p><p>of any kind. ‘If you ever want to see me, this is where I can </p><p>200 </p><p>1984 </p><p>be found,’ was what O’Brien had been saying to him. Per- </p><p>haps there would even be a message concealed somewhere </p><p>in the dictionary. But at any rate, one thing was certain. The</p><p>conspiracy that he had dreamed of did exist, and he had </p><p>reached the outer edges of it. </p><p>He knew that sooner or later he would obey O’Brien’s </p><p>summons. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps after a long de- </p><p>lay — he was not certain. What was happening was only the </p><p>working-out of a process that had started years ago. The </p><p>first step had been a secret, involuntary thought, the sec- </p><p>ond had been the opening of the diary. He had moved from </p><p>thoughts to words, and now from words to actions. The last </p><p>step was something that would happen in the Ministry of </p><p>Love. He had accepted it. The end was contained in the be- </p><p>ginning. But it was frightening: or, more exactly, it was like </p><p>a foretaste of death, like being a little less alive. Even while </p><p>he was speaking to O’Brien, when the meaning of the words </p><p>had sunk in, a chilly shuddering feeling had taken posses- </p><p>sion of his body. He had the sensation of stepping into the </p><p>dampness of a grave, and it was not much better because </p><p>he had always known that the grave was there and waiting </p><p>for him. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>201 </p><p>Chapter 7 </p><p>W inston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Ju- </p><p>lia rolled sleepily against him, murmuring something </p><p>that might have been ‘What’s the matter?’ </p><p>‘I dreamt — ’ he began, and stopped short. It was too com- </p><p>plex to be put into words. There was the dream itself, and </p><p>there was a memory connected with it that had swum into </p><p>his mind in the few seconds after waking. </p><p>He lay back with his eyes shut, still sodden in the atmo- </p><p>sphere of the dream. It was a vast, luminous dream in which </p><p>his whole life seemed to stretch out before him like a land- </p><p>scape on a summer evening after rain. It had all occurred </p><p>inside the glass paperweight, but the surface of the glass </p><p>was the dome of the sky, and inside the dome everything </p><p>was flooded with clear soft light in which one could see into </p><p>interminable distances. The dream had also been compre- </p><p>hended by — indeed, in some sense it had consisted in — a </p><p>gesture of the arm made by his mother, and made again </p><p>thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the </p><p>news film, trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets, </p><p>before the helicopter blew them both to pieces. </p><p>‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that until this moment I believed </p><p>I had murdered my mother?’ </p><p>‘Why did you murder her?’ said Julia, almost asleep.</p><p>‘I didn’t murder her. Not physically.’ </p><p>202 </p><p>1984 </p><p>In the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his </p><p>mother, and within a few moments of waking the cluster </p><p>of small events surrounding it had all come back. It was a </p><p>memory that he must have deliberately pushed out of his </p><p>consciousness over many years. He was not certain of the </p><p>date, but he could not have been less than ten years old, pos- </p><p>sibly twelve, when it had happened. </p><p>His father had disappeared some time earlier, how much </p><p>earlier he could not remember. He remembered better the </p><p>rackety, uneasy circumstances of the time: the periodical </p><p>panics about air-raids and the sheltering in Tube stations, </p><p>the piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proc- </p><p>lamations posted at street corners, the gangs of youths in </p><p>shirts all the same colour, the enormous queues outside </p><p>the bakeries, the intermittent machine-gun fire in the dis- </p><p>tance — above all, the fact that there was never enough to </p><p>eat. He remembered long afternoons spent with other boys </p><p>in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking </p><p>out the ribs of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes </p><p>even scraps of stale breadcrust from which they carefully </p><p>scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting for the pass- </p><p>ing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were </p><p>known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted </p><p>over the bad patches in the road, sometimes spilt a few frag- </p><p>ments of oil-cake. </p><p>When his father disappeared, his mother did not show </p><p>any surprise or any violent grief, but a sudden change came </p><p>over her. She seemed to have become completely spiritless. </p><p>It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>203 </p><p>something that she knew must happen. She did everything </p><p>that was needed — cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, </p><p>swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece — always very slowly </p><p>and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an art- </p><p>ist’s lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely </p><p>body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For hours </p><p>at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed, nurs- </p><p>ing his young sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two</p><p>or three, with a face made simian by thinness. Very occa- </p><p>sionally she would take Winston in her arms and press him </p><p>against her for a long time without saying anything. He was </p><p>aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this </p><p>was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing </p><p>that was about to happen. </p><p>He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, close- </p><p>smelling room that seemed half filled by a bed with a white </p><p>counterpane. There was a gas ring in the fender, and a shelf </p><p>where food was kept, and on the landing outside there was </p><p>a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He </p><p>remembered his mother’s statuesque body bending over the </p><p>gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan. Above all he </p><p>remembered his continuous hunger, and the fierce sordid </p><p>battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly, </p><p>over and over again, why there was not more food, he would </p><p>shout and storm at her (he even remembered the tones of </p><p>his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely and </p><p>sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or he would attempt </p><p>a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his </p><p>share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than </p><p>204 </p><p>1984 </p><p>his share. She took it for granted that he, ‘the boy’, should </p><p>have the biggest portion; but however much she gave him </p><p>he invariably demanded more. At every meal she would be- </p><p>seech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little </p><p>sister was sick and also needed food, but it was no use. He </p><p>would cry out with rage when she stopped ladling, he would </p><p>try to wrench the saucepan and spoon out of her hands, he </p><p>would grab bits from his sister’s plate. He knew that he was </p><p>starving the other two, but he could not help it; he even felt </p><p>that he had a right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his bel- </p><p>ly seemed to justify him. Between meals, if his mother did </p><p>not stand guard, he was constantly pilfering at the wretched </p><p>store of food on the shelf. </p><p>One day a chocolate-ration was issued. There had been </p><p>no such issue for weeks or months past. He remembered </p><p>quite clearly that precious little morsel of chocolate. It was a </p><p>two-ounce slab (they still talked about ounces in those days) </p><p>between the three of them. It was obvious that it ought to </p><p>be divided into three equal parts. Suddenly, as though he </p><p>were listening to somebody else, Winston heard himself </p><p>demanding in a loud booming voice that he should be giv- </p><p>en the whole piece. His mother told him not to be greedy. </p><p>There was a long, nagging argument that went round and </p><p>round, with shouts, whines, tears, remonstrances, bargain- </p><p>ings. His tiny sister, clinging to her mother with both hands, </p><p>exactly like a baby monkey, sat looking over her shoulder at </p><p>him with large, mournful eyes. In the end his mother broke</p><p>off three-quarters of the chocolate and gave it to Winston, </p><p>giving the other quarter to his sister. The little girl took hold </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>205 </p><p>of it and looked at it dully, perhaps not knowing what it was. </p><p>Winston stood watching her for a moment. Then with a </p><p>sudden swift spring he had snatched the piece of chocolate </p><p>out of his sister’s hand and was fleeing for the door. </p><p>‘Winston, Winston!’ his mother called after him. ‘Come </p><p>back! Give your sister back her chocolate!’ </p><p>He stopped, but did not come back. His mother’s anx- </p><p>ious eyes were fixed on his face. Even now he was thinking </p><p>about the thing, he did not know what it was that was on </p><p>the point of happening. His sister, conscious of having been </p><p>robbed of something, had set up a feeble wail. His mother </p><p>drew her arm round the child and pressed its face against </p><p>her breast. Something in the gesture told him that his sis- </p><p>ter was dying. He turned and fled down the stairs, with the </p><p>chocolate growing sticky in his hand. </p><p>He never saw his mother again. After he had devoured </p><p>the chocolate he felt somewhat ashamed of himself and </p><p>hung about in the streets for several hours, until hunger </p><p>drove him home. When he came back his mother had dis- </p><p>appeared. This was already becoming normal at that time. </p><p>Nothing was gone from the room except his mother and his </p><p>sister. They had not taken any clothes, not even his mother’s </p><p>overcoat. To this day he did not know with any certainty </p><p>that his mother was dead. It was perfectly possible that she </p><p>had merely been sent to a forced-labour camp. As for his </p><p>sister, she might have been removed, like Winston himself, </p><p>to one of the colonies for homeless children (Reclamation </p><p>Centres, they were called) which had grown up as a result </p><p>of the civil war, or she might have been sent to the labour </p><p>206 </p><p>1984 </p><p>camp along with his mother, or simply left somewhere or </p><p>other to die. </p><p>The dream was still vivid in his mind, especially the en- </p><p>veloping protecting gesture of the arm in which its whole </p><p>meaning seemed to be contained. His mind went back to </p><p>another dream of two months ago. Exactly as his mother</p><p>had sat on the dingy whitequilted bed, with the child cling- </p><p>ing to her, so she had sat in the sunken ship, far underneath </p><p>him, and drowning deeper every minute, but still looking </p><p>up at him through the darkening water. </p><p>He told Julia the story of his mother’s disappearance. </p><p>Without opening her eyes she rolled over and settled herself </p><p>into a more comfortable position. </p><p>‘I expect you were a beastly little swine in those days,’ she </p><p>said indistinctly. ‘All children are swine.’ </p><p>‘Yes. But the real point of the story ’ </p><p>From her breathing it was evident that she was going </p><p>off to sleep again. He would have liked to continue talking </p><p>about his mother. He did not suppose, from what he could </p><p>remember of her, that she had been an unusual woman, still </p><p>less an intelligent one; and yet she had possessed a kind of </p><p>nobility, a kind of purity, simply because the standards that </p><p>she obeyed were private ones. Her feelings were her own, </p><p>and could not be altered from outside. It would not have </p><p>occurred to her that an action which is ineffectual thereby </p><p>becomes meaningless. If you loved someone, you loved him, </p><p>and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him </p><p>love. When the last of the chocolate was gone, his mother </p><p>had clasped the child in her arms. It was no use, it changed </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>207 </p><p>nothing, it did not produce more chocolate, it did not avert </p><p>the child’s death or her own; but it seemed natural to her to </p><p>do it. The refugee woman in the boat had also covered the </p><p>little boy with her arm, which was no more use against the </p><p>bullets than a sheet of paper. The terrible thing that the Par- </p><p>ty had done was to persuade you that mere impulses, mere </p><p>feelings, were of no account, while at the same time robbing </p><p>you of all power over the material world. When once you </p><p>were in the grip of the Party, what you felt or did not feel, </p><p>what you did or refrained from doing, made literally no dif- </p><p>ference. Whatever happened you vanished, and neither you </p><p>nor your actions were ever heard of again. You were lifted </p><p>clean out of the stream of history. And yet to the people </p><p>of only two generations ago this would not have seemed </p><p>all-important, because they were not attempting to alter </p><p>history. They were governed by private loyalties which they </p><p>did not question. What mattered were individual relation- </p><p>ships, and a completely helpless gesture, an embrace, a tear, </p><p>a word spoken to a dying man, could have value in itself. </p><p>The proles, it suddenly occurred to him, had remained in </p><p>this condition. They were not loyal to a party or a country or </p><p>an idea, they were loyal to one another. For the first time in </p><p>his life he did not despise the proles or think of them merely</p><p>as an inert force which would one day spring to life and re- </p><p>generate the world. The proles had stayed human. They had </p><p>not become hardened inside. They had held on to the primi- </p><p>tive emotions which he himself had to re-learn by conscious </p><p>effort. And in thinking this he remembered, without appar- </p><p>ent relevance, how a few weeks ago he had seen a severed </p><p>208 </p><p>1984 </p><p>hand lying on the pavement and had kicked it into the gut- </p><p>ter as though it had been a cabbage-stalk. </p><p>‘The proles are human beings,’ he said aloud. ‘We are not </p><p>human.’ </p><p>‘Why not?’ said Julia, who had woken up again. </p><p>He thought for a little while. ‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ </p><p>he said, ‘that the best thing for us to do would be simply to </p><p>walk out of here before it’s too late, and never see each other </p><p>again?’ </p><p>‘Yes, dear, it has occurred to me, several times. But I’m </p><p>not going to do it, all the same.’ </p><p>‘We’ve been lucky,’ he said ‘but it can’t last much longer. </p><p>You’re young. You look normal and innocent. If you keep </p><p>clear of people like me, you might stay alive for another fifty </p><p>years.’ </p><p>‘No. I’ve thought it all out. What you do, I’m going to do. </p><p>And don’t be too downhearted. I’m rather good at staying </p><p>alive.’ </p><p>‘We may be together for another six months — a year — </p><p>there’s no knowing. At the end we’re certain to be apart. Do </p><p>you realize how utterly alone we shall be? When once they </p><p>get hold of us there will be nothing, literally nothing, that </p><p>either of us can do for the other. If I confess, they’ll shoot </p><p>you, and if I refuse to confess, they’ll shoot you just the same. </p><p>Nothing that I can do or say, or stop myself from saying, will </p><p>put off your death for as much as five minutes. Neither of us </p><p>will even know whether the other is alive or dead. We shall </p><p>be utterly without power of any kind. The one thing that </p><p>matters is that we shouldn’t betray one another, although </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>209 </p><p>even that can’t make the slightest difference.’ </p><p>‘If you mean confessing,’ she said, ‘we shall do that, right </p><p>enough. Everybody always confesses. You can’t help it. They </p><p>torture you.’ </p><p>‘I don’t mean confessing. Confession is not betrayal. </p><p>What you say or do doesn’t matter: only feelings matter. If </p><p>they could make me stop loving you — that would be the </p><p>real betrayal.’ </p><p>She thought it over. ‘They can’t do that,’ she said final- </p><p>ly. ‘It’s the one thing they can’t do. They can make you say </p><p>anything — ANYTHING — but they can’t make you believe </p><p>it. They can’t get inside you.’ </p><p>‘No,’ he said a little more hopefully, ‘no; that’s quite true. </p><p>They can’t get inside you. If you can FEEL that staying hu- </p><p>man is worth while, even when it can’t have any result </p><p>whatever, you’ve beaten them.’ </p><p>He thought of the telescreen with its never- sleeping ear. </p><p>They could spy upon you night and day, but if you kept your </p><p>head you could still outwit them. With all their cleverness </p><p>they had never mastered the secret of finding out what an- </p><p>other human being was thinking. Perhaps that was less true </p><p>when you were actually in their hands. One did not know </p><p>what happened inside the Ministry of Love, but it was pos- </p><p>sible to guess: tortures, drugs, delicate instruments that </p><p>registered your nervous reactions, gradual wearing- down </p><p>by sleeplessness and solitude and persistent questioning. </p><p>Facts, at any rate, could not be kept hidden. They could be </p><p>tracked down by enquiry, they could be squeezed out of you </p><p>by torture. But if the object was not to stay alive but to stay </p><p>210 </p><p>1984 </p><p>human, what difference did it ultimately make? They could </p><p>not alter your feelings: for that matter you could not alter </p><p>them yourself, even if you wanted to. They could lay bare in </p><p>the utmost detail everything that you had done or said or </p><p>thought; but the inner heart, whose workings were mysteri- </p><p>ous even to yourself, remained impregnable. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>211 </p><p>Chapter 8 </p><p>T hey had done it, they had done it at last! </p><p>The room they were standing in was long-shaped and </p><p>softly lit. The telescreen was dimmed to a low murmur; the </p><p>richness of the dark-blue carpet gave one the impression of </p><p>treading on velvet. At the far end of the room O’Brien was </p><p>sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp, with a mass of </p><p>papers on either side of him. He had not bothered to look up </p><p>when the servant showed Julia and Winston in. </p><p>Winston’s heart was thumping so hard that he doubted </p><p>whether he would be able to speak. They had done it, they </p><p>had done it at last, was all he could think. It had been a rash </p><p>act to come here at all, and sheer folly to arrive together; </p><p>though it was true that they had come by different routes </p><p>and only met on O’Brien’s doorstep. But merely to walk into </p><p>such a place needed an effort of the nerve. It was only on </p><p>very rare occasions that one saw inside the dwelling-plac- </p><p>es of the Inner Party, or even penetrated into the quarter </p><p>of the town where they lived. The whole atmosphere of the </p><p>huge block of flats, the richness and spaciousness of every- </p><p>thing, the unfamiliar smells of good food and good tobacco, </p><p>the silent and incredibly rapid lifts sliding up and down, the </p><p>white-jacketed servants hurrying to and fro — everything </p><p>was intimidating. Although he had a good pretext for com- </p><p>ing here, he was haunted at every step by the fear that a </p><p>212 </p><p>1984 </p><p>black-uniformed guard would suddenly appear from round </p><p>the corner, demand his papers, and order him to get out. </p><p>O’Brien’s servant, however, had admitted the two of them </p><p>without demur. He was a small, dark-haired man in a white </p><p>jacket, with a diamond-shaped, completely expressionless </p><p>face which might have been that of a Chinese. The passage </p><p>down which he led them was softly carpeted, with cream- </p><p>papered walls and white wainscoting, all exquisitely clean. </p><p>That too was intimidating. Winston could not remember </p><p>ever to have seen a passageway whose walls were not grimy </p><p>from the contact of human bodies. </p><p>O’Brien had a slip of paper between his fingers and </p><p>seemed to be studying it intently. His heavy face, bent down </p><p>so that one could see the line of the nose, looked both for- </p><p>midable and intelligent. For perhaps twenty seconds he sat </p><p>without stirring. Then he pulled the speakwrite towards </p><p>him and rapped out a message in the hybrid jargon of the </p><p>Ministries: </p><p>'Items one comma five comma seven approved fullwise</p><p>stop suggestion contained item six doubleplus ridiculous </p><p>verging crimethink cancel stop unproceed constructionwise </p><p>antegetting plusfull estimates machinery overheads stop end </p><p>message.’ </p><p>He rose deliberately from his chair and came towards </p><p>them across the soundless carpet. A little of the official at- </p><p>mosphere seemed to have fallen away from him with the </p><p>Newspeak words, but his expression was grimmer than </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>213 </p><p>usual, as though he were not pleased at being disturbed. The </p><p>terror that Winston already felt was suddenly shot through </p><p>by a streak of ordinary embarrassment. It seemed to him </p><p>quite possible that he had simply made a stupid mistake. </p><p>For what evidence had he in reality that O’Brien was any </p><p>kind of political conspirator? Nothing but a flash of the eyes </p><p>and a single equivocal remark: beyond that, only his own </p><p>secret imaginings, founded on a dream. He could not even </p><p>fall back on the pretence that he had come to borrow the </p><p>dictionary, because in that case Julia’s presence was impos- </p><p>sible to explain. As O’Brien passed the telescreen a thought </p><p>seemed to strike him. He stopped, turned aside and pressed </p><p>a switch on the wall. There was a sharp snap. The voice had </p><p>stopped. </p><p>Julia uttered a tiny sound, a sort of squeak of surprise. </p><p>Even in the midst of his panic, Winston was too much taken </p><p>aback to be able to hold his tongue. </p><p>‘You can turn it off!’ he said. </p><p>‘Yes,’ said O’Brien, ‘we can turn it off. We have that privi- </p><p>lege.’ </p><p>He was opposite them now. His solid form towered </p><p>over the pair of them, and the expression on his face was </p><p>still indecipherable. He was waiting, somewhat sternly, for </p><p>Winston to speak, but about what? Even now it was quite </p><p>conceivable that he was simply a busy man wondering ir- </p><p>ritably why he had been interrupted. Nobody spoke. After </p><p>the stopping of the telescreen the room seemed deadly si- </p><p>lent. The seconds marched past, enormous. With difficulty </p><p>Winston continued to keep his eyes fixed on O’Brien’s. Then </p><p>214 </p><p>1984 </p><p>suddenly the grim face broke down into what might have </p><p>been the beginnings of a smile. With his characteristic ges- </p><p>ture O’Brien resettled his spectacles on his nose. </p><p>‘Shall I say it, or will you?’ he said. </p><p>‘I will say it,’ said Winston promptly. ‘That thing is really </p><p>turned off?’ </p><p>‘Yes, everything is turned off. We are alone.’ </p><p>‘We have come here because ’ </p><p>He paused, realizing for the first time the vagueness of </p><p>his own motives. Since he did not in fact know what kind </p><p>of help he expected from O’Brien, it was not easy to say why </p><p>he had come here. He went on, conscious that what he was </p><p>saying must sound both feeble and pretentious: </p><p>‘We believe that there is some kind of conspiracy, some </p><p>kind of secret organization working against the Party, and </p><p>that you are involved in it. We want to join it and work for it. </p><p>We are enemies of the Party. We disbelieve in the principles </p><p>of Ingsoc. We are thought-criminals. We are also adulter- </p><p>ers. I tell you this because we want to put ourselves at your </p><p>mercy. If you want us to incriminate ourselves in any other </p><p>way, we are ready.’ </p><p>He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, with the </p><p>feeling that the door had opened. Sure enough, the little yel- </p><p>low-faced servant had come in without knocking. Winston </p><p>saw that he was carrying a tray with a decanter and glasses. </p><p>‘Martin is one of us,’ said O’Brien impassively. ‘Bring </p><p>the drinks over here, Martin. Put them on the round table. </p><p>Have we enough chairs? Then we may as well sit down and </p><p>talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself, Martin. This is </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>215 </p><p>business. You can stop being a servant for the next ten min- </p><p>utes.’ </p><p>The little man sat down, quite at his ease, and yet still </p><p>with a servant-like air, the air of a valet enjoying a priv- </p><p>ilege. Winston regarded him out of the corner of his eye. </p><p>It struck him that the man’s whole life was playing a part, </p><p>and that he felt it to be dangerous to drop his assumed per- </p><p>sonality even for a moment. O’Brien took the decanter by </p><p>the neck and filled up the glasses with a dark-red liquid. It </p><p>aroused in Winston dim memories of something seen long </p><p>ago on a wall or a hoarding — a vast bottle composed of elec-</p><p>tric lights which seemed to move up and down and pour its </p><p>contents into a glass. Seen from the top the stuff looked al- </p><p>most black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby. It had </p><p>a sour-sweet smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff </p><p>at it with frank curiosity. </p><p>‘It is called wine,’ said O’Brien with a faint smile. ‘You </p><p>will have read about it in books, no doubt. Not much of it </p><p>gets to the Outer Party, I am afraid.’ His face grew solemn </p><p>again, and he raised his glass: ‘I think it is fitting that we </p><p>should begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To Em- </p><p>manuel Goldstein.’ </p><p>Winston took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine </p><p>was a thing he had read and dreamed about. Like the glass </p><p>paperweight or Mr Charrington’s half- remembered rhymes, </p><p>it belonged to the vanished, romantic past, the olden time </p><p>as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts. For some reason </p><p>he had always thought of wine as having an intensely sweet </p><p>taste, like that of blackberry jam and an immediate intoxi- </p><p>216 </p><p>1984 </p><p>eating effect. Actually, when he came to swallow it, the stuff </p><p>was distinctly disappointing. The truth was that after years </p><p>of gin-drinking he could barely taste it. He set down the </p><p>empty glass. </p><p>‘Then there is such a person as Goldstein?’ he said. </p><p>‘Yes, there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I do </p><p>not know.’ </p><p>‘And the conspiracy — the organization? Is it real? It is not </p><p>simply an invention of the Thought Police?’ </p><p>‘No, it is real. The Brotherhood, we call it. You will never </p><p>learn much more about the Brotherhood than that it exists </p><p>and that you belong to it. I will come back to that pres- </p><p>ently.’ He looked at his wrist-watch. ‘It is unwise even for </p><p>members of the Inner Party to turn off the telescreen for </p><p>more than half an hour. You ought not to have come here </p><p>together, and you will have to leave separately. You, com- </p><p>rade’ — he bowed his head to Julia — ’will leave first. We have </p><p>about twenty minutes at our disposal. You will understand </p><p>that I must start by asking you certain questions. In general </p><p>terms, what are you prepared to do?’ </p><p>‘Anything that we are capable of,’ said Winston. </p><p>O’Brien had turned himself a little in his chair so that he </p><p>was facing Winston. He almost ignored Julia, seeming to </p><p>take it for granted that Winston could speak for her. For a</p><p>moment the lids flitted down over his eyes. He began asking </p><p>his questions in a low, expressionless voice, as though this </p><p>were a routine, a sort of catechism, most of whose answers </p><p>were known to him already. </p><p>‘You are prepared to give your lives?’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>217 </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘You are prepared to commit murder?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘To commit acts of sabotage which may cause the death </p><p>of hundreds of innocent people?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘To betray your country to foreign powers?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to cor- </p><p>rupt the minds of children, to distribute habit-forming </p><p>drugs, to encourage prostitution, to disseminate venereal </p><p>diseases — to do anything which is likely to cause demoral- </p><p>ization and weaken the power of the Party?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to </p><p>throw sulphuric acid in a child’s face — are you prepared to </p><p>do that?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘You are prepared to lose your identity and live out the </p><p>rest of your life as a waiter or a dock-worker?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘You are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we or- </p><p>der you to do so?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘You are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never </p><p>see one another again?’ </p><p>‘No!’ broke in Julia. </p><p>It appeared to Winston that a long time passed before </p><p>he answered. For a moment he seemed even to have been </p><p>218 </p><p>1984 </p><p>deprived of the power of speech. His tongue worked sound- </p><p>lessly, forming the opening syllables first of one word, then </p><p>of the other, over and over again. Until he had said it, he </p><p>did not know which word he was going to say. ‘No,’ he said </p><p>finally. </p><p>‘You did well to tell me,’ said O’Brien. ‘It is necessary for </p><p>us to know everything.’ </p><p>He turned himself toward Julia and added in a voice </p><p>with somewhat more expression in it: </p><p>‘Do you understand that even if he survives, it may be </p><p>as a different person? We may be obliged to give him a new </p><p>identity. His face, his movements, the shape of his hands, </p><p>the colour of his hair — even his voice would be different. </p><p>And you yourself might have become a different person. </p><p>Our surgeons can alter people beyond recognition. Some- </p><p>times it is necessary. Sometimes we even amputate a limb.’ </p><p>Winston could not help snatching another sidelong </p><p>glance at Martin’s Mongolian face. There were no scars </p><p>that he could see. Julia had turned a shade paler, so that </p><p>her freckles were showing, but she faced O’Brien boldly. She </p><p>murmured something that seemed to be assent. </p><p>‘Good. Then that is settled.’ </p><p>There was a silver box of cigarettes on the table. With a </p><p>rather absent-minded air O’Brien pushed them towards the </p><p>others, took one himself, then stood up and began to pace </p><p>slowly to and fro, as though he could think better standing. </p><p>They were very good cigarettes, very thick and well-packed, </p><p>with an unfamiliar silkiness in the paper. O’Brien looked at </p><p>his wrist-watch again. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>219 </p><p>‘You had better go back to your Pantry, Martin,’ he said. </p><p>‘I shall switch on in a quarter of an hour. Take a good look </p><p>at these comrades’ faces before you go. You will be seeing </p><p>them again. I may not.’</p><p>Exactly as they had done at the front door, the little man’s </p><p>dark eyes flickered over their faces. There was not a trace </p><p>of friendliness in his manner. He was memorizing their </p><p>appearance, but he felt no interest in them, or appeared </p><p>to feel none. It occurred to Winston that a synthetic face </p><p>was perhaps incapable of changing its expression. Without </p><p>speaking or giving any kind of salutation, Martin went out, </p><p>closing the door silently behind him. O’Brien was strolling </p><p>up and down, one hand in the pocket of his black overalls, </p><p>the other holding his cigarette. </p><p>‘You understand,’ he said, ‘that you will be fighting in </p><p>the dark. You will always be in the dark. You will receive </p><p>orders and you will obey them, without knowing why. Later </p><p>I shall send you a book from which you will learn the true </p><p>nature of the society we live in, and the strategy by which </p><p>we shall destroy it. When you have read the book, you will </p><p>be full members of the Brotherhood. But between the gen- </p><p>eral aims that we are fighting for and the immedi ate tasks </p><p>of the moment, you will never know anything. I tell you </p><p>that the Brotherhood exists, but I cannot tell you wheth- </p><p>er it numbers a hundred members, or ten million. From </p><p>your personal knowledge you will never be able to say that </p><p>it numbers even as many as a dozen. You will have three </p><p>or four contacts, who will be renewed from time to time </p><p>as they disappear. As this was your first contact, it will be </p><p>220 </p><p>1984 </p><p>preserved. When you receive orders, they will come from </p><p>me. If we find it necessary to communicate with you, it will </p><p>be through Martin. When you are finally caught, you will </p><p>confess. That is unavoidable. But you will have very little </p><p>to confess, other than your own actions. You will not be </p><p>able to betray more than a handful of unimportant people. </p><p>Probably you will not even betray me. By that time I may be </p><p>dead, or I shall have become a different person, with a dif- </p><p>ferent face.’ </p><p>He continued to move to and fro over the soft carpet. In </p><p>spite of the bulkiness of his body there was a remarkable </p><p>grace in his movements. It came out even in the gesture </p><p>with which he thrust a hand into his pocket, or manipu- </p><p>lated a cigarette. More even than of strength, he gave an </p><p>impression of confidence and of an understanding tinged </p><p>by irony. However much in earnest he might be, he had </p><p>nothing of the single-mindedness that belongs to a fanatic. </p><p>When he spoke of murder, suicide, venereal disease, am- </p><p>putated limbs, and altered faces, it was with a faint air of </p><p>persiflage. ‘This is unavoidable,’ his voice seemed to say; </p><p>‘this is what we have got to do, unflinchingly. But this is </p><p>not what we shall be doing when life is worth living again.’</p><p>A wave of admiration, almost of worship, flowed out from </p><p>Winston towards O’Brien. For the moment he had forgot- </p><p>ten the shadowy figure of Goldstein. When you looked at </p><p>O’Brien’s powerful shoulders and his blunt-featured face, so </p><p>ugly and yet so civilized, it was impossible to believe that </p><p>he could be defeated. There was no stratagem that he was </p><p>not equal to, no danger that he could not foresee. Even Julia </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>221 </p><p>seemed to be impressed. She had let her cigarette go out and </p><p>was listening intently. O’Brien went on: </p><p>‘You will have heard rumours of the existence of the </p><p>Brotherhood. No doubt you have formed your own picture </p><p>of it. You have imagined, probably, a huge underworld of </p><p>conspirators, meeting secretly in cellars, scribbling mes- </p><p>sages on walls, recognizing one another by codewords or by </p><p>special movements of the hand. Nothing of the kind exists. </p><p>The members of the Brotherhood have no way of recogniz- </p><p>ing one another, and it is impossible for any one member to </p><p>be aware of the identity of more than a few others. Gold- </p><p>stein himself, if he fell into the hands of the Thought Police, </p><p>could not give them a complete list of members, or any in- </p><p>formation that would lead them to a complete list. No such </p><p>list exists. The Brotherhood cannot be wiped out because it </p><p>is not an organization in the ordinary sense. Nothing holds </p><p>it together except an idea which is indestructible. You will </p><p>never have anything to sustain you, except the idea. You </p><p>will get no comradeship and no encouragement. When fi- </p><p>nally you are caught, you will get no help. We never help </p><p>our members. At most, when it is absolutely necessary that </p><p>someone should be silenced, we are occasionally able to </p><p>smuggle a razor blade into a prisoner’s cell. You will have </p><p>to get used to living without results and without hope. You </p><p>will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, </p><p>and then you will die. Those are the only results that you </p><p>will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible </p><p>change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the </p><p>dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part </p><p>222 </p><p>1984 </p><p>in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far </p><p>away that future may be, there is no knowing. It might be </p><p>a thousand years. At present nothing is possible except to </p><p>extend the area of sanity little by little. We cannot act col-</p><p>lectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards from </p><p>individual to individual, generation after generation. In the </p><p>face of the Thought Police there is no other way.’ </p><p>He halted and looked for the third time at his wrist- </p><p>watch. </p><p>‘It is almost time for you to leave, comrade,’ he said to Ju- </p><p>lia. ‘Wait. The decanter is still half full.’ </p><p>He filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the </p><p>stem. </p><p>‘What shall it be this time?’ he said, still with the same </p><p>faint suggestion of irony. ‘To the confusion of the Thought </p><p>Police? To the death of Big Brother? To humanity? To the </p><p>future?’ </p><p>‘To the past,’ said Winston. </p><p>‘The past is more important,’ agreed O’Brien gravely. </p><p>They emptied their glasses, and a moment later Julia </p><p>stood up to go. O’Brien took a small box from the top of a </p><p>cabinet and handed her a flat white tablet which he told her </p><p>to place on her tongue. It was important, he said, not to go </p><p>out smelling of wine: the lift attendants were very obser- </p><p>vant. As soon as the door had shut behind her he appeared </p><p>to forget her existence. He took another pace or two up and </p><p>down, then stopped. </p><p>‘There are details to be settled,’ he said. ‘I assume that </p><p>you have a hiding-place of some kind?’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>223 </p><p>Winston explained about the room over Mr Char- </p><p>rington’s shop. </p><p>‘That will do for the moment. Later we will arrange </p><p>something else for you. It is important to change one’s hid- </p><p>ing-place frequently. Meanwhile I shall send you a copy of </p><p>THE BOOK’ — even O’Brien, Winston noticed, seemed to </p><p>pronounce the words as though they were in italics — ’Gold- </p><p>stein’s book, you understand, as soon as possible. It may </p><p>be some days before I can get hold of one. There are not </p><p>many in existence, as you can imagine. The Thought Police </p><p>hunt them down and destroy them almost as fast as we can </p><p>produce them. It makes very little difference. The book is </p><p>indestructible. If the last copy were gone, we could repro- </p><p>duce it almost word for word. Do you carry a brief-case to </p><p>work with you?’ he added. </p><p>‘As a rule, yes.’ </p><p>‘What is it like?’ </p><p>‘Black, very shabby. With two straps.’ </p><p>‘Black, two straps, very shabby — good. One day in the </p><p>fairly near future — I cannot give a date — one of the messag- </p><p>es among your morning’s work will contain a misprinted </p><p>word, and you will have to ask for a repeat. On the following </p><p>day you will go to work without your brief-case. At some </p><p>time during the day, in the street, a man will touch you on </p><p>the arm and say ‘I think you have dropped your brief-case.’ </p><p>The one he gives you will contain a copy of Goldstein’s book. </p><p>You will return it within fourteen days.’ </p><p>They were silent for a moment. </p><p>‘There are a couple of minutes before you need go,’ said </p><p>224 </p><p>1984 </p><p>O’Brien. ‘We shall meet again — if we do meet again ’ </p><p>Winston looked up at him. ‘In the place where there is no </p><p>darkness?’ he said hesitantly. </p><p>O’Brien nodded without appearance of surprise. ‘In the </p><p>place where there is no darkness,’ he said, as though he had </p><p>recognized the allusion. ‘And in the meantime, is there any- </p><p>thing that you wish to say before you leave? Any message? </p><p>Any question?.’ </p><p>Winston thought. There did not seem to be any further </p><p>question that he wanted to ask: still less did he feel any </p><p>impulse to utter high-sounding generalities. Instead of any- </p><p>thing directly connected with O’Brien or the Brotherhood, </p><p>there came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the </p><p>dark bedroom where his mother had spent her last days, </p><p>and the little room over Mr Charrington’s shop, and the </p><p>glass paperweight, and the steel engraving in its rosewood </p><p>frame. Almost at random he said: </p><p>‘Did you ever happen to hear an old rhyme that begins </p><p>‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s’?’ </p><p>Again O’Brien nodded. With a sort of grave courtesy he </p><p>completed the stanza: </p><p>’Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s, </p><p>You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s, </p><p>When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey, </p><p>When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.’ </p><p>‘You knew the last line!’ said Winston. </p><p>‘Yes, I knew the last line. And now, I am afraid, it is time </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>225 </p><p>for you to go. But wait. You had better let me give you one </p><p>of these tablets.’ </p><p>As Winston stood up O’Brien held out a hand. His pow- </p><p>erful grip crushed the bones of Winston’s palm. At the </p><p>door Winston looked back, but O’Brien seemed already to </p><p>be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting </p><p>with his hand on the switch that controlled the telescreen. </p><p>Beyond him Winston could see the writing-table with its </p><p>green-shaded lamp and the speakwrite and the wire baskets </p><p>deep-laden with papers. The incident was closed. Within </p><p>thirty seconds, it occurred to him, O’Brien would be back at </p><p>his interrupted and important work on behalf of the Party. </p><p>226 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter 9 </p><p>W inston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was </p><p>the right word. It had come into his head spontane- </p><p>ously. His body seemed to have not only the weakness of a </p><p>jelly, but its translucency. He felt that if he held up his hand </p><p>he would be able to see the light through it. All the blood </p><p>and lymph had been drained out of him by an enormous </p><p>debauch of work, leaving only a frail structure of nerves, </p><p>bones, and skin. All sensations seemed to be magnified. His </p><p>overalls fretted his shoulders, the pavement tickled his feet, </p><p>even the opening and closing of a hand was an effort that </p><p>made his joints creak. </p><p>He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So </p><p>had everyone else in the Ministry. Now it was all over, and </p><p>he had literally nothing to do, no Party work of any descrip- </p><p>tion, until tomorrow morning. He could spend six hours in </p><p>the hiding-place and another nine in his own bed. Slowly, in </p><p>mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a dingy street in the</p><p>direction of Mr Charrington’s shop, keeping one eye open </p><p>for the patrols, but irrationally convinced that this after- </p><p>noon there was no danger of anyone interfering with him. </p><p>The heavy brief-case that he was carrying bumped against </p><p>his knee at each step, sending a tingling sensation up and </p><p>down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book, which he </p><p>had now had in his possession for six days and had not yet </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>227 </p><p>opened, nor even looked at. </p><p>On the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the </p><p>speeches, the shouting, the singing, the banners, the posters, </p><p>the films, the waxworks, the rolling of drums and squeal- </p><p>ing of trumpets, the tramp of marching feet, the grinding </p><p>of the caterpillars of tanks, the roar of massed planes, the </p><p>booming of guns — after six days of this, when the great or- </p><p>gasm was quivering to its climax and the general hatred of </p><p>Eurasia had boiled up into such delirium that if the crowd </p><p>could have got their hands on the 2,000 Eurasian war-crim- </p><p>inals who were to be publicly hanged on the last day of the </p><p>proceedings, they would unquestionably have torn them </p><p>to pieces — at just this moment it had been announced that </p><p>Oceania was not after all at war with Eurasia. Oceania was </p><p>at war with Eastasia. Eurasia was an ally. </p><p>There was, of course, no admission that any change had </p><p>taken place. Merely it became known, with extreme sud- </p><p>denness and everywhere at once, that Eastasia and not </p><p>Eurasia was the enemy. Winston was taking part in a dem- </p><p>onstration in one of the central London squares at the </p><p>moment when it happened. It was night, and the white fac- </p><p>es and the scarlet banners were luridly floodlit. The square </p><p>was packed with several thousand people, including a block </p><p>of about a thousand schoolchildren in the uniform of the </p><p>Spies. On a scarlet- draped platform an orator of the Inner </p><p>Party, a small lean man with disproportionately long arms </p><p>and a large bald skull over which a few lank locks strag- </p><p>gled, was haranguing the crowd. A little Rumpelstiltskin </p><p>figure, contorted with hatred, he gripped the neck of the </p><p>228 </p><p>1984 </p><p>microphone with one hand while the other, enormous at </p><p>the end of a bony arm, clawed the air menacingly above his </p><p>head. His voice, made metallic by the amplifiers, boomed</p><p>forth an endless catalogue of atrocities, massacres, depor- </p><p>tations, lootings, rapings, torture of prisoners, bombing </p><p>of civilians, lying propaganda, unjust aggressions, broken </p><p>treaties. It was almost impossible to listen to him without </p><p>being first convinced and then maddened. At every few mo- </p><p>ments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the voice of the </p><p>speaker was drowned by a wild beast- like roaring that rose </p><p>uncontrollably from thousands of throats. The most sav- </p><p>age yells of all came from the schoolchildren. The speech </p><p>had been proceeding for perhaps twenty minutes when a </p><p>messenger hurried on to the platform and a scrap of paper </p><p>was slipped into the speaker’s hand. He unrolled and read it </p><p>without pausing in his speech. Nothing altered in his voice </p><p>or manner, or in the content of what he was saying, but sud- </p><p>denly the names were different. Without words said, a wave </p><p>of understanding rippled through the crowd. Oceania was </p><p>at war with Eastasia! The next moment there was a tremen- </p><p>dous commotion. The banners and posters with which the </p><p>square was decorated were all wrong! Quite half of them </p><p>had the wrong faces on them. It was sabotage! The agents of </p><p>Goldstein had been at work! There was a riotous interlude </p><p>while posters were ripped from the walls, banners torn to </p><p>shreds and trampled underfoot. The Spies performed prod- </p><p>igies of activity in clambering over the rooftops and cutting </p><p>the streamers that fluttered from the chimneys. But within </p><p>two or three minutes it was all over. The orator, still gripping </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>229 </p><p>the neck of the microphone, his shoulders hunched forward, </p><p>his free hand clawing at the air, had gone straight on with </p><p>his speech. One minute more, and the feral roars of rage </p><p>were again bursting from the crowd. The Hate continued </p><p>exactly as before, except that the target had been changed. </p><p>The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was </p><p>that the speaker had switched from one line to the other ac- </p><p>tually in midsentence, not only without a pause, but without </p><p>even breaking the syntax. But at the moment he had other </p><p>things to preoccupy him. It was during the moment of dis- </p><p>order while the posters were being torn down that a man </p><p>whose face he did not see had tapped him on the shoulder </p><p>and said, ‘Excuse me, I think you’ve dropped your brief- </p><p>case.’ He took the brief-case abstractedly, without speaking. </p><p>He knew that it would be days before he had an opportuni- </p><p>ty to look inside it. The instant that the demonstration was </p><p>over he went straight to the Ministry of Truth, though the </p><p>time was now nearly twenty-three hours. The entire staff </p><p>of the Ministry had done likewise. The orders already issu- </p><p>ing from the telescreen, recalling them to their posts, were </p><p>hardly necessary. </p><p>Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always</p><p>been at war with Eastasia. A large part of the political lit- </p><p>erature of five years was now completely obsolete. Reports </p><p>and records of all kinds, newspapers, books, pamphlets, </p><p>films, sound-tracks, photographs — all had to be rectified </p><p>at lightning speed. Although no directive was ever issued, </p><p>it was known that the chiefs of the Department intended </p><p>that within one week no reference to the war with Eurasia, </p><p>23O </p><p>1984 </p><p>or the alliance with Eastasia, should remain in existence </p><p>anywhere. The work was overwhelming, all the more so </p><p>because the processes that it involved could not be called </p><p>by their true names. Everyone in the Records Department </p><p>worked eighteen hours in the twenty-four, with two three- </p><p>hour snatches of sleep. Mattresses were brought up from </p><p>the cellars and pitched all over the corridors: meals con- </p><p>sisted of sandwiches and Victory Coffee wheeled round </p><p>on trolleys by attendants from the canteen. Each time that </p><p>Winston broke off for one of his spells of sleep he tried to </p><p>leave his desk clear of work, and each time that he crawled </p><p>back sticky-eyed and aching, it was to find that another </p><p>shower of paper cylinders had covered the desk like a snow- </p><p>drift, halfburying the speakwrite and overflowing on to the </p><p>floor, so that the first job was always to stack them into a </p><p>neat enough pile to give him room to work. What was worst </p><p>of all was that the work was by no means purely mechanical. </p><p>Often it was enough merely to substitute one name for an- </p><p>other, but any detailed report of events demanded care and </p><p>imagination. Even the geographical knowledge that one </p><p>needed in transferring the war from one part of the world </p><p>to another was considerable. </p><p>By the third day his eyes ached unbearably and his </p><p>spectacles needed wiping every few minutes. It was like </p><p>struggling with some crushing physical task, something </p><p>which one had the right to refuse and which one was never- </p><p>theless neurotically anxious to accomplish. In so far as he </p><p>had time to remember it, he was not troubled by the fact that </p><p>every word he murmured into the speakwrite, every stroke </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>231 </p><p>of his ink-pencil, was a deliberate lie. He was as anxious as </p><p>anyone else in the Department that the forgery should be </p><p>perfect. On the morning of the sixth day the dribble of cyl- </p><p>inders slowed down. For as much as half an hour nothing</p><p>came out of the tube; then one more cylinder, then nothing. </p><p>Everywhere at about the same time the work was easing off. </p><p>A deep and as it were secret sigh went through the Depart- </p><p>ment. A mighty deed, which could never be mentioned, had </p><p>been achieved. It was now impossible for any human being </p><p>to prove by documentary evidence that the war with Eurasia </p><p>had ever happened. At twelve hundred it was unexpectedly </p><p>announced that all workers in the Ministry were free till </p><p>tomorrow morning. Winston, still carrying the brief-case </p><p>containing the book, which had remained between his feet </p><p>while he worked and under his body while he slept, went </p><p>home, shaved himself, and almost fell asleep in his bath, al- </p><p>though the water was barely more than tepid. </p><p>With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he </p><p>climbed the stair above Mr Charrington’s shop. He was </p><p>tired, but not sleepy any longer. He opened the window, lit </p><p>the dirty little oilstove and put on a pan of water for coffee. </p><p>Julia would arrive presently: meanwhile there was the book. </p><p>He sat down in the sluttish armchair and undid the straps </p><p>of the brief-case. </p><p>A heavy black volume, amateurishly bound, with no </p><p>name or title on the cover. The print also looked slightly </p><p>irregular. The pages were worn at the edges, and fell apart, </p><p>easily, as though the book had passed through many hands. </p><p>The inscription on the title-page ran: </p><p>232 </p><p>1984 </p><p>THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF </p><p>OLIGARCHICAL COLLECTIVISM </p><p>by </p><p>Emmanuel Goldstein </p><p>Winston began reading: </p><p>Chapter I </p><p>Ignorance is Strength </p><p>Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end </p><p>of the Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people </p><p>in the world, the High, the Middle, and the Low. They have </p><p>been subdivided in many ways, they have borne count- </p><p>less different names, and their relative numbers, as well as </p><p>their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to </p><p>age: but the essential structure of society has never altered. </p><p>Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable </p><p>changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just </p><p>as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium, however </p><p>far it is pushed one way or the other. </p><p>The aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable... </p><p>Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate </p><p>the fact that he was reading, in comfort and safety. He was </p><p>alone: no telescreen, no ear at the keyhole, no nervous im- </p><p>pulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the page with his </p><p>hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From </p><p>somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of chil- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>233 </p><p>dren: in the room itself there was no sound except the insect </p><p>voice of the clock. He settled deeper into the arm-chair and </p><p>put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss, it was eternity. </p><p>Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one </p><p>knows that one will ultimately read and re-read every word, </p><p>he opened it at a different place and found himself at Chap- </p><p>ter III. He went on reading: </p><p>Chapter III </p><p>War is Peace </p><p>The splitting up of the world into three great super-states </p><p>was an event which could be and indeed was foreseen </p><p>before the middle of the twentieth century. With the ab- </p><p>sorption of Europe by Russia and of the British Empire by </p><p>the United States, two of the three existing powers, Eurasia </p><p>and Oceania, were already effectively in being. The third, </p><p>Eastasia, only emerged as a distinct unit after another de- </p><p>cade of confused fighting. The frontiers between the three </p><p>super-states are in some places arbitrary, and in others they </p><p>fluctuate according to the fortunes of war, but in general </p><p>they follow geographical lines. Eurasia comprises the whole </p><p>of the northern part of the European and Asiatic land-mass, </p><p>from Portugal to the Bering Strait. Oceania comprises the </p><p>Americas, the Atlantic islands including the British Isles, </p><p>Australasia, and the southern portion of Africa. Eastasia, </p><p>smaller than the others and with a less definite western </p><p>frontier, comprises China and the countries to the south of </p><p>234 </p><p>1984 </p><p>it, the Japanese islands and a large but fluctuating portion </p><p>of Manchuria, Mongolia, and Tibet. </p><p>In one combination or another, these three super-states </p><p>are permanently at war, and have been so for the past twen-</p><p>ty-five years. War, however, is no longer the desperate, </p><p>annihilating struggle that it was in the early decades of the </p><p>twentieth century. It is a warfare of limited aims between </p><p>combatants who are unable to destroy one another, have no </p><p>material cause for fighting and are not divided by any genu- </p><p>ine ideological difference This is not to say that either the </p><p>conduct of war, or the prevailing attitude towards it, has be- </p><p>come less bloodthirsty or more chivalrous. On the contrary, </p><p>war hysteria is continuous and universal in all countries, </p><p>and such acts as raping, looting, the slaughter of children, </p><p>the reduction of whole populations to slavery, and reprisals </p><p>against prisoners which extend even to boiling and burying </p><p>alive, are looked upon as normal, and, when they are com- </p><p>mitted by one’s own side and not by the enemy, meritorious. </p><p>But in a physical sense war involves very small numbers of </p><p>people, mostly highly-trained specialists, and causes com- </p><p>paratively few casualties. The fighting, when there is any, </p><p>takes place on the vague frontiers whose whereabouts the </p><p>average man can only guess at, or round the Floating For- </p><p>tresses which guard strategic spots on the sea lanes. In the </p><p>centres of civilization war means no more than a contin- </p><p>uous shortage of consumption goods, and the occasional </p><p>crash of a rocket bomb which may cause a few scores of </p><p>deaths. War has in fact changed its character. More exactly, </p><p>the reasons for which war is waged have changed in their </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>235 </p><p>order of importance. Motives which were already present </p><p>to some small extent in the great wars of the early twentieth </p><p>centuury have now become dominant and are consciously </p><p>recognized and acted upon. </p><p>To understand the nature of the present war — for in spite </p><p>of the regrouping which occurs every few years, it is al- </p><p>ways the same war — one must realize in the first place that </p><p>it is impossible for it to be decisive. None of the three su- </p><p>per-states could be definitively conquered even by the other </p><p>two in combination. They are too evenly matched, and their </p><p>natural defences are too formidable. Eurasia is protected by </p><p>its vast land spaces, Oceania by the width of the Atlantic </p><p>and the Pacific, Eastasia by the fecundity and indus tri- </p><p>ousness of its inhabitants. Secondly, there is no longer, in </p><p>a material sense, anything to fight about. With the estab- </p><p>lishment of self-contained economies, in which production </p><p>and consumption are geared to one another, the scramble </p><p>for markets which was a main cause of previous wars has </p><p>come to an end, while the competition for raw materials is </p><p>no longer a matter of life and death. In any case each of the </p><p>three super-states is so vast that it can obtain almost all the </p><p>materials that it needs within its own boundaries. In so far </p><p>as the war has a direct economic purpose, it is a war for la- </p><p>bour power. Between the frontiers of the super-states, and</p><p>not permanently in the possession of any of them, there lies </p><p>a rough quadrilateral with its corners at Tangier, Brazza- </p><p>ville, Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing within it about </p><p>a fifth of the population of the earth. It is for the posses- </p><p>sion of these thickly-populated regions, and of the northern </p><p>236 </p><p>1984 </p><p>ice-cap, that the three powers are constantly struggling. In </p><p>practice no one power ever controls the whole of the disput- </p><p>ed area. Portions of it are constantly changing hands, and </p><p>it is the chance of seizing this or that fragment by a sud- </p><p>den stroke of treachery that dictates the endless changes of </p><p>alignment. </p><p>All of the disputed territories contain valuable minerals, </p><p>and some of them yield important vegetable products such </p><p>as rubber which in colder climates it is necessary to syn- </p><p>thesize by comparatively expensive methods. But above all </p><p>they contain a bottomless reserve of cheap labour. Which- </p><p>ever power controls equatorial Africa, or the countries </p><p>of the Middle East, or Southern India, or the Indonesian </p><p>Archipelago, disposes also of the bodies of scores or hun- </p><p>dreds of millions of ill-paid and hard-working coolies. The </p><p>inhabitants of these areas, reduced more or less openly to </p><p>the status of slaves, pass continually from conqueror to con- </p><p>queror, and are expended like so much coal or oil in the </p><p>race to turn out more armaments, to capture more territory, </p><p>to control more labour power, to turn out more armaments, </p><p>to capture more territory, and so on indefinitely. It should </p><p>be noted that the fighting never really moves beyond the </p><p>edges of the disputed areas. The frontiers of Eurasia flow </p><p>back and forth between the basin of the Congo and the </p><p>northern shore of the Mediterranean; the islands of the In- </p><p>dian Ocean and the Pacific are constantly being captured </p><p>and recaptured by Oceania or by Eastasia; in Mongolia the </p><p>dividing line between Eurasia and Eastasia is never stable; </p><p>round the Pole all three powers lay claim to enormous terri- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>237 </p><p>tories which in fact are largely unihabited and unexplored: </p><p>but the balance of power always remains roughly even, and </p><p>the territory which forms the heartland of each super-state </p><p>always remains inviolate. Moreover, the labour of the ex- </p><p>ploited peoples round the Equator is not really necessary to </p><p>the world’s economy. They add nothing to the wealth of the</p><p>world, since whatever they produce is used for purposes of </p><p>war, and the object of waging a war is always to be in a bet- </p><p>ter position in which to wage another war. By their labour </p><p>the slave populations allow the tempo of continuous war- </p><p>fare to be speeded up. But if they did not exist, the structure </p><p>of world society, and the process by which it maintains it- </p><p>self, would not be essentially different. </p><p>The primary aim of modern warfare (in accordance </p><p>with the principles of DOUBLETHINK, this aim is simul- </p><p>taneously recognized and not recognized by the directing </p><p>brains of the Inner Party) is to use up the products of the </p><p>machine without raising the general standard of living. </p><p>Ever since the end of the nineteenth century, the problem of </p><p>what to do with the surplus of consumption goods has been </p><p>latent in industrial society. At present, when few human be- </p><p>ings even have enough to eat, this problem is obviously not </p><p>urgent, and it might not have become so, even if no artifi- </p><p>cial processes of destruction had been at work. The world </p><p>of today is a bare, hungry, dilapidated place compared with </p><p>the world that existed before 1914, and still more so if com- </p><p>pared with the imaginary future to which the people of that </p><p>period looked forward. In the early twentieth century, the </p><p>vision of a future society unbelievably rich, leisured, orderly, </p><p>238 </p><p>1984 </p><p>and efficient — a glittering antiseptic world of glass and steel </p><p>and snow-white concrete — was part of the consciousness of </p><p>nearly every literate person. Science and technology were </p><p>developing at a prodigious speed, and it seemed natural to </p><p>assume that they would go on developing. This failed to </p><p>happen, partly because of the impoverishment caused by a </p><p>long series of wars and revolutions, partly because scientific </p><p>and technical progress depended on the empirical habit of </p><p>thought, which could not survive in a strictly regimented </p><p>society. As a whole the world is more primitive today than it </p><p>was fifty years ago. Certain backward areas have advanced, </p><p>and various devices, always in some way connected with </p><p>warfare and police espionage, have been developed, but </p><p>experiment and invention have largely stopped, and the </p><p>ravages of the atomic war of the nineteen-fifties have nev- </p><p>er been fully repaired. Nevertheless the dangers inherent </p><p>in the machine are still there. From the moment when the </p><p>machine first made its appearance it was clear to all think- </p><p>ing people that the need for human drudgery, and therefore </p><p>to a great extent for human inequality, had disappeared. If </p><p>the machine were used deliberately for that end, hunger, </p><p>overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and disease could be eliminated </p><p>within a few generations. And in fact, without being used </p><p>for any such purpose, but by a sort of automatic process — </p><p>by producing wealth which it was sometimes impossible not </p><p>to distribute — the machine did raise the living standards</p><p>of the average humand being very greatly over a period of </p><p>about fifty years at the end of the nineteenth and the begin- </p><p>ning of the twentieth centuries. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>239 </p><p>But it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth </p><p>threatened the destruction — indeed, in some sense was the </p><p>destruction — of a hierarchical society. In a world in which </p><p>everyone worked short hours, had enough to eat, lived in a </p><p>house with a bathroom and a refrigerator, and possessed a </p><p>motor-car or even an aeroplane, the most obvious and per- </p><p>haps the most important form of inequality would already </p><p>have disappeared. If it once became general, wealth would </p><p>confer no distinction. It was possible, no doubt, to imagine </p><p>a society in which WEALTH, in the sense of personal pos- </p><p>sessions and luxuries, should be evenly distributed, while </p><p>POWER remained in the hands of a small privileged caste. </p><p>But in practice such a society could not long remain sta- </p><p>ble. For if leisure and security were enjoyed by all alike, the </p><p>great mass of human beings who are normally stupefied by </p><p>poverty would become literate and would learn to think for </p><p>themselves; and when once they had done this, they would </p><p>sooner or later realize that the privileged minority had no </p><p>function, and they would sweep it away. In the long run, </p><p>a hierarchical society was only possible on a basis of pov- </p><p>erty and ignorance. To return to the agricultural past, as </p><p>some thinkers about the beginning of the twentieth cen- </p><p>tury dreamed of doing, was not a practicable solution. It </p><p>conflicted with the tendency towards mechanization which </p><p>had become quasi-instinctive throughout almost the whole </p><p>world, and moreover, any country which remained indus- </p><p>trially backward was helpless in a military sense and was </p><p>bound to be dominated, directly or indirectly, by its more </p><p>advanced rivals. </p><p>240 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Nor was it a satisfactory solution to keep the masses in </p><p>poverty by restricting the output of goods. This happened </p><p>to a great extent during the final phase of capitalism, rough- </p><p>ly between 1920 and 1940. The economy of many countries </p><p>was allowed to stagnate, land went out of cultivation, capital </p><p>equipment was not added to, great blocks of the popula- </p><p>tion were prevented from working and kept half alive by </p><p>State charity. But this, too, entailed military weakness, and </p><p>since the privations it inflicted were obviously unneces-</p><p>sary, it made opposition inevitable. The problem was how </p><p>to keep the wheels of industry turning without increasing </p><p>the real wealth of the world. Goods must be produced, but </p><p>they must not be distributed. And in practice the only way </p><p>of achieving this was by continuous warfare. </p><p>The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of </p><p>human lives, but of the products of human labour. War is a </p><p>way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, </p><p>or sinking in the depths of the sea, materials which might </p><p>otherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, and </p><p>hence, in the long run, too intelligent. Even when weapons </p><p>of war are not actually destroyed, their manufacture is still </p><p>a convenient way of expending labour power without pro- </p><p>ducing anything that can be consumed. A Floating Fortress, </p><p>for example, has locked up in it the labour that would build </p><p>several hundred cargo-ships. Ultimately it is scrapped as </p><p>obsolete, never having brought any material benefit to any- </p><p>body, and with further enormous labours another Floating </p><p>Fortress is built. In principle the war effort is always so </p><p>planned as to eat up any surplus that might exist after meet- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>241 </p><p>ing the bare needs of the population. In practice the needs </p><p>of the population are always underestimated, with the re- </p><p>sult that there is a chronic shortage of half the necessities </p><p>of life; but this is looked on as an advantage. It is deliberate </p><p>policy to keep even the favoured groups somewhere near </p><p>the brink of hardship, because a general state of scarcity </p><p>increases the importance of small privileges and thus mag- </p><p>nifies the distinction between one group and another. By </p><p>the standards of the early twentieth century, even a mem- </p><p>ber of the Inner Party lives an austere, laborious kind of life. </p><p>Nevertheless, the few luxuries that he does enjoy his large, </p><p>well-appointed flat, the better texture of his clothes, the bet- </p><p>ter quality of his food and drink and tobacco, his two or </p><p>three servants, his private motor-car or helicopter — set him </p><p>in a different world from a member of the Outer Party, and </p><p>the members of the Outer Party have a similar advantage </p><p>in comparison with the submerged masses whom we call </p><p>‘the proles’. The social atmosphere is that of a besieged city, </p><p>where the possession of a lump of horseflesh makes the dif- </p><p>ference between wealth and poverty. And at the same time </p><p>the consciousness of being at war, and therefore in danger, </p><p>makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste seem </p><p>the natural, unavoidable condition of survival. </p><p>War, it will be seen, accomplishes the necessary destruc- </p><p>tion, but accomplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way. </p><p>In principle it would be quite simple to waste the surplus </p><p>labour of the world by building temples and pyramids, by </p><p>digging holes and filling them up again, or even by produc-</p><p>ing vast quantities of goods and then setting fire to them. </p><p>242 </p><p>1984 </p><p>But this would provide only the economic and not the emo- </p><p>tional basis for a hierarchical society. What is concerned </p><p>here is not the morale of masses, whose attitude is unim- </p><p>portant so long as they are kept steadily at work, but the </p><p>morale of the Party itself. Even the humblest Party member </p><p>is expected to be competent, industrious, and even intel- </p><p>ligent within narrow limits, but it is also necessary that he </p><p>should be a credulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing </p><p>moods are fear, hatred, adulation, and orgiastic triumph. In </p><p>other words it is necessary that he should have the mental- </p><p>ity appropriate to a state of war. It does not matter whether </p><p>the war is actually happening, and, since no decisive victory </p><p>is possible, it does not matter whether the war is going well </p><p>or badly. All that is needed is that a state of war should ex- </p><p>ist. The splitting of the intelligence which the Party requires </p><p>of its members, and which is more easily achieved in an at- </p><p>mosphere of war, is now almost universal, but the higher </p><p>up the ranks one goes, the more marked it becomes. It is </p><p>precisely in the Inner Party that war hysteria and hatred of </p><p>the enemy are strongest. In his capacity as an administra- </p><p>tor, it is often necessary for a member of the Inner Party to </p><p>know that this or that item of war news is untruthful, and </p><p>he may often be aware that the entire war is spurious and is </p><p>either not happening or is being waged for purposes quite </p><p>other than the declared ones: but such knowledge is easily </p><p>neutralized by the technique of DOUBLETHINK. Mean- </p><p>while no Inner Party member wavers for an instant in his </p><p>mystical belief that the war is real, and that it is bound to </p><p>end victoriously, with Oceania the undisputed master of </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>243 </p><p>the entire world. </p><p>All members of the Inner Party believe in this coming </p><p>conquest as an article of faith. It is to be achieved either by </p><p>gradually acquiring more and more territory and so build- </p><p>ing up an overwhelming preponderance of power, or by </p><p>the discovery of some new and unanswerable weapon. The </p><p>search for new weapons continues unceasingly, and is one </p><p>of the very few remaining activities in which the inventive </p><p>or speculative type of mind can find any outlet. In Ocea- </p><p>nia at the present day, Science, in the old sense, has almost</p><p>ceased to exist. In Newspeak there is no word for ‘Science’. </p><p>The empirical method of thought, on which all the scien- </p><p>tific achievements of the past were founded, is opposed to </p><p>the most fundamental principles of Ingsoc. And even tech- </p><p>nological progress only happens when its products can in </p><p>some way be used for the diminution of human liberty. In </p><p>all the useful arts the world is either standing still or go- </p><p>ing backwards. The fields are cultivated with horse-ploughs </p><p>while books are written by machinery. But in matters of </p><p>vital importance — meaning, in effect, war and police espio- </p><p>nage — the empirical approach is still encouraged, or at least </p><p>tolerated. The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole </p><p>surface of the earth and to extinguish once and for all the </p><p>possibility of independent thought. There are therefore two </p><p>great problems which the Party is concerned to solve. One </p><p>is how to discover, against his will, what another human be- </p><p>ing is thinking, and the other is how to kill several hundred </p><p>million people in a few seconds without giving warning be- </p><p>forehand. In so far as scientific research still continues, this </p><p>244 </p><p>1984 </p><p>is its subject matter. The scientist of today is either a mixture </p><p>of psychologist and inquisitor, studying with real ordinary </p><p>minuteness the meaning of facial expressions, gestures, and </p><p>tones of voice, and testing the truth-producing effects of </p><p>drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis, and physical torture; or he </p><p>is chemist, physicist, or biologist concerned only with such </p><p>branches of his special subject as are relevant to the taking </p><p>of life. In the vast laboratories of the Ministry of Peace, and </p><p>in the experimental stations hidden in the Brazilian forests, </p><p>or in the Australian desert, or on lost islands of the Ant- </p><p>arctic, the teams of experts are indefatigably at work. Some </p><p>are concerned simply with planning the logistics of future </p><p>wars; others devise larger and larger rocket bombs, more </p><p>and more powerful explosives, and more and more impen- </p><p>etrable armour-plating; others search for new and deadlier </p><p>gases, or for soluble poisons capable of being produced in </p><p>such quantities as to destroy the vegetation of whole con- </p><p>tinents, or for breeds of disease germs immunized against </p><p>all possible antibodies; others strive to produce a vehicle </p><p>that shall bore its way under the soil like a submarine un- </p><p>der the water, or an aeroplane as independent of its base </p><p>as a sailing-ship; others explore even remoter possibilities </p><p>such as focusing the sun’s rays through lenses suspended </p><p>thousands of kilometres away in space, or producing artifi- </p><p>cial earthquakes and tidal waves by tapping the heat at the </p><p>earth’s centre. </p><p>But none of these projects ever comes anywhere near re- </p><p>alization, and none of the three super-states ever gains a </p><p>significant lead on the others. What is more remarkable is </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>245 </p><p>that all three powers already possess, in the atomic bomb, </p><p>a weapon far more powerful than any that their present </p><p>researches are likely to discover. Although the Party, ac- </p><p>cording to its habit, claims the invention for itself, atomic </p><p>bombs first appeared as early as the nineteen-forties, and </p><p>were first used on a large scale about ten years later. At that </p><p>time some hundreds of bombs were dropped on indus- </p><p>trial centres, chiefly in European Russia, Western Europe, </p><p>and North America. The effect was to convince the ruling </p><p>groups of all countries that a few more atomic bombs would </p><p>mean the end of organized society, and hence of their own </p><p>power. Thereafter, although no formal agreement was ever </p><p>made or hinted at, no more bombs were dropped. All three </p><p>powers merely continue to produce atomic bombs and store </p><p>them up against the decisive opportunity which they all </p><p>believe will come sooner or later. And meanwhile the art </p><p>of war has remained almost stationary for thirty or forty </p><p>years. Helicopters are more used than they were formerly, </p><p>bombing planes have been largely superseded by self-pro- </p><p>pelled projectiles, and the fragile movable battleship has </p><p>given way to the almost unsinkable Floating Fortress; but </p><p>otherwise there has been little development. The tank, the </p><p>submarine, the torpedo, the machine gun, even the rifle and </p><p>the hand grenade are still in use. And in spite of the end- </p><p>less slaughters reported in the Press and on the telescreens, </p><p>the desperate battles of earlier wars, in which hundreds of </p><p>thousands or even millions of men were often killed in a </p><p>few weeks, have never been repeated. </p><p>None of the three super-states ever attempts any ma- </p><p>246 </p><p>1984 </p><p>noeuvre which involves the risk of serious defeat. When </p><p>any large operation is undertaken, it is usually a surprise </p><p>attack against an ally. The strategy that all three powers are </p><p>following, or pretend to themselves that they are following, </p><p>is the same. The plan is, by a combination of fighting, bar- </p><p>gaining, and well-timed strokes of treachery, to acquire a </p><p>ring of bases completely encircling one or other of the ri- </p><p>val states, and then to sign a pact of friendship with that </p><p>rival and remain on peaceful terms for so many years as to </p><p>lull suspicion to sleep. During this time rockets loaded with </p><p>atomic bombs can be assembled at all the strategic spots; </p><p>finally they will all be fired simultaneously, with effects so</p><p>devastating as to make retaliation impossible. It will then be </p><p>time to sign a pact of friendship with the remaining world- </p><p>power, in preparation for another attack. This scheme, it is </p><p>hardly necessary to say, is a mere daydream, impossible of </p><p>realization. Moreover, no fighting ever occurs except in the </p><p>disputed areas round the Equator and the Pole: no invasion </p><p>of enemy territory is ever undertaken. This explains the fact </p><p>that in some places the frontiers between the superstates </p><p>are arbitrary. Eurasia, for example, could easily conquer the </p><p>British Isles, which are geographically part of Europe, or on </p><p>the other hand it would be possible for Oceania to push its </p><p>frontiers to the Rhine or even to the Vistula. But this would </p><p>violate the principle, followed on all sides though never </p><p>formulated, of cultural integrity. If Oceania were to con- </p><p>quer the areas that used once to be known as France and </p><p>Germany, it would be necessary either to exterminate the </p><p>inhabitants, a task of great physical difficulty, or to assimi- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>247 </p><p>late a population of about a hundred million people, who, </p><p>so far as technical development goes, are roughly on the </p><p>Oceanic level. The problem is the same for all three super- </p><p>states. It is absolutely necessary to their structure that there </p><p>should be no contact with foreigners, except, to a limited </p><p>extent, with war prisoners and coloured slaves. Even the of- </p><p>ficial ally of the moment is always regarded with the darkest </p><p>suspicion. War prisoners apart, the average citizen of Ocea- </p><p>nia never sets eyes on a citizen of either Eurasia or Eastasia, </p><p>and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If </p><p>he were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover </p><p>that they are creatures similar to himself and that most of </p><p>what he has been told about them is lies. The sealed world </p><p>in which he lives would be broken, and the fear, hatred, </p><p>and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might </p><p>evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides that however </p><p>often Persia, or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon may change hands, </p><p>the main frontiers must never be crossed by anything ex- </p><p>cept bombs. </p><p>Under this lies a fact never mentioned aloud, but tacitly </p><p>understood and acted upon: namely, that the conditions of </p><p>life in all three super-states are very much the same. In Oce- </p><p>ania the prevailing philosophy is called Ingsoc, in Eurasia </p><p>it is called Neo-Bolshevism, and in Eastasia it is called by </p><p>a Chinese name usually translated as Death-Worship, but </p><p>perhaps better rendered as Obliteration of the Self. The citi- </p><p>zen of Oceania is not allowed to know anything of the tenets </p><p>of the other two philosophies, but he is taught to execrate </p><p>them as barbarous outrages upon morality and common </p><p>248</p><p>1984 </p><p>sense. Actually the three philosophies are barely distin- </p><p>guishable, and the social systems which they support are </p><p>not distinguishable at all. Everywhere there is the same py- </p><p>ramidal structure, the same worship of semi-divine leader, </p><p>the same economy existing by and for continuous warfare. </p><p>It follows that the three super-states not only cannot con- </p><p>quer one another, but would gain no advantage by doing </p><p>so. On the contrary, so long as they remain in conflict they </p><p>prop one another up, like three sheaves of corn. And, as </p><p>usual, the ruling groups of all three powers are simultane- </p><p>ously aware and unaware of what they are doing. Their lives </p><p>are dedicated to world conquest, but they also know that it </p><p>is necessary that the war should continue everlastingly and </p><p>without victory. Meanwhile the fact that there IS no danger </p><p>of conquest makes possible the denial of reality which is the </p><p>special feature of Ingsoc and its rival systems of thought. </p><p>Here it is necessary to repeat what has been said earlier, that </p><p>by becoming continuous war has fundamentally changed </p><p>its character. </p><p>In past ages, a war, almost by definition, was something </p><p>that sooner or later came to an end, usually in unmistak- </p><p>able victory or defeat. In the past, also, war was one of the </p><p>main instruments by which human societies were kept in </p><p>touch with physical reality. All rulers in all ages have tried </p><p>to impose a false view of the world upon their followers, but </p><p>they could not afford to encourage any illusion that tended </p><p>to impair military efficiency. So long as defeat meant the </p><p>loss of independence, or some other result generally held </p><p>to be undesirable, the precautions against defeat had to be </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>249 </p><p>serious. Physical facts could not be ignored. In philosophy, </p><p>or religion, or ethics, or politics, two and two might make </p><p>five, but when one was designing a gun or an aeroplane they </p><p>had to make four. Inefficient nations were always conquered </p><p>sooner or later, and the struggle for efficiency was inimi- </p><p>cal to illusions. Moreover, to be efficient it was necessary to </p><p>be able to learn from the past, which meant having a fairly </p><p>accurate idea of what had happened in the past. Newspa- </p><p>pers and history books were, of course, always coloured and </p><p>biased, but falsification of the kind that is practised today </p><p>would have been impossible. War was a sure safeguard of </p><p>sanity, and so far as the ruling classes were concerned it was </p><p>probably the most important of all safeguards. While wars </p><p>could be won or lost, no ruling class could be completely ir-</p><p>responsible. </p><p>But when war becomes literally continuous, it also ceases </p><p>to be dangerous. When war is continuous there is no such </p><p>thing as military necessity. Technical progress can cease </p><p>and the most palpable facts can be denied or disregarded. </p><p>As we have seen, researches that could be called scientific </p><p>are still carried out for the purposes of war, but they are es- </p><p>sentially a kind of daydreaming, and their failure to show </p><p>results is not important. Efficiency, even military efficiency, </p><p>is no longer needed. Nothing is efficient in Oceania except </p><p>the Thought Police. Since each of the three super-states is </p><p>unconquerable, each is in effect a separate universe within </p><p>which almost any perversion of thought can be safely prac- </p><p>tised. Reality only exerts its pressure through the needs of </p><p>everyday life — the need to eat and drink, to get shelter and </p><p>25O </p><p>1984 </p><p>clothing, to avoid swallowing poison or stepping out of top- </p><p>storey windows, and the like. Between life and death, and </p><p>between physical pleasure and physical pain, there is still </p><p>a distinction, but that is all. Cut off from contact with the </p><p>outer world, and with the past, the citizen of Oceania is </p><p>like a man in interstellar space, who has no way of know- </p><p>ing which direction is up and which is down. The rulers of </p><p>such a state are absolute, as the Pharaohs or the Caesars </p><p>could not be. They are obliged to prevent their followers </p><p>from starving to death in numbers large enough to be in- </p><p>convenient, and they are obliged to remain at the same </p><p>low level of military technique as their rivals; but once that </p><p>minimum is achieved, they can twist reality into whatever </p><p>shape they choose. </p><p>The war, therefore, if we judge it by the standards of pre- </p><p>vious wars, is merely an imposture. It is like the battles </p><p>between certain ruminant animals whose horns are set at </p><p>such an angle that they are incapable of hurting one anoth- </p><p>er. But though it is unreal it is not meaningless. It eats up </p><p>the surplus of consumable goods, and it helps to preserve </p><p>the special mental atmosphere that a hierarchical society </p><p>needs. War, it will be seen, is now a purely internal affair. </p><p>In the past, the ruling groups of all countries, although </p><p>they might recognize their common interest and therefore </p><p>limit the destructiveness of war, did fight against one an- </p><p>other, and the victor always plundered the vanquished. In </p><p>our own day they are not fighting against one another at </p><p>all. The war is waged by each ruling group against its own </p><p>subjects, and the object of the war is not to make or prevent </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>251 </p><p>conquests of territory, but to keep the structure of society </p><p>intact. The very word ‘war’, therefore, has become mislead- </p><p>ing. It would probably be accurate to say that by becoming </p><p>continuous war has ceased to exist. The peculiar pressure </p><p>that it exerted on human beings between the Neolithic Age </p><p>and the early twentieth century has disappeared and been </p><p>replaced by something quite different. The effect would be </p><p>much the same if the three super-states, instead of fighting </p><p>one another, should agree to live in perpetual peace, each </p><p>inviolate within its own boundaries. For in that case each </p><p>would still be a self-contained universe, freed for ever from </p><p>the sobering influence of external danger. A peace that was </p><p>truly permanent would be the same as a permanent war. </p><p>This — although the vast majority of Party members under- </p><p>stand it only in a shallower sense — is the inner meaning of </p><p>the Party slogan: WAR IS PEACE. </p><p>Winston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in </p><p>remote distance a rocket bomb thundered. The blissful feel- </p><p>ing of being alone with the forbidden book, in a room with </p><p>no telescreen, had not worn off. Solitude and safety were </p><p>physical sensations, mixed up somehow with the tiredness </p><p>of his body, the softness of the chair, the touch of the faint </p><p>breeze from the window that played upon his cheek. The </p><p>book fascinated him, or more exactly it reassured him. In </p><p>a sense it told him nothing that was new, but that was part </p><p>of the attraction. It said what he would have said, if it had </p><p>been possible for him to set his scattered thoughts in or- </p><p>der. It was the product of a mind similar to his own, but </p><p>enormously more powerful, more systematic, less fear-rid- </p><p>252 </p><p>1984 </p><p>den. The best books, he perceived, are those that tell you </p><p>what you know already. He had just turned back to Chapter </p><p>I when he heard Julia’s footstep on the stair and started out </p><p>of his chair to meet her. She dumped her brown tool-bag on </p><p>the floor and flung herself into his arms. It was more than a </p><p>week since they had seen one another. </p><p>T’ve got THE BOOK,’ he said as they disentangled them- </p><p>selves. </p><p>‘Oh, you’ve got it? Good,’ she said without much interest, </p><p>and almost immediately knelt down beside the oil stove to </p><p>make the coffee. </p><p>They did not return to the subject until they had been</p><p>in bed for half an hour. The evening was just cool enough </p><p>to make it worth while to pull up the counterpane. From </p><p>below came the familiar sound of singing and the scrape </p><p>of boots on the flagstones. The brawny red-armed woman </p><p>whom Winston had seen there on his first visit was almost a </p><p>fixture in the yard. There seemed to be no hour of daylight </p><p>when she was not marching to and fro between the washtub </p><p>and the line, alternately gagging herself with clothes pegs </p><p>and breaking forth into lusty song. Julia had settled down </p><p>on her side and seemed to be already on the point of falling </p><p>asleep. He reached out for the book, which was lying on the </p><p>floor, and sat up against the bedhead. </p><p>‘We must read it,’ he said. ‘You too. All members of the </p><p>Brotherhood have to read it.’ </p><p>‘You read it,’ she said with her eyes shut. ‘Read it aloud. </p><p>That’s the best way. Then you can explain it to me as you </p><p>go-’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>253 </p><p>The clock’s hands said six, meaning eighteen. They had </p><p>three or four hours ahead of them. He propped the book </p><p>against his knees and began reading: </p><p>Chapter I Ignorance is Strength </p><p>Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end </p><p>of the Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people </p><p>in the world, the High, the Middle, and the Low. They have </p><p>been subdivided in many ways, they have borne count- </p><p>less different names, and their relative numbers, as well as </p><p>their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to </p><p>age: but the essential structure of society has never altered. </p><p>Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable </p><p>changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just </p><p>as a gyroscope will always return to equilibnum, however </p><p>far it is pushed one way or the other </p><p>‘Julia, are you awake?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘Yes, my love, I’m listening. Go on. It’s marvellous.’ </p><p>He continued reading: </p><p>The aims of these three groups are entirely irreconcil- </p><p>able. The aim of the High is to remain where they are. The </p><p>aim of the Middle is to change places with the High. The </p><p>aim of the Low, when they have an aim — for it is an abiding </p><p>characteristic of the Low that they are too much crushed </p><p>by drudgery to be more than intermittently conscious of </p><p>anything outside their daily lives — is to abolish all distinc-</p><p>tions and create a society in which all men shall be equal. </p><p>Thus throughout history a struggle which is the same in its </p><p>main outlines recurs over and over again. For long periods </p><p>the High seem to be securely in power, but sooner or later </p><p>254 </p><p>1984 </p><p>there always comes a moment when they lose either their </p><p>belief in themselves or their capacity to govern efficiently, </p><p>or both. They are then overthrown by the Middle, who en- </p><p>list the Low on their side by pretending to them that they </p><p>are fighting for liberty and justice. As soon as they have </p><p>reached their objective, the Middle thrust the Low back </p><p>into their old position of servitude, and themselves become </p><p>the High. Presently a new Middle group splits off from one </p><p>of the other groups, or from both of them, and the struggle </p><p>begins over again. Of the three groups, only the Low are </p><p>never even temporarily successful in achieving their aims. </p><p>It would be an exaggeration to say that throughout history </p><p>there has been no progress of a material kind. Even today, </p><p>in a period of decline, the average human being is physical- </p><p>ly better off than he was a few centuries ago. But no advance </p><p>in wealth, no softening of manners, no reform or revolu- </p><p>tion has ever brought human equality a millimetre nearer. </p><p>From the point of view of the Low, no historic change has </p><p>ever meant much more than a change in the name of their </p><p>masters. </p><p>By the late nineteenth century the recurrence of this pat- </p><p>tern had become obvious to many observers. There then </p><p>rose schools of thinkers who interpreted history as a cy- </p><p>clical process and claimed to show that inequality was the </p><p>unalterable law of human life. This doctrine, of course, had </p><p>always had its adherents, but in the manner in which it was </p><p>now put forward there was a significant change. In the past </p><p>the need for a hierarchical form of society had been the doc- </p><p>trine specifically of the High. It had been preached by kings </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>255 </p><p>and aristocrats and by the priests, lawyers, and the like who </p><p>were parasitical upon them, and it had generally been soft- </p><p>ened by promises of compensation in an imaginary world </p><p>beyond the grave. The Middle, so long as it was struggling </p><p>for power, had always made use of such terms as freedom, </p><p>justice, and fraternity. Now, however, the concept of hu- </p><p>man brotherhood began to be assailed by people who were</p><p>not yet in positions of command, but merely hoped to be so </p><p>before long. In the past the Middle had made revolutions </p><p>under the banner of equality, and then had established a </p><p>fresh tyranny as soon as the old one was overthrown. The </p><p>new Middle groups in effect proclaimed their tyranny be- </p><p>forehand. Socialism, a theory which appeared in the early </p><p>nineteenth century and was the last link in a chain of </p><p>thought stretching back to the slave rebellions of antiquity, </p><p>was still deeply infected by the Utopianism of past ages. But </p><p>in each variant of Socialism that appeared from about 1900 </p><p>onwards the aim of establishing liberty and equality was </p><p>more and more openly abandoned. The new movements </p><p>which appeared in the middle years of the century, Ingsoc </p><p>in Oceania, Neo-Bolshevism in Eurasia, Death-Worship, as </p><p>it is commonly called, in Eastasia, had the conscious aim </p><p>of perpetuating UNfreedom and INequality. These new </p><p>movements, of course, grew out of the old ones and tended </p><p>to keep their names and pay lip-service to their ideology. </p><p>But the purpose of all of them was to arrest progress and </p><p>freeze history at a chosen moment. The familiar pendulum </p><p>swing was to happen once more, and then stop. As usual, </p><p>the High were to be turned out by the Middle, who would </p><p>256 </p><p>1984 </p><p>then become the High; but this time, by conscious strategy, </p><p>the High would be able to maintain their position perma- </p><p>nently. </p><p>The new doctrines arose partly because of the accu- </p><p>mulation of historical knowledge, and the growth of the </p><p>historical sense, which had hardly existed before the nine- </p><p>teenth century. The cyclical movement of history was now </p><p>intelligible, or appeared to be so; and if it was intelligible, </p><p>then it was alterable. But the principal, underlying cause </p><p>was that, as early as the beginning of the twentieth century, </p><p>human equality had become technically possible. It was still </p><p>true that men were not equal in their native talents and that </p><p>functions had to be specialized in ways that favoured some </p><p>individuals against others; but there was no longer any real </p><p>need for class distinctions or for large differences of wealth. </p><p>In earlier ages, class distinctions had been not only inevi- </p><p>table but desirable. Inequality was the price of civilization. </p><p>With the development of machine production, however, the </p><p>case was altered. Even if it was still necessary for human </p><p>beings to do different kinds of work, it was no longer neces- </p><p>sary for them to live at different social or economic levels. </p><p>Therefore, from the point of view of the new groups who </p><p>were on the point of seizing power, human equality was no </p><p>longer an ideal to be striven after, but a danger to be avert- </p><p>ed. In more primitive ages, when a just and peaceful society </p><p>was in fact not possible, it had been fairly easy to believe it. </p><p>The idea of an earthly paradise in which men should live</p><p>together in a state of brotherhood, without laws and with- </p><p>out brute labour, had haunted the human imagination for </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>257 </p><p>thousands of years. And this vision had had a certain hold </p><p>even on the groups who actually profited by each histori- </p><p>cal change. The heirs of the French, English, and American </p><p>revolutions had partly believed in their own phrases about </p><p>the rights of man, freedom of speech, equality before the </p><p>law, and the like, and have even allowed their conduct to </p><p>be influenced by them to some extent. But by the fourth </p><p>decade of the twentieth century all the main currents of </p><p>political thought were authoritarian. The earthly paradise </p><p>had been discredited at exactly the moment when it became </p><p>realizable. Every new political theory, by whatever name it </p><p>called itself, led back to hierarchy and regimentation. And </p><p>in the general hardening of outlook that set in round about </p><p>1930, practices which had been long abandoned, in some </p><p>cases for hundreds of years — imprisonment without trial, </p><p>the use of war prisoners as slaves, public executions, torture </p><p>to extract confessions, the use of hostages, and the depor- </p><p>tation of whole populations — not only became common </p><p>again, but were tolerated and even defended by people who </p><p>considered themselves enlightened and progressive. </p><p>It was only after a decade of national wars, civil wars, </p><p>revolutions, and counter-revolutions in all parts of the </p><p>world that Ingsoc and its rivals emerged as fully worked- </p><p>out political theories. But they had been foreshadowed by </p><p>the various systems, generally called totalitarian, which </p><p>had appeared earlier in the century, and the main outlines </p><p>of the world which would emerge from the prevailing chaos </p><p>had long been obvious. What kind of people would control </p><p>this world had been equally obvious. The new aristocracy </p><p>258 </p><p>1984 </p><p>was made up for the most part of bureaucrats, scientists, </p><p>technicians, trade-union organizers, publicity experts, so- </p><p>ciologists, teachers, journalists, and professional politicians. </p><p>These people, whose origins lay in the salaried middle class </p><p>and the upper grades of the working class, had been shaped </p><p>and brought together by the barren world of monopoly in- </p><p>dustry and centralized government. As compared with </p><p>their opposite numbers in past ages, they were less avari- </p><p>cious, less tempted by luxury, hungrier for pure power, and,</p><p>above all, more conscious of what they were doing and </p><p>more intent on crushing opposition. This last difference was </p><p>cardinal. By comparison with that existing today, all the </p><p>tyrannies of the past were half-hearted and inefficient. The </p><p>ruling groups were always infected to some extent by lib- </p><p>eral ideas, and were content to leave loose ends everywhere, </p><p>to regard only the overt act and to be uninterested in what </p><p>their subjects were thinking. Even the Catholic Church of </p><p>the Middle Ages was tolerant by modern standards. Part of </p><p>the reason for this was that in the past no government had </p><p>the power to keep its citizens under constant surveillance. </p><p>The invention of print, however, made it easier to manipu- </p><p>late public opinion, and the film and the radio carried the </p><p>process further. With the development of television, and </p><p>the technical advance which made it possible to receive and </p><p>transmit simultaneously on the same instrument, private </p><p>life came to an end. Every citizen, or at least every citizen </p><p>important enough to be worth watching, could be kept for </p><p>twenty-four hours a day under the eyes of the police and in </p><p>the sound of official propaganda, with all other channels </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>259 </p><p>of communication closed. The possibility of enforcing not </p><p>only complete obedience to the will of the State, but com- </p><p>plete uniformity of opinion on all subjects, now existed for </p><p>the first time. </p><p>After the revolutionary period of the fifties and sixties, </p><p>society regrouped itself, as always, into High, Middle, and </p><p>Low. But the new High group, unlike all its forerunners, did </p><p>not act upon instinct but knew what was needed to safeguard </p><p>its position. It had long been realized that the only secure </p><p>basis for oligarchy is collectivism. Wealth and privilege are </p><p>most easily defended when they are possessed jointly. The </p><p>so-called ‘abolition of private property’ which took place in </p><p>the middle years of the century meant, in effect, the con- </p><p>centration of property in far fewer hands than before: but </p><p>with this difference, that the new owners were a group in- </p><p>stead of a mass of individuals. Individually, no member of </p><p>the Party owns anything, except petty personal belongings. </p><p>Collectively, the Party owns everything in Oceania, be- </p><p>cause it controls everything, and disposes of the products </p><p>as it thinks fit. In the years following the Revolution it was </p><p>able to step into this commanding position almost unop- </p><p>posed, because the whole process was represented as an act </p><p>of collectivization. It had always been assumed that if the </p><p>capitalist class were expropriated, Socialism must follow: </p><p>and unquestionably the capitalists had been expropriated. </p><p>Factories, mines, land, houses, transport — everything had </p><p>been taken away from them: and since these things were </p><p>no longer private property, it followed that they must be </p><p>public property. Ingsoc, which grew out of the earlier So-</p><p>260 </p><p>1984 </p><p>cialist movement and inherited its phraseology, has in fact </p><p>carried out the main item in the Socialist programme; with </p><p>the result, foreseen and intended beforehand, that econom- </p><p>ic inequality has been made permanent. </p><p>But the problems of perpetuating a hierarchical soci- </p><p>ety go deeper than this. There are only four ways in which </p><p>a ruling group can fall from power. Either it is conquered </p><p>from without, or it governs so inefficiently that the masses </p><p>are stirred to revolt, or it allows a strong and discontented </p><p>Middle group to come into being, or it loses its own self- </p><p>confidence and willingness to govern. These causes do not </p><p>operate singly, and as a rule all four of them are present in </p><p>some degree. A ruling class which could guard against all </p><p>of them would remain in power permanently. Ultimately </p><p>the determining factor is the mental attitude of the ruling </p><p>class itself. </p><p>After the middle of the present century, the first dan- </p><p>ger had in reality disappeared. Each of the three powers </p><p>which now divide the world is in fact unconquerable, and </p><p>could only become conquerable through slow demographic </p><p>changes which a government with wide powers can easi- </p><p>ly avert. The second danger, also, is only a theoretical one. </p><p>The masses never revolt of their own accord, and they never </p><p>revolt merely because they are oppressed. Indeed, so long </p><p>as they are not permitted to have standards of comparison, </p><p>they never even become aware that they are oppressed. The </p><p>recurrent economic crises of past times were totally un- </p><p>necessary and are not now permitted to happen, but other </p><p>and equally large dislocations can and do happen without </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>261 </p><p>having political results, because there is no way in which </p><p>discontent can become articulate. As for the problem of </p><p>over-production, which has been latent in our society since </p><p>the development of machine technique, it is solved by the </p><p>device of continuous warfare (see Chapter III), which is </p><p>also useful in keying up public morale to the necessary </p><p>pitch. From the point of view of our present rulers, there- </p><p>fore, the only genuine dangers are the splitting- off of a new </p><p>group of able, under- employed, power-hungry people, and </p><p>the growth of liberalism and scepticism in their own ranks.</p><p>The problem, that is to say, is educational. It is a problem </p><p>of continuously moulding the consciousness both of the </p><p>directing group and of the larger executive group that lies </p><p>immediately below it. The consciousness of the masses </p><p>needs only to be influenced in a negative way. </p><p>Given this background, one could infer, if one did not </p><p>know it already, the general structure of Oceanic society. At </p><p>the apex of the pyramid comes Big Brother. Big Brother is in- </p><p>fallible and all-powerful. Every success, every achievement, </p><p>every victory, every scientific discovery, all knowledge, all </p><p>wisdom, all happiness, all virtue, are held to issue directly </p><p>from his leadership and inspiration. Nobody has ever seen </p><p>Big Brother. He is a face on the hoardings, a voice on the </p><p>telescreen. We may be reasonably sure that he will never die, </p><p>and there is already considerable uncertainty as to when he </p><p>was born. Big Brother is the guise in which the Party choos- </p><p>es to exhibit itself to the world. His function is to act as a </p><p>focusing point for love, fear, and reverence, emotions which </p><p>are more easily felt towards an individual than towards an </p><p>262 </p><p>1984 </p><p>organization. Below Big Brother comes the Inner Party. Its </p><p>numbers limited to six millions, or something less than </p><p>2 per cent of the population of Oceania. Below the Inner </p><p>Party comes the Outer Party, which, if the Inner Party is de- </p><p>scribed as the brain of the State, may be justly likened to the </p><p>hands. Below that come the dumb masses whom we habitu- </p><p>ally refer to as ‘the proles’, numbering perhaps 85 per cent of </p><p>the population. In the terms of our earlier classification, the </p><p>proles are the Low: for the slave population of the equatori- </p><p>al lands who pass constantly from conqueror to conqueror, </p><p>are not a permanent or necessary part of the structure. </p><p>In principle, membership of these three groups is not he- </p><p>reditary. The child of Inner Party parents is in theory not </p><p>born into the Inner Party. Admission to either branch of the </p><p>Party is by examination, taken at the age of sixteen. Nor is </p><p>there any racial discrimination, or any marked domination </p><p>of one province by another. Jews, Negroes, South Ameri- </p><p>cans of pure Indian blood are to be found in the highest </p><p>ranks of the Party, and the administrators of any area are </p><p>always drawn from the inhabitants of that area. In no part </p><p>of Oceania do the inhabitants have the feeling that they are </p><p>a colonial population ruled from a distant capital. Ocea- </p><p>nia has no capital, and its titular head is a person whose </p><p>whereabouts nobody knows. Except that English is its chief </p><p>LINGUA FRANCA and Newspeak its official language, it is </p><p>not centralized in any way. Its rulers are not held together </p><p>by blood-ties but by adherence to a common doctrine. It </p><p>is true that our society is stratified, and very rigidly strat- </p><p>ified, on what at first sight appear to be hereditary lines.</p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>263 </p><p>There is far less to-and-fro movement between the differ- </p><p>ent groups than happened under capitalism or even in the </p><p>pre-industrial age. Between the two branches of the Party </p><p>there is a certain amount of interchange, but only so much </p><p>as will ensure that weaklings are excluded from the Inner </p><p>Party and that ambitious members of the Outer Party are </p><p>made harmless by allowing them to rise. Proletarians, in </p><p>practice, are not allowed to graduate into the Party. The </p><p>most gifted among them, who might possibly become nu- </p><p>clei of discontent, are simply marked down by the Thought </p><p>Police and eliminated. But this state of affairs is not neces- </p><p>sarily permanent, nor is it a matter of principle. The Party </p><p>is not a class in the old sense of the word. It does not aim </p><p>at transmitting power to its own children, as such; and if </p><p>there were no other way of keeping the ablest people at the </p><p>top, it would be perfectly prepared to recruit an entire new </p><p>generation from the ranks of the proletariat. In the crucial </p><p>years, the fact that the Party was not a hereditary body did </p><p>a great deal to neutralize opposition. The older kind of So- </p><p>cialist, who had been trained to fight against something </p><p>called ‘class privilege’ assumed that what is not hereditary </p><p>cannot be permanent. He did not see that the continuity </p><p>of an oligarchy need not be physical, nor did he pause to </p><p>reflect that hereditary aristocracies have always been short- </p><p>lived, whereas adoptive organizations such as the Catholic </p><p>Church have sometimes lasted for hundreds or thousands </p><p>of years. The essence of oligarchical rule is not father-to-son </p><p>inheritance, but the persistence of a certain world-view and </p><p>a certain way of life, imposed by the dead upon the living. A </p><p>264 </p><p>1984 </p><p>ruling group is a ruling group so long as it can nominate its </p><p>successors. The Party is not concerned with perpetuating </p><p>its blood but with perpetuating itself. WHO wields power </p><p>is not important, provided that the hierarchical structure </p><p>remains always the same. </p><p>All the beliefs, habits, tastes, emotions, mental attitudes </p><p>that characterize our time are really designed to sustain the </p><p>mystique of the Party and prevent the true nature of pres- </p><p>ent-day society from being perceived. Physical rebellion, or </p><p>any preliminary move towards rebellion, is at present not </p><p>possible. From the proletarians nothing is to be feared. Left</p><p>to themselves, they will continue from generation to gener- </p><p>ation and from century to century, working, breeding, and </p><p>dying, not only without any impulse to rebel, but without </p><p>the power of grasping that the world could be other than it </p><p>is. They could only become dangerous if the advance of in- </p><p>dustrial technique made it necessary to educate them more </p><p>highly; but, since military and commercial rivalry are no </p><p>longer important, the level of popular education is actually </p><p>declining. What opinions the masses hold, or do not hold, </p><p>is looked on as a matter of indifference. They can be granted </p><p>intellectual liberty because they have no intellect. In a Party </p><p>member, on the other hand, not even the smallest deviation </p><p>of opinion on the most unimportant subject can be toler- </p><p>ated. </p><p>A Party member lives from birth to death under the eye </p><p>of the Thought Police. Even when he is alone he can never be </p><p>sure that he is alone. Wherever he may be, asleep or awake, </p><p>working or resting, in his bath or in bed, he can be inspected </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>265 </p><p>without warning and without knowing that he is being in- </p><p>spected. Nothing that he does is indifferent. His friendships, </p><p>his relaxations, his behaviour towards his wife and children, </p><p>the expression of his face when he is alone, the words he </p><p>mutters in sleep, even the characteristic movements of his </p><p>body, are all jealously scrutinized. Not only any actual mis- </p><p>demeanour, but any eccentricity, however small, any change </p><p>of habits, any nervous mannerism that could possibly be </p><p>the symptom of an inner struggle, is certain to be detected. </p><p>He has no freedom of choice in any direction whatever. On </p><p>the other hand his actions are not regulated by law or by any </p><p>clearly formulated code of behaviour. In Oceania there is </p><p>no law. Thoughts and actions which, when detected, mean </p><p>certain death are not formally forbidden, and the endless </p><p>purges, arrests, tortures, imprisonments, and vaporizations </p><p>are not inflicted as punishment for crimes which have ac- </p><p>tually been committed, but are merely the wiping- out of </p><p>persons who might perhaps commit a crime at some time in </p><p>the future. A Party member is required to have not only the </p><p>right opinions, but the right instincts. Many of the beliefs </p><p>and attitudes demanded of him are never plainly stated, and </p><p>could not be stated without laying bare the contradictions </p><p>inherent in Ingsoc. If he is a person naturally orthodox (in </p><p>Newspeak a GOODTHINKER), he will in all circumstanc- </p><p>es know, without taking thought, what is the true belief or </p><p>the desirable emotion. But in any case an elaborate men- </p><p>tal training, undergone in childhood and grouping itself </p><p>round the Newspeak words CRIMESTOP, BLACKWHITE, </p><p>and DOUBLETHINK, makes him unwilling and unable to </p><p>266 </p><p>1984 </p><p>think too deeply on any subject whatever. </p><p>A Party member is expected to have no private emotions </p><p>and no respites from enthusiasm. He is supposed to live in a </p><p>continuous frenzy of hatred of foreign enemies and internal </p><p>traitors, triumph over victories, and self-abasement before </p><p>the power and wisdom of the Party. The discontents pro- </p><p>duced by his bare, unsatisfying life are deliberately turned </p><p>outwards and dissipated by such devices as the Two Minutes </p><p>Hate, and the speculations which might possibly induce a </p><p>sceptical or rebellious attitude are killed in advance by his </p><p>early acquired inner discipline. The first and simplest stage </p><p>in the discipline, which can be taught even to young chil- </p><p>dren, is called, in Newspeak, CRIMESTOP. CRIMESTOP </p><p>means the faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, </p><p>at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the </p><p>power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logi- </p><p>cal errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if </p><p>they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled </p><p>by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a </p><p>heretical direction. CRIMESTOP, in short, means protec- </p><p>tive stupidity. But stupidity is not enough. On the contrary, </p><p>orthodoxy in the full sense demands a control over one’s </p><p>own mental processes as complete as that of a contortion- </p><p>ist over his body. Oceanic society rests ultimately on the </p><p>belief that Big Brother is omnipotent and that the Party is </p><p>infallible. But since in reality Big Brother is not omnipotent </p><p>and the party is not infallible, there is need for an unwea- </p><p>rying, moment-to -moment flexibility in the treatment of </p><p>facts. The keyword here is BLACKWHITE. Like so many </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>267 </p><p>Newspeak words, this word has two mutually contradicto- </p><p>ry meanings. Applied to an opponent, it means the habit of </p><p>impudently claiming that black is white, in contradiction of </p><p>the plain facts. Applied to a Party member, it means a loyal </p><p>willingness to say that black is white when Party discipline </p><p>demands this. But it means also the ability to BELIEVE that </p><p>black is white, and more, to KNOW that black is white, and </p><p>to forget that one has ever believed the contrary. This de- </p><p>mands a continuous alteration of the past, made possible </p><p>by the system of thought which really embraces all the rest, </p><p>and which is known in Newspeak as DOUBLETE1INK. </p><p>The alteration of the past is necessary for two reasons,</p><p>one of which is subsidiary and, so to speak, precaution- </p><p>ary. The subsidiary reason is that the Party member, like </p><p>the proletarian, tolerates present-day conditions partly be- </p><p>cause he has no standards of comparison. Tie must be cut </p><p>off from the past, just as he must be cut off from foreign </p><p>countries, because it is necessary for him to believe that </p><p>he is better off than his ancestors and that the average lev- </p><p>el of material comfort is constantly rising. But by far the </p><p>more important reason for the readjustment of the past is </p><p>the need to safeguard the infallibility of the Party. It is not </p><p>merely that speeches, statistics, and records of every kind </p><p>must be constantly brought up to date in order to show that </p><p>the predictions of the Party were in all cases right. It is also </p><p>that no change in doctrine or in political alignment can </p><p>ever be admitted. For to change one’s mind, or even one’s </p><p>policy, is a confession of weakness. If, for example, Eurasia </p><p>or Eastasia (whichever it may be) is the enemy today, then </p><p>268 </p><p>1984 </p><p>that country must always have been the enemy. And if the </p><p>facts say otherwise then the facts must be altered. Thus his- </p><p>tory is continuously rewritten. This day-to-day falsification </p><p>of the past, carried out by the Ministry of Truth, is as neces- </p><p>sary to the stability of the regime as the work of repression </p><p>and espionage carried out by the Ministry of Love. </p><p>The mutability of the past is the central tenet of Ingsoc. </p><p>Past events, it is argued, have no objective existence, but </p><p>survive only in written records and in human memories. </p><p>The past is whatever the records and the memories agree </p><p>upon. And since the Party is in full control of all records </p><p>and in equally full control of the minds of its members, it </p><p>follows that the past is whatever the Party chooses to make </p><p>it. It also follows that though the past is alterable, it never </p><p>has been altered in any specific instance. For when it has </p><p>been recreated in whatever shape is needed at the moment, </p><p>then this new version IS the past, and no different past can </p><p>ever have existed. This holds good even when, as often hap- </p><p>pens, the same event has to be altered out of recognition </p><p>several times in the course of a year. At all times the Party </p><p>is in possession of absolute truth, and clearly the absolute </p><p>can never have been different from what it is now. It will </p><p>be seen that the control of the past depends above all on </p><p>the training of memory. To make sure that all written re- </p><p>cords agree with the orthodoxy of the moment is merely </p><p>a mechanical act. But it is also necessary to REMEMBER </p><p>that events happened in the desired manner. And if it is </p><p>necessary to rearrange one’s memories or to tamper with </p><p>written records, then it is necessary to FORGET that one </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com</p><p>269 </p><p>has done so. The trick of doing this can be learned like any </p><p>other mental technique. It is learned by the majority of Par- </p><p>ty members, and certainly by all who are intelligent as well </p><p>as orthodox. In Oldspeak it is called, quite frankly, ‘reality </p><p>control’. In Newspeak it is called DOUBLETHINK, though </p><p>DOUBLETHINK comprises much else as well. </p><p>DOUBLETHINK means the power of holding two </p><p>contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously, and ac- </p><p>cepting both of them. The Party intellectual knows in which </p><p>direction his memories must be altered; he therefore knows </p><p>that he is playing tricks with reality; but by the exercise of </p><p>DOUBLETHINK he also satisfies himself that reality is not </p><p>violated. The process has to be conscious, or it would not </p><p>be carried out with sufficient precision, but it also has to be </p><p>unconscious, or it would bring with it a feeling of falsity and </p><p>hence of guilt. DOUBLETHINK lies at the very heart of In- </p><p>gsoc, since the essential act of the Party is to use conscious </p><p>deception while retaining the firmness of purpose that goes </p><p>with complete honesty. To tell deliberate lies while genu- </p><p>inely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become </p><p>inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, </p><p>to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, </p><p>to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while </p><p>to take account of the reality which one denies — all this is </p><p>indispensably necessary. Even in using the word DOUBLE- </p><p>THINK it is necessary to exercise DOUBLETHINK. For </p><p>by using the word one admits that one is tampering with </p><p>reality; by a fresh act of DOUBLETHINK one erases this </p><p>knowledge; and so on indefinitely, with the lie always one </p><p>270 </p><p>1984 </p><p>leap ahead of the truth. Ultimately it is by means of DOU- </p><p>BLETHINK that the Party has been able — and may, for all </p><p>we know, continue to be able for thousands of years — to ar- </p><p>rest the course of history. </p><p>All past oligarchies have fallen from power either because </p><p>they ossified or because they grew soft. Either they became </p><p>stupid and arrogant, failed to adjust themselves to chang- </p><p>ing circumstances, and were overthrown; or they became </p><p>liberal and cowardly, made concessions when they should </p><p>have used force, and once again were overthrown. They fell, </p><p>that is to say, either through consciousness or through un- </p><p>consciousness. It is the achievement of the Party to have </p><p>produced a system of thought in which both conditions can</p><p>exist simultaneously. And upon no other intellectual basis </p><p>could the dominion of the Party be made permanent. If one </p><p>is to rule, and to continue ruling, one must be able to dis- </p><p>locate the sense of reality. For the secret of rulership is to </p><p>combine a belief in one’s own infallibility with the Power to </p><p>learn from past mistakes. </p><p>It need hardly be said that the subtlest practitioners of </p><p>DOUBLETHINK are those who invented DOUBLETHINK </p><p>and know that it is a vast system of mental cheating. In </p><p>our society, those who have the best knowledge of what is </p><p>happening are also those who are furthest from seeing the </p><p>world as it is. In general, the greater the understanding, the </p><p>greater the delusion; the more intelligent, the less sane. One </p><p>clear illustration of this is the fact that war hysteria increas- </p><p>es in intensity as one rises in the social scale. Those whose </p><p>attitude towards the war is most nearly rational are the sub- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>271 </p><p>ject peoples of the disputed territories. To these people the </p><p>war is simply a continuous calamity which sweeps to and </p><p>fro over their bodies like a tidal wave. Which side is win- </p><p>ning is a matter of complete indifference to them. They are </p><p>aware that a change of overlordship means simply that they </p><p>will be doing the same work as before for new masters who </p><p>treat them in the same manner as the old ones. The slightly </p><p>more favoured workers whom we call ‘the proles’ are only </p><p>intermittently conscious of the war. When it is necessary </p><p>they can be prodded into frenzies of fear and hatred, but </p><p>when left to themselves they are capable of forgetting for </p><p>long periods that the war is happening. It is in the ranks of </p><p>the Party, and above all of the Inner Party, that the true war </p><p>enthusiasm is found. World-conquest is believed in most </p><p>firmly by those who know it to be impossible. This peculiar </p><p>linking-together of opposites — knowledge with ignorance, </p><p>cynicism with fanaticism — is one of the chief distinguish- </p><p>ing marks of Oceanic society. The official ideology abounds </p><p>with contradictions even when there is no practical reason </p><p>for them. Thus, the Party rejects and vilifies every principle </p><p>for which the Socialist movement originally stood, and it </p><p>chooses to do this in the name of Socialism. It preaches a </p><p>contempt for the working class unexampled for centuries </p><p>past, and it dresses its members in a uniform which was at </p><p>one time peculiar to manual workers and was adopted for </p><p>that reason. It systematically undermines the solidarity of </p><p>the family, and it calls its leader by a name which is a direct </p><p>appeal to the sentiment of family loyalty. Even the names of </p><p>the four Ministries by which we are governed exhibit a sort </p><p>272 </p><p>1984 </p><p>of impudence in their deliberate reversal of the facts. The </p><p>Ministry of Peace concerns itself with war, the Ministry of </p><p>Truth with lies, the Ministry of Love with torture and the </p><p>Ministry of Plenty with starvation. These contradictions </p><p>are not accidental, nor do they result from ordinary hypoc- </p><p>risy; they are deliberate exercises in DOUBLETHINK. For </p><p>it is only by reconciling contradictions that power can be </p><p>retained indefinitely. In no other way could the ancient cy- </p><p>cle be broken. If human equality is to be for ever averted — if </p><p>the High, as we have called them, are to keep their places </p><p>permanently — then the prevailing mental condition must </p><p>be controlled insanity. </p><p>But there is one question which until this moment we </p><p>have almost ignored. It is; WHY should human equality be </p><p>averted? Supposing that the mechanics of the process have </p><p>been rightly described, what is the motive for this huge, </p><p>accurately planned effort to freeze history at a particular </p><p>moment of time? </p><p>Here we reach the central secret. As we have seen, the </p><p>mystique of the Party, and above all of the Inner Party, de- </p><p>pends upon DOUBLETHINK But deeper than this lies the </p><p>original motive, the never- questioned instinct that first led </p><p>to the seizure of power and brought DOUBLETHINK, the </p><p>Thought Police, continuous warfare, and all the other nec- </p><p>essary paraphernalia into existence afterwards. This motive </p><p>really consists... </p><p>Winston became aware of silence, as one becomes aware </p><p>of a new sound. It seemed to him that Julia had been very </p><p>still for some time past. She was lying on her side, na- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>273 </p><p>ked from the waist upwards, with her cheek pillowed on </p><p>her hand and one dark lock tumbling across her eyes. Her </p><p>breast rose and fell slowly and regularly. </p><p>‘Julia.’ </p><p>No answer. </p><p>‘Julia, are you awake?’ </p><p>No answer. She was asleep. He shut the book, put it care- </p><p>fully on the floor, lay down, and pulled the coverlet over </p><p>both of them.</p><p>He had still, he reflected, not learned the ultimate secret. </p><p>He understood HOW; he did not understand WHY. Chap- </p><p>ter I, like Chapter III, had not actually told him anything </p><p>that he did not know, it had merely systematized the knowl- </p><p>edge that he possessed already. But after reading it he knew </p><p>better than before that he was not mad. Being in a minority, </p><p>even a minority of one, did not make you mad. There was </p><p>truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth </p><p>even against the whole world, you were not mad. A yellow </p><p>beam from the sinking sun slanted in through the window </p><p>and fell across the pillow. He shut his eyes. The sun on his </p><p>face and the girl’s smooth body touching his own gave him </p><p>a strong, sleepy, confident feeling. He was safe, everything </p><p>was all right. He fell asleep murmuring ‘Sanity is not sta- </p><p>tistical,’ with the feeling that this remark contained in it a </p><p>profound wisdom. </p><p>***** </p><p>When he woke it was with the sensation of having slept </p><p>for a long time, but a glance at the old-fashioned clock told </p><p>him that it was only twenty-thirty. He lay dozing for a while; </p><p>274 </p><p>1984 </p><p>then the usual deep -lunged singing struck up from the yard </p><p>below: </p><p>‘It was only an ‘opeless fancy, </p><p>It passed like an Ipril dye, </p><p>But a look an a word an the dreams they stirred </p><p>They ‘ave stolen my ‘eart awye!’ </p><p>The driveling song seemed to have kept its popularity. </p><p>You still heard it all over the place. It had outlived the Hate </p><p>Song. Julia woke at the sound, stretched herself luxuriously, </p><p>and got out of bed. </p><p>‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘Let’s make some more coffee. </p><p>Damn! The stove’s gone out and the water’s cold.’ She picked </p><p>the stove up and shook it. ‘There’s no oil in it.’ </p><p>‘We can get some from old Charrington, I expect.’ </p><p>‘The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I’m going to </p><p>put my clothes on,’ she added. ‘It seems to have got colder.’ </p><p>Winston also got up and dressed himself. The indefati- </p><p>gable voice sang on: </p><p>‘They sye that time ‘eals all things,</p><p>They sye you can always forget; </p><p>But the smiles an the tears acrorss the years </p><p>They twist my ‘eart-strings yet!’ </p><p>As he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across </p><p>to the window. The sun must have gone down behind the </p><p>houses; it was not shining into the yard any longer. The flag- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>275 </p><p>stones were wet as though they had just been washed, and </p><p>he had the feeling that the sky had been washed too, so fresh </p><p>and pale was the blue between the chimney-pots. Tireless- </p><p>ly the woman marched to and fro, corking and uncorking </p><p>herself, singing and falling silent, and pegging out more di- </p><p>apers, and more and yet more. He wondered whether she </p><p>took in washing for a living or was merely the slave of twen- </p><p>ty or thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to his side; </p><p>together they gazed down with a sort of fascination at the </p><p>sturdy figure below. As he looked at the woman in her char- </p><p>acteristic attitude, her thick arms reaching up for the line, </p><p>her powerful mare-like buttocks protruded, it struck him </p><p>for the first time that she was beautiful. It had never before </p><p>occurred to him that the body of a woman of fifty, blown up </p><p>to monstrous dimensions by childbearing, then hardened, </p><p>roughened by work till it was coarse in the grain like an </p><p>over-ripe turnip, could be beautiful. But it was so, and after </p><p>all, he thought, why not? The solid, contourless body, like a </p><p>block of granite, and the rasping red skin, bore the same re- </p><p>lation to the body of a girl as the rose-hip to the rose. Why </p><p>should the fruit be held inferior to the flower? </p><p>‘She’s beautiful,’ he murmured. </p><p>‘She’s a metre across the hips, easily,’ said Julia. </p><p>‘That is her style of beauty,’ said Winston. </p><p>He held Julia’s supple waist easily encircled by his arm. </p><p>From the hip to the knee her flank was against his. Out of </p><p>their bodies no child would ever come. That was the one </p><p>thing they could never do. Only by word of mouth, from </p><p>mind to mind, could they pass on the secret. The woman </p><p>276 </p><p>1984 </p><p>down there had no mind, she had only strong arms, a warm </p><p>heart, and a fertile belly. He wondered how many children </p><p>she had given birth to. It might easily be fifteen. She had </p><p>had her momentary flowering, a year, perhaps, of wild-rose </p><p>beauty and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized </p><p>fruit and grown hard and red and coarse, and then her life </p><p>had been laundering, scrubbing, darning, cooking, sweep- </p><p>ing, polishing, mending, scrubbing, laundering, first for </p><p>children, then for grandchildren, over thirty unbroken </p><p>years. At the end of it she was still singing. The mystical </p><p>reverence that he felt for her was somehow mixed up with </p><p>the aspect of the pale, cloudless sky, stretching away behind </p><p>the chimney-pots into interminable distance. It was curi- </p><p>ous to think that the sky was the same for everybody, in </p><p>Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under </p><p>the sky were also very much the same — everywhere, all over </p><p>the world, hundreds of thousands of millions of people just </p><p>like this, people ignorant of one another’s existence, held </p><p>apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the </p><p>same — people who had never learned to think but who were </p><p>storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power </p><p>that would one day overturn the world. If there was hope, </p><p>it lay in the proles! Without having read to the end of THE </p><p>BOOK, he knew that that must be Goldstein’s final message. </p><p>The future belonged to the proles. And could he be sure that </p><p>when their time came the world they constructed would not </p><p>be just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as the world of the </p><p>Party? Yes, because at the least it would be a world of sanity. </p><p>Where there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>277 </p><p>it would happen, strength would change into consciousness. </p><p>The proles were immortal, you could not doubt it when you </p><p>looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their </p><p>awakening would come. And until that happened, though it </p><p>might be a thousand years, they would stay alive against all </p><p>the odds, like birds, passing on from body to body the vital- </p><p>ity which the Party did not share and could not kill. </p><p>‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘the thrush that sang to us, </p><p>that first day, at the edge of the wood?’ </p><p>‘He wasn’t singing to us,’ said Julia. ‘He was singing to </p><p>please himself. Not even that. He was just singing.’ </p><p>The birds sang, the proles sang, the Party did not sing. </p><p>All round the world, in London and New York, in Africa </p><p>and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden lands beyond </p><p>the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villag- </p><p>es of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and </p><p>Japan — everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable</p><p>figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling </p><p>from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty </p><p>loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. You </p><p>were the dead, theirs was the future. But you could share in </p><p>that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the </p><p>body, and passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two </p><p>make four. </p><p>‘We are the dead,’ he said. </p><p>‘We are the dead,’ echoed Julia dutifully. </p><p>‘You are the dead,’ said an iron voice behind them. </p><p>They sprang apart. Winston’s entrails seemed to have </p><p>turned into ice. He could see the white all round the irises of </p><p>278 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Julia’s eyes. Her face had turned a milky yellow. The smear </p><p>of rouge that was still on each cheekbone stood out sharply, </p><p>almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath. </p><p>‘You are the dead,’ repeated the iron voice. </p><p>‘It was behind the picture,’ breathed Julia. </p><p>‘It was behind the picture,’ said the voice. ‘Remain exactly </p><p>where you are. Make no movement until you are ordered.’ </p><p>It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do noth- </p><p>ing except stand gazing into one another’s eyes. To run for </p><p>life, to get out of the house before it was too late — no such </p><p>thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey the iron </p><p>voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had </p><p>been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture </p><p>had fallen to the floor uncovering the telescreen behind it. </p><p>‘Now they can see us,’ said Julia. </p><p>‘Now we can see you,’ said the voice. ‘Stand out in the </p><p>middle of the room. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands </p><p>behind your heads. Do not touch one another.’ </p><p>They were not touching, but it seemed to him that he </p><p>could feel Julia’s body shaking. Or perhaps it was merely </p><p>the shaking of his own. He could just stop his teeth from </p><p>chattering, but his knees were beyond his control. There </p><p>was a sound of trampling boots below, inside the house and </p><p>outside. The yard seemed to be full of men. Something was </p><p>being dragged across the stones. The woman’s singing had </p><p>stopped abruptly. There was a long, rolling clang, as though </p><p>the washtub had been flung across the yard, and then a con-</p><p>fusion of angry shouts which ended in a yell of pain. </p><p>‘The house is surrounded,’ said Winston. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>279 </p><p>‘The house is surrounded,’ said the voice. </p><p>He heard Julia snap her teeth together. ‘I suppose we may </p><p>as well say good-bye,’ she said. </p><p>‘You may as well say good-bye,’ said the voice. And then </p><p>another quite different voice, a thin, cultivated voice which </p><p>Winston had the impression of having heard before, struck </p><p>in; ‘And by the way, while we are on the subject, ‘Here comes </p><p>a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop </p><p>off your head’!’ </p><p>Something crashed on to the bed behind Winston’s back. </p><p>The head of a ladder had been thrust through the window </p><p>and had burst in the frame. Someone was climbing through </p><p>the window. There was a stampede of boots up the stairs. </p><p>The room was full of solid men in black uniforms, with iron- </p><p>shod boots on their feet and truncheons in their hands. </p><p>Winston was not trembling any longer. Even his eyes he </p><p>barely moved. One thing alone mattered; to keep still, to </p><p>keep still and not give them an excuse to hit you! A man </p><p>with a smooth prize-fighter’s jowl in which the mouth was </p><p>only a slit paused opposite him balancing his truncheon </p><p>meditatively between thumb and forefinger. Winston met </p><p>his eyes. The feeling of nakedness, with one’s hands behind </p><p>one’s head and one’s face and body all exposed, was almost </p><p>unbearable. The man protruded the tip of a white tongue, </p><p>licked the place where his lips should have been, and then </p><p>passed on. There was another crash. Someone had picked </p><p>up the glass paperweight from the table and smashed it to </p><p>pieces on the hearth-stone. </p><p>The fragment of coral, a tiny crinkle of pink like a sug- </p><p>280 </p><p>1984 </p><p>ar rosebud from a cake, rolled across the mat. How small, </p><p>thought Winston, how small it always was! There was a gasp </p><p>and a thump behind him, and he received a violent kick on </p><p>the ankle which nearly flung him off his balance. One of the</p><p>men had smashed his fist into Julia’s solar plexus, doubling </p><p>her up like a pocket ruler. She was thrashing about on the </p><p>floor, fighting for breath. Winston dared not turn his head </p><p>even by a millimetre, but sometimes her livid, gasping face </p><p>came within the angle of his vision. Even in his terror it was </p><p>as though he could feel the pain in his own body, the deadly </p><p>pain which nevertheless was less urgent than the struggle to </p><p>get back her breath. He knew what it was like; the terrible, </p><p>agonizing pain which was there all the while but could not </p><p>be suffered yet, because before all else it was necessary to </p><p>be able to breathe. Then two of the men hoisted her up by </p><p>knees and shoulders, and carried her out of the room like a </p><p>sack. Winston had a glimpse of her face, upside down, yel- </p><p>low and contorted, with the eyes shut, and still with a smear </p><p>of rouge on either cheek; and that was the last he saw of </p><p>her. </p><p>He stood dead still. No one had hit him yet. Thoughts </p><p>which came of their own accord but seemed totally uninter- </p><p>esting began to flit through his mind. He wondered whether </p><p>they had got Mr Charrington. He wondered what they had </p><p>done to the woman in the yard. He noticed that he bad- </p><p>ly wanted to urinate, and felt a faint surprise, because he </p><p>had done so only two or three hours ago. He noticed that </p><p>the clock on the mantelpiece said nine, meaning twenty- </p><p>one. But the light seemed too strong. Would not the light </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>281 </p><p>be fading at twenty- one hours on an August evening? He </p><p>wondered whether after all he and Julia had mistaken the </p><p>time — had slept the clock round and thought it was twen- </p><p>ty-thirty when really it was nought eight-thirty on the </p><p>following morning. But he did not pursue the thought fur- </p><p>ther. It was not interesting. </p><p>There ws another, lighter step in the passage. Mr </p><p>Charrington came into the room. The demeanour of </p><p>the black-uniformed men suddenly became more sub- </p><p>dued. Something had also changed in Mr Charrington’s </p><p>appearance. His eye fell on the fragments of the glass pa- </p><p>perweight. </p><p>‘Pick up those pieces,’ he said sharply. </p><p>A man stooped to obey. The cockney accent had disap- </p><p>peared; Winston suddenly realized whose voice it was that </p><p>he had heard a few moments ago on the telescreen. Mr Char- </p><p>rington was still wearing his old velvet jacket, but his hair, </p><p>which had been almost white, had turned black. Also he was </p><p>not wearing his spectacles. He gave Winston a single sharp </p><p>glance, as though verifying his identity, and then paid no </p><p>more attention to him. He was still recognizable, but he was</p><p>not the same person any longer. His body had straightened, </p><p>and seemed to have grown bigger. His face had undergone </p><p>only tiny changes that had nevertheless worked a complete </p><p>transformation. The black eyebrows were less bushy, the </p><p>wrinkles were gone, the whole lines of the face seemed to </p><p>have altered; even the nose seemed shorter. It was the alert, </p><p>cold face of a man of about five-and-thirty. It occurred to </p><p>Winston that for the first time in his life he was looking, </p><p>282 </p><p>1984 </p><p>with knowledge, at a member of the Thought Police. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>283 </p><p>Part Three </p><p>284 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter i </p><p>H e did not know where he was. Presumably he was in </p><p>the Ministry of Love, but there was no way of mak- </p><p>ing certain. He was in a high-ceilinged windowless cell with </p><p>walls of glittering white porcelain. Concealed lamps flood- </p><p>ed it with cold light, and there was a low, steady humming </p><p>sound which he supposed had something to do with the </p><p>air supply. A bench, or shelf, just wide enough to sit on ran </p><p>round the wall, broken only by the door and, at the end op- </p><p>posite the door, a lavatory pan with no wooden seat. There </p><p>were four telescreens, one in each wall. </p><p>There was a dull aching in his belly. It had been there </p><p>ever since they had bundled him into the closed van and </p><p>driven him away. But he was also hungry, with a gnaw- </p><p>ing, unwholesome kind of hunger. It might be twenty-four </p><p>hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did </p><p>not know, probably never would know, whether it had been </p><p>morning or evening when they arrested him. Since he was </p><p>arrested he had not been fed.</p><p>He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his </p><p>hands crossed on his knee. He had already learned to sit </p><p>still. If you made unexpected movements they yelled at you </p><p>from the telescreen. But the craving for food was growing </p><p>upon him. What he longed for above all was a piece of bread. </p><p>He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>285 </p><p>pocket of his overalls. It was even possible — he thought this </p><p>because from time to time something seemed to tickle his </p><p>leg — that there might be a sizeable bit of crust there. In the </p><p>end the temptation to find out overcame his fear; he slipped </p><p>a hand into his pocket. </p><p>‘Smith!’ yelled a voice from the telescreen. ‘6079 Smith </p><p>W.! Hands out of pockets in the cells!’ </p><p>He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Be- </p><p>fore being brought here he had been taken to another place </p><p>which must have been an ordinary prison or a temporary </p><p>lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know how long he </p><p>had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and </p><p>no daylight it was hard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evil- </p><p>smelling place. They had put him into a cell similar to the </p><p>one he was now in, but filthily dirty and at all times crowded </p><p>by ten or fifteen people. The majority of them were common </p><p>criminals, but there were a few political prisoners among </p><p>them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty </p><p>bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his belly to </p><p>take much interest in his surroundings, but still noticing </p><p>the astonishing difference in demeanour between the Party </p><p>prisoners and the others. The Party prisoners were always </p><p>silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals seemed to </p><p>care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards, </p><p>fought back fiercely when their belongings were impound- </p><p>ed, wrote obscene words on the floor, ate smuggled food </p><p>which they produced from mysterious hiding-places in their </p><p>clothes, and even shouted down the telescreen when it tried </p><p>to restore order. On the other hand some of them seemed </p><p>286 </p><p>1984 </p><p>to be on good terms with the guards, called them by nick- </p><p>names, and tried to wheedle cigarettes through the spyhole </p><p>in the door. The guards, too, treated the common criminals</p><p>with a certain forbearance, even when they had to handle </p><p>them roughly. There was much talk about the forced-labour </p><p>camps to which most of the prisoners expected to be sent. </p><p>It was ‘all right’ in the camps, he gathered, so long as you </p><p>had good contacts and knew the ropes. There was bribery, </p><p>favouritism, and racketeering of every kind, there was ho- </p><p>mosexuality and prostitution, there was even illicit alcohol </p><p>distilled from potatoes. The positions of trust were given </p><p>only to the common criminals, especially the gangsters and </p><p>the murderers, who formed a sort of aristocracy. All the </p><p>dirty jobs were done by the politicals. </p><p>There was a constant come-and-go of prisoners of every </p><p>description: drug-peddlers, thieves, bandits, black-mar- </p><p>keteers, drunks, prostitutes. Some of the drunks were so </p><p>violent that the other prisoners had to combine to sup- </p><p>press them. An enormous wreck of a woman, aged about </p><p>sixty, with great tumbling breasts and thick coils of white </p><p>hair which had come down in her struggles, was carried in, </p><p>kicking and shouting, by four guards, who had hold of her </p><p>one at each corner. They wrenched off the boots with which </p><p>she had been trying to kick them, and dumped her down </p><p>across Winston’s lap, almost breaking his thigh-bones. The </p><p>woman hoisted herself upright and followed them out with </p><p>a yell of ‘F bastards!’ Then, noticing that she was sit- </p><p>ting on something uneven, she slid off Winston’s knees on </p><p>to the bench. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>287 </p><p>‘Beg pardon, dearie,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t ‘a sat on you, </p><p>only the buggers put me there. They dono ‘ow to treat a lady, </p><p>do they?’ She paused, patted her breast, and belched. ‘Par- </p><p>don,’ she said, ‘I ain’t meself, quite.’ </p><p>She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor. </p><p>‘Thass better,’ she said, leaning back with closed eyes. </p><p>‘Never keep it down, thass what I say. Get it up while it’s </p><p>fresh on your stomach, like.’ </p><p>She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and </p><p>seemed immediately to take a fancy to him. She put a vast </p><p>arm round his shoulder and drew him towards her, breath- </p><p>ing beer and vomit into his face. </p><p>‘Wass your name, dearie?’ she said. </p><p>‘Smith,’ said Winston. </p><p>‘Smith?’ said the woman. ‘Thass funny. My name’s Smith </p><p>too. Why,’ she added sentimentally, ‘I might be your moth-</p><p>er!’ </p><p>She might, thought Winston, be his mother. She was </p><p>about the right age and physique, and it was probable that </p><p>people changed somewhat after twenty years in a forced-la- </p><p>bour camp. </p><p>No one else had spoken to him. To a surprising extent </p><p>the ordinary criminals ignored the Party prisoners. ‘The </p><p>polITS,’ they called them, with a sort of uninterested con- </p><p>tempt. The Party prisoners seemed terrified of speaking to </p><p>anybody, and above all of speaking to one another. Only </p><p>once, when two Party members, both women, were pressed </p><p>close together on the bench, he overheard amid the din of </p><p>voices a few hurriedly-whispered words; and in particular a </p><p>288 </p><p>1984 </p><p>reference to something called ‘room one-oh-one’, which he </p><p>did not understand. </p><p>It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought </p><p>him here. The dull pain in his belly never went away, but </p><p>sometimes it grew better and sometimes worse, and his </p><p>thoughts expanded or contracted accordingly. When it </p><p>grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his de- </p><p>sire for food. When it grew better, panic took hold of him. </p><p>There were moments when he foresaw the things that would </p><p>happen to him with such actuality that his heart galloped </p><p>and his breath stopped. He felt the smash of truncheons on </p><p>his elbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself </p><p>grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercy through bro- </p><p>ken teeth. He hardly thought of Julia. He could not fix his </p><p>mind on her. He loved her and would not betray her; but </p><p>that was only a fact, known as he knew the rules of arith- </p><p>metic. He felt no love for her, and he hardly even wondered </p><p>what was happening to her. He thought oftener of O’Brien, </p><p>with a flickering hope. O’Brien might know that he had </p><p>been arrested. The Brotherhood, he had said, never tried to </p><p>save its members. But there was the razor blade; they would </p><p>send the razor blade if they could. There would be perhaps </p><p>five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell. The </p><p>blade would bite into him with a sort of burning coldness, </p><p>and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the bone. </p><p>Everything came back to his sick body, which shrank trem- </p><p>bling from the smallest pain. He was not certain that he </p><p>would use the razor blade even if he got the chance. It was </p><p>more natural to exist from moment to moment, accepting </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>289 </p><p>another ten minutes’ life even with the certainty that there </p><p>was torture at the end of it. </p><p>Sometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain </p><p>bricks in the walls of the cell. It should have been easy, but </p><p>he always lost count at some point or another. More often he </p><p>wondered where he was, and what time of day it was. At one </p><p>moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight outside, </p><p>and at the next equally certain that it was pitch darkness. In </p><p>this place, he knew instinctively, the lights would never be </p><p>turned out. It was the place with no darkness: he saw now </p><p>why O’Brien had seemed to recognize the allusion. In the </p><p>Ministry of Love there were no windows. His cell might be </p><p>at the heart of the building or against its outer wall; it might </p><p>be ten floors below ground, or thirty above it. He moved </p><p>himself mentally from place to place, and tried to deter- </p><p>mine by the feeling of his body whether he was perched </p><p>high in the air or buried deep underground. </p><p>There was a sound of marching boots outside. The steel </p><p>door opened with a clang. A young officer, a trim black-uni- </p><p>formed figure who seemed to glitter all over with polished </p><p>leather, and whose pale, straight-featured face was like a </p><p>wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway. He mo- </p><p>tioned to the guards outside to bring in the prisoner they </p><p>were leading. The poet Ampleforth shambled into the cell. </p><p>The door clanged shut again. </p><p>Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from </p><p>side to side, as though having some idea that there was an- </p><p>other door to go out of, and then began to wander up and </p><p>down the cell. He had not yet noticed Winston’s presence. </p><p>29O </p><p>1984 </p><p>His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre </p><p>above the level of Winston’s head. He was shoeless; large, </p><p>dirty toes were sticking out of the holes in his socks. He </p><p>was also several days away from a shave. A scrubby beard </p><p>covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air of </p><p>ruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and </p><p>nervous movements. </p><p>Winston roused hirnself a little from his lethargy. He </p><p>must speak to Ampleforth, and risk the yell from the tele- </p><p>screen. It was even conceivable that Ampleforth was the </p><p>bearer of the razor blade. </p><p>Ampleforth,’ he said.</p><p>There was no yell from the telescreen. Ampleforth </p><p>paused, mildly startled. His eyes focused themselves slowly </p><p>on Winston. </p><p>Ah, Smith!’ he said. ‘You too!’ </p><p>‘What are you in for?’ </p><p>‘To tell you the truth — ’ He sat down awkwardly on the </p><p>bench opposite Winston. ‘There is only one offence, is there </p><p>not?’ he said. </p><p>‘And have you committed it?’ </p><p>‘Apparently I have.’ </p><p>He put a hand to his forehead and pressed his temples for </p><p>a moment, as though trying to remember something. </p><p>‘These things happen,’ he began vaguely. ‘I have been </p><p>able to recall one instance — a possible instance. It was an </p><p>indiscretion, undoubtedly. We were producing a definitive </p><p>edition of the poems of Kipling. I allowed the word ‘God’ to </p><p>remain at the end of a line. I could not help it!’ he added al- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>291 </p><p>most indignantly, raising his face to look at Winston. ‘It was </p><p>impossible to change the line. The rhyme was ‘rod”. Do you </p><p>realize that there are only twelve rhymes to ‘rod’ in the en- </p><p>tire language? For days I had racked my brains. There WAS </p><p>no other rhyme.’ </p><p>The expression on his face changed. The annoyance </p><p>passed out of it and for a moment he looked almost pleased. </p><p>A sort of intellectual warmth, the joy of the pedant who has </p><p>found out some useless fact, shone through the dirt and </p><p>scrubby hair. </p><p>‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ he said, ‘that the whole his- </p><p>tory of English poetry has been determined by the fact that </p><p>the English language lacks rhymes?’ </p><p>No, that particular thought had never occurred to Win- </p><p>ston. Nor, in the circumstances, did it strike him as very </p><p>important or interesting. </p><p>‘Do you know what time of day it is?’ he said. </p><p>Ampleforth looked startled again. ‘I had hardly thought </p><p>about it. They arrested me — it could be two days ago — per- </p><p>haps three.’ His eyes flitted round the walls, as though he</p><p>half expected to find a window somewhere. ‘There is no dif- </p><p>ference between night and day in this place. I do not see </p><p>how one can calculate the time.’ </p><p>They talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without </p><p>apparent reason, a yell from the telescreen bade them be </p><p>silent. Winston sat quietly, his hands crossed. Ampleforth, </p><p>too large to sit in comfort on the narrow bench, fidgeted </p><p>from side to side, clasping his lank hands first round one </p><p>knee, then round the other. The telescreen barked at him to </p><p>292 </p><p>1984 </p><p>keep still. Time passed. Twenty minutes, an hour — it was </p><p>difficult to judge. Once more there was a sound of boots </p><p>outside. Winston’s entrails contracted. Soon, very soon, </p><p>perhaps in five minutes, perhaps now, the tramp of boots </p><p>would mean that his own turn had come. </p><p>The door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped </p><p>into the cell. With a brief movement of the hand he indi- </p><p>cated Ampleforth. </p><p>‘Room 101,’ he said. </p><p>Ampleforth marched clumsily out between the guards, </p><p>his face vaguely perturbed, but uncomprehending. </p><p>What seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Win- </p><p>ston’s belly had revived. His mind sagged round and round </p><p>on the same trick, like a ball falling again and again into </p><p>the same series of slots. He had only six thoughts. The pain </p><p>in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the screaming; </p><p>O’Brien; Julia; the razor blade. There was another spasm in </p><p>his entrails, the heavy boots were approaching. As the door </p><p>opened, the wave of air that it created brought in a power- </p><p>ful smell of cold sweat. Parsons walked into the cell. He was </p><p>wearing khaki shorts and a sports-shirt. </p><p>This time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness. </p><p>‘YOU here!’ he said. </p><p>Parsons gave Winston a glance in which there was </p><p>neither interest nor surprise, but only misery. He began </p><p>walking jerkily up and down, evidently unable to keep still. </p><p>Each time he straightened his pudgy knees it was apparent </p><p>that they were trembling. His eyes had a wide-open, staring </p><p>look, as though he could not prevent himself from gazing at </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>293 </p><p>something in the middle distance. </p><p>‘What are you in for?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘Thoughtcrime!’ said Parsons, almost blubbering. The </p><p>tone of his voice implied at once a complete admission of </p><p>his guilt and a sort of incredulous horror that such a word </p><p>could be applied to himself. He paused opposite Winston </p><p>and began eagerly appealing to him: ‘You don’t think they’ll </p><p>shoot me, do you, old chap? They don’t shoot you if you </p><p>haven’t actually done anything — only thoughts, which you </p><p>can’t help? I know they give you a fair hearing. Oh, I trust </p><p>them for that! They’ll know my record, won’t they? YOU </p><p>know what kind of chap I was. Not a bad chap in my way. </p><p>Not brainy, of course, but keen. I tried to do my best for the </p><p>Party, didn’t I? I’ll get off with five years, don’t you think? Or </p><p>even ten years? A chap like me could make himself pretty </p><p>useful in a labour- camp. They wouldn’t shoot me for going </p><p>off the rails just once?’ </p><p>‘Are you guilty?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘Of course I’m guilty!’ cried Parsons with a servile glance </p><p>at the telescreen. ‘You don’t think the Party would arrest </p><p>an innocent man, do you?’ His frog-like face grew calm- </p><p>er, and even took on a slightly sanctimonious expression. </p><p>‘Thoughtcrime is a dreadful thing, old man,’ he said senten- </p><p>tiously. ‘It’s insidious. It can get hold of you without your </p><p>even knowing it. Do you know how it got hold of me? In my </p><p>sleep! Yes, that’s a fact. There I was, working away, trying to </p><p>do my bit — never knew I had any bad stuff in my mind at all. </p><p>And then I started talking in my sleep. Do you know what </p><p>they heard me saying?’ </p><p>294 </p><p>1984 </p><p>He sank his voice, like someone who is obliged for medi- </p><p>cal reasons to utter an obscenity. </p><p>"Down with Big Brother!’ Yes, I said that! Said it over </p><p>and over again, it seems. Between you and me, old man, I’m </p><p>glad they got me before it went any further. Do you know </p><p>what I’m going to say to them when I go up before the tribu- </p><p>nal? ‘Thank you,’ I’m going to say, ‘thank you for saving me </p><p>before it was too late.“ </p><p>‘Who denounced you?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘It was my little daughter,’ said Parsons with a sort of </p><p>doleful pride. ‘She listened at the keyhole. Heard what I </p><p>was saying, and nipped off to the patrols the very next day. </p><p>Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh? I don’t bear her any </p><p>grudge for it. In fact I’m proud of her. It shows I brought her </p><p>up in the right spirit, anyway.’ </p><p>He made a few more jerky movements up and down, </p><p>several times, casting a longing glance at the lavatory pan. </p><p>Then he suddenly ripped down his shorts. </p><p>‘Excuse me, old man,’ he said. ‘I can’t help it. It’s the wait- </p><p>ing.’ </p><p>He plumped his large posterior into the lavatory pan. </p><p>Winston covered his face with his hands. </p><p>‘Smith!’ yelled the voice from the telescreen. ‘6079 Smith </p><p>W! Uncover your face. No faces covered in the cells.’ </p><p>Winston uncovered his face. Parsons used the lavatory, </p><p>loudly and abundantly. It then turned out that the plug was </p><p>defective and the cell stank abominably for hours after- </p><p>wards. </p><p>Parsons was removed. More prisoners came and went, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>295 </p><p>mysteriously. One, a woman, was consigned to ‘Room 101’, </p><p>and, Winston noticed, seemed to shrivel and turn a differ- </p><p>ent colour when she heard the words. A time came when, if </p><p>it had been morning when he was brought here, it would be </p><p>afternoon; or if it had been afternoon, then it would be mid- </p><p>night. There were six prisoners in the cell, men and women. </p><p>All sat very still. Opposite Winston there sat a man with a </p><p>chinless, toothy face exactly like that of some large, harm- </p><p>less rodent. His fat, mottled cheeks were so pouched at the </p><p>bottom that it was difficult not to believe that he had little </p><p>stores of food tucked away there. His pale-grey eyes flitted </p><p>timorously from face to face and turned quickly away again </p><p>when he caught anyone’s eye. </p><p>The door opened, and another prisoner was brought in </p><p>whose appearance sent a momentary chill through Win- </p><p>ston. He was a commonplace, mean-looking man who </p><p>might have been an engineer or technician of some kind. </p><p>But what was startling was the emaciation of his face. It </p><p>was like a skull. Because of its thinness the mouth and eyes </p><p>looked disproportionately large, and the eyes seemed filled </p><p>with a murderous, unappeasable hatred of somebody or </p><p>something. </p><p>The man sat down on the bench at a little distance from </p><p>Winston. Winston did not look at him again, but the tor- </p><p>mented, skull-like face was as vivid in his mind as though </p><p>it had been straight in front of his eyes. Suddenly he real- </p><p>ized what was the matter. The man was dying of starvation. </p><p>The same thought seemed to occur almost simultaneously </p><p>to everyone in the cell. There was a very faint stirring all </p><p>296 </p><p>1984 </p><p>the way round the bench. The eyes of the chinless man kept </p><p>flitting towards the skull-faced man, then turning guiltily </p><p>away, then being dragged back by an irresistible attraction. </p><p>Presently he began to fidget on his seat. At last he stood up, </p><p>waddled clumsily across the cell, dug down into the pocket </p><p>of his overalls, and, with an abashed air, held out a grimy </p><p>piece of bread to the skull-faced man. </p><p>There was a furious, deafening roar from the telescreen. </p><p>The chinless man jumped in his tracks. The skull-faced man </p><p>had quickly thrust his hands behind his back, as though </p><p>demonstrating to all the world that he refused the gift. </p><p>‘Bumstead!’ roared the voice. ‘2713 Bumstead J.! Let fall </p><p>that piece of bread!’ </p><p>The chinless man dropped the piece of bread on the </p><p>floor. </p><p>‘Remain standing where you are,’ said the voice. ‘Face the </p><p>door. Make no movement.’ </p><p>The chinless man obeyed. His large pouchy cheeks were </p><p>quivering uncontrollably. The door clanged open. As the </p><p>young officer entered and stepped aside, there emerged </p><p>from behind him a short stumpy guard with enormous </p><p>arms and shoulders. He took his stand opposite the chin- </p><p>less man, and then, at a signal from the officer, let free a </p><p>frightful blow, with all the weight of his body behind it, full </p><p>in the chinless man’s mouth. The force of it seemed almost </p><p>to knock him clear of the floor. His body was flung across </p><p>the cell and fetched up against the base of the lavatory seat. </p><p>For a moment he lay as though stunned, with dark blood </p><p>oozing from his mouth and nose. A very faint whimper- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>297 </p><p>ing or squeaking, which seemed unconscious, came out of </p><p>him. Then he rolled over and raised himself unsteadily on </p><p>hands and knees. Amid a stream of blood and saliva, the </p><p>two halves of a dental plate fell out of his mouth. </p><p>The prisoners sat very still, their hands crossed on their </p><p>knees. The chinless man climbed back into his place. Down </p><p>one side of his face the flesh was darkening. His mouth had </p><p>swollen into a shapeless cherry- coloured mass with a black </p><p>hole in the middle of it. </p><p>From time to time a little blood dripped on to the breast </p><p>of his overalls. His grey eyes still flitted from face to face, </p><p>more guiltily than ever, as though he were trying to discov- </p><p>er how much the others despised him for his humiliation. </p><p>The door opened. With a small gesture the officer indi- </p><p>cated the skull-faced man. </p><p>‘Room 101,’ he said. </p><p>There was a gasp and a flurry at Winston’s side. The man </p><p>had actually flung himself on his knees on the floor, with </p><p>his hand clasped together. </p><p>‘Comrade! Officer!’ he cried. ‘You don’t have to take me to </p><p>that place! Haven’t I told you everything already? What else </p><p>is it you want to know? There’s nothing I wouldn’t confess, </p><p>nothing! Just tell me what it is and I’ll confess straight off. </p><p>Write it down and I’ll sign it — anything! Not room 101!’ </p><p>‘Room 101,’ said the officer. </p><p>The man’s face, already very pale, turned a colour Win- </p><p>ston would not have believed possible. It was definitely, </p><p>unmistakably, a shade of green. </p><p>‘Do anything to me!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve been starving me </p><p>298 </p><p>1984 </p><p>for weeks. Finish it off and let me die. Shoot me. Hang me. </p><p>Sentence me to twenty-five years. Is there somebody else </p><p>you want me to give away? Just say who it is and I’ll tell you </p><p>anything you want. I don’t care who it is or what you do to </p><p>them. I’ve got a wife and three children. The biggest of them </p><p>isn’t six years old. You can take the whole lot of them and </p><p>cut their throats in front of my eyes, and I’ll stand by and </p><p>watch it. But not Room 101!’ </p><p>‘Room 101,’ said the officer. </p><p>The man looked frantically round at the other prisoners,</p><p>as though with some idea that he could put another victim </p><p>in his own place. His eyes settled on the smashed face of the </p><p>chinless man. He flung out a lean arm. </p><p>‘That’s the one you ought to be taking, not me!’ he shout- </p><p>ed. ‘You didn’t hear what he was saying after they bashed </p><p>his face. Give me a chance and I’ll tell you every word of it. </p><p>HE’S the one that’s against the Party, not me.’ The guards </p><p>stepped forward. The man’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘You </p><p>didn’t hear him!’ he repeated. ‘Something went wrong with </p><p>the telescreen. HE’S the one you want. Take him, not me!’ </p><p>The two sturdy guards had stooped to take him by the </p><p>arms. But just at this moment he flung himself across the </p><p>floor of the cell and grabbed one of the iron legs that sup- </p><p>ported the bench. He had set up a wordless howling, like an </p><p>animal. The guards took hold of him to wrench him loose, </p><p>but he clung on with astonishing strength. For perhaps </p><p>twenty seconds they were hauling at him. The prisoners sat </p><p>quiet, their hands crossed on their knees, looking straight </p><p>in front of them. The howling stopped; the man had no </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>299 </p><p>breath left for anything except hanging on. Then there was </p><p>a different kind of cry. A kick from a guard’s boot had bro- </p><p>ken the fingers of one of his hands. They dragged him to </p><p>his feet. </p><p>‘Room 101,’ said the officer. </p><p>The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head </p><p>sunken, nursing his crushed hand, all the fight had gone </p><p>out of him. </p><p>A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the </p><p>skull-faced man was taken away, it was morning: if morn- </p><p>ing, it was afternoon. Winston was alone, and had been </p><p>alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow bench </p><p>was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved </p><p>by the telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chin- </p><p>less man had dropped it. At the beginning it needed a hard </p><p>effort not to look at it, but presently hunger gave way to </p><p>thirst. His mouth was sticky and evil-tasting. The hum- </p><p>ming sound and the unvarying white light induced a sort </p><p>of faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would get </p><p>up because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable, </p><p>and then would sit down again almost at once because he </p><p>was too dizzy to make sure of staying on his feet. Whenever </p><p>his physical sensations were a little under control the ter- </p><p>ror returned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought of </p><p>O’Brien and the razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor </p><p>blade might arrive concealed in his food, if he were ever</p><p>fed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere or other </p><p>she was suffering perhaps far worse than he. She might be </p><p>screaming with pain at this moment. He thought: ‘If I could </p><p>300 </p><p>1984 </p><p>save Julia by doubling my own pain, would I do it? Yes, I </p><p>would.’ But that was merely an intellectual decision, taken </p><p>because he knew that he ought to take it. He did not feel it. </p><p>In this place you could not feel anything, except pain and </p><p>foreknowledge of pain. Besides, was it possible, when you </p><p>were actually suffering it, to wish for any reason that your </p><p>own pain should increase? But that question was not an- </p><p>swerable yet. </p><p>The boots were approaching again. The door opened. </p><p>O’Brien came in. </p><p>Winston started to his feet. The shock of the sight had </p><p>driven all caution out of him. For the first time in many </p><p>years he forgot the presence of the telescreen. </p><p>‘They’ve got you too!’ he cried. </p><p>‘They got me a long time ago,’ said O’Brien with a mild, </p><p>almost regretful irony. He stepped aside. From behind him </p><p>there emerged a broad-chested guard with a long black </p><p>truncheon in his hand. </p><p>‘You know this, Winston,’ said O’Brien. ‘Don’t deceive </p><p>yourself. You did know it — you have always known it.’ </p><p>Yes, he saw now, he had always known it. But there was no </p><p>time to think of that. All he had eyes for was the truncheon </p><p>in the guard’s hand. It might fall anywhere; on the crown, </p><p>on the tip of the ear, on the upper arm, on the elbow </p><p>The elbow! He had slumped to his knees, almost para- </p><p>lysed, clasping the stricken elbow with his other hand. </p><p>Everything had exploded into yellow light. Inconceivable, </p><p>inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain! The </p><p>light cleared and he could see the other two looking down </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>301 </p><p>at him. The guard was laughing at his contortions. One </p><p>question at any rate was answered. Never, for any reason</p><p>on earth, could you wish for an increase of pain. Of pain </p><p>you could wish only one thing: that it should stop. Nothing </p><p>in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain </p><p>there are no heroes, no heroes, he thought over and over as </p><p>he writhed on the floor, clutching uselessly at his disabled </p><p>left arm. </p><p>302 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter 2 </p><p>H e was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, ex- </p><p>cept that it was higher off the ground and that he was </p><p>fixed down in some way so that he could not move. Light </p><p>that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face. </p><p>O’Brien was standing at his side, looking down at him in- </p><p>tently. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, </p><p>holding a hypodermic syringe. </p><p>Even after his eyes were open he took in his surround- </p><p>ings only gradually. He had the impression of swimming up </p><p>into this room from some quite different world, a sort of un- </p><p>derwater world far beneath it. How long he had been down </p><p>there he did not know. Since the moment when they arrest- </p><p>ed him he had not seen darkness or daylight. Besides, his </p><p>memories were not continuous. There had been times when </p><p>consciousness, even the sort of consciousness that one has </p><p>in sleep, had stopped dead and started again after a blank </p><p>interval. But whether the intervals were of days or weeks or </p><p>only seconds, there was no way of knowing. </p><p>With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had </p><p>started. Later he was to realize that all that then happened </p><p>was merely a preliminary, a routine interrogation to which </p><p>nearly all prisoners were subjected. There was a long range </p><p>of crimes — espionage, sabotage, and the like — to which ev- </p><p>eryone had to confess as a matter of course. The confession </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>303 </p><p>was a formality, though the torture was real. How many </p><p>times he had been beaten, how long the beatings had con- </p><p>tinued, he could not remember. Always there were five or </p><p>six men in black uniforms at him simultaneously. Some- </p><p>times it was fists, sometimes it was truncheons, sometimes </p><p>it was steel rods, sometimes it was boots. There were times</p><p>when he rolled about the floor, as shameless as an animal, </p><p>writhing his body this way and that in an endless, hopeless </p><p>effort to dodge the kicks, and simply inviting more and yet </p><p>more kicks, in his ribs, in his belly, on his elbows, on his </p><p>shins, in his groin, in his testicles, on the bone at the base </p><p>of his spine. There were times when it went on and on un- </p><p>til the cruel, wicked, unforgivable thing seemed to him not </p><p>that the guards continued to beat him but that he could not </p><p>force hirnself into losing consciousness. There were times </p><p>when his nerve so forsook him that he began shouting for </p><p>mercy even before the beating began, when the mere sight </p><p>of a fist drawn back for a blow was enough to make him </p><p>pour forth a confession of real and imaginary crimes. There </p><p>were other times when he started out with the resolve of </p><p>confessing nothing, when every word had to be forced out </p><p>of him between gasps of pain, and there were times when he </p><p>feebly tried to compromise, when he said to himself: ‘I will </p><p>confess, but not yet. I must hold out till the pain becomes </p><p>unbearable. Three more kicks, two more kicks, and then I </p><p>will tell them what they want.’ Sometimes he was beaten till </p><p>he could hardly stand, then flung like a sack of potatoes on </p><p>to the stone floor of a cell, left to recuperate for a few hours, </p><p>and then taken out and beaten again. There were also longer </p><p>304 </p><p>1984 </p><p>periods of recovery. He remembered them dimly, because </p><p>they were spent chiefly in sleep or stupor. He remembered </p><p>a cell with a plank bed, a sort of shelf sticking out from the </p><p>wall, and a tin wash-basin, and meals of hot soup and bread </p><p>and sometimes coffee. He remembered a surly barber arriv- </p><p>ing to scrape his chin and crop his hair, and businesslike, </p><p>unsympathetic men in white coats feeling his pulse, tapping </p><p>his reflexes, turning up his eyelids, running harsh fingers </p><p>over him in search for broken bones, and shooting needles </p><p>into his arm to make him sleep. </p><p>The beatings grew less frequent, and became mainly a </p><p>threat, a horror to which he could be sent back at any mo- </p><p>ment when his answers were unsatisfactory. His questioners </p><p>now were not ruffians in black uniforms but Party intellec- </p><p>tuals, little rotund men with quick movements and flashing </p><p>spectacles, who worked on him in relays over periods which </p><p>lasted — he thought, he could not be sure — ten or twelve </p><p>hours at a stretch. These other questioners saw to it that he </p><p>was in constant slight pain, but it was not chiefly pain that </p><p>they relied on. They slapped his face, wrung his ears, pulled </p><p>his hair, made him stand on one leg, refused him leave to </p><p>urinate, shone glaring lights in his face until his eyes ran </p><p>with water; but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him </p><p>and destroy his power of arguing and reasoning. Their real </p><p>weapon was the merciless questioning that went on and on, </p><p>hour after hour, tripping him up, laying traps for him, twist-</p><p>ing everything that he said, convicting him at every step of </p><p>lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much </p><p>from shame as from nervous fatigue. Sometimes he would </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>305 </p><p>weep half a dozen times in a single session. Most of the time </p><p>they screamed abuse at him and threatened at every hesita- </p><p>tion to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes </p><p>they would suddenly change their tune, call him comrade, </p><p>appeal to him in the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother, and </p><p>ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not enough </p><p>loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil </p><p>he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of </p><p>questioning, even this appeal could reduce him to snivel- </p><p>ling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down </p><p>more completely than the boots and fists of the guards. He </p><p>became simply a mouth that uttered, a hand that signed, </p><p>whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to </p><p>find out what they wanted him to confess, and then confess </p><p>it quickly, before the bullying started anew. He confessed </p><p>to the assassination of eminent Party members, the dis- </p><p>tribution of seditious pamphlets, embezzlement of public </p><p>funds, sale of military secrets, sabotage of every kind. He </p><p>confessed that he had been a spy in the pay of the Easta- </p><p>sian government as far back as 1968. He confessed that he </p><p>was a religious believer, an admirer of capitalism, and a sex- </p><p>ual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his wife, </p><p>although he knew, and his questioners must have known, </p><p>that his wife was still alive. He confessed that for years he </p><p>had been in personal touch with Goldstein and had been </p><p>a member of an underground organization which had in- </p><p>cluded almost every human being he had ever known. It </p><p>was easier to confess everything and implicate everybody. </p><p>Besides, in a sense it was all true. It was true that he had </p><p>306 </p><p>1984 </p><p>been the enemy of the Party, and in the eyes of the Party </p><p>there was no distinction between the thought and the deed. </p><p>There were also memories of another kind. They stood </p><p>out in his mind disconnectedly, like pictures with black- </p><p>ness all round them. </p><p>He was in a cell which might have been either dark or </p><p>light, because he could see nothing except a pair of eyes.</p><p>Near at hand some kind of instrument was ticking slow- </p><p>ly and regularly. The eyes grew larger and more luminous. </p><p>Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and </p><p>was swallowed up. </p><p>He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under </p><p>dazzling lights. A man in a white coat was reading the dials. </p><p>There was a tramp of heavy boots outside. The door clanged </p><p>open. The waxed-faced officer marched in, followed by two </p><p>guards. </p><p>‘Room 101,’ said the officer. </p><p>The man in the white coat did not turn round. He did not </p><p>look at Winston either; he was looking only at the dials. </p><p>He was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometre </p><p>wide, full of glorious, golden light, roaring with laughter </p><p>and shouting out confessions at the top of his voice. He was </p><p>confessing everything, even the things he had succeeded </p><p>in holding back under the torture. He was relating the en- </p><p>tire history of his life to an audience who knew it already. </p><p>With him were the guards, the other questioners, the men </p><p>in white coats, O’Brien, Julia, Mr Charrington, all rolling </p><p>down the corridor together and shouting with laughter. </p><p>Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the fu- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>307 </p><p>ture had somehow been skipped over and had not happened. </p><p>Everything was all right, there was no more pain, the last </p><p>detail of his life was laid bare, understood, forgiven. </p><p>He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-cer- </p><p>tainty that he had heard O’Brien’s voice. All through his </p><p>interrogation, although he had never seen him, he had had </p><p>the feeling that O’Brien was at his elbow, just out of sight. It </p><p>was O’Brien who was directing everything. It was he who </p><p>set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from </p><p>killing him. It was he who decided when Winston should </p><p>scream with pain, when he should have a respite, when he </p><p>should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs should </p><p>be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the ques- </p><p>tions and suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he </p><p>was the protector, he was the inquisitor, he was the friend. </p><p>And once — Winston could not remember whether it was </p><p>in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment </p><p>of wakefulness — a voice murmured in his ear: ‘Don’t wor- </p><p>ry, Winston; you are in my keeping. For seven years I have </p><p>watched over you. Now the turning-point has come. I shall </p><p>save you, I shall make you perfect.’ He was not sure whether </p><p>it was O’Brien’s voice; but it was the same voice that had </p><p>said to him, ‘We shall meet in the place where there is no</p><p>darkness,’ in that other dream, seven years ago. </p><p>He did not remember any ending to his interrogation. </p><p>There was a period of blackness and then the cell, or room, </p><p>in which he now was had gradually materialized round him. </p><p>He was almost flat on his back, and unable to move. His </p><p>body was held down at every essential point. Even the back </p><p>308 </p><p>1984 </p><p>of his head was gripped in some manner. O’Brien was look- </p><p>ing down at him gravely and rather sadly. His face, seen </p><p>from below, looked coarse and worn, with pouches under </p><p>the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin. He was older </p><p>than Winston had thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight </p><p>or fifty. Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top </p><p>and figures running round the face. </p><p>‘I told you,’ said O’Brien, ‘that if we met again it would </p><p>be here.’ </p><p>‘Yes,’ said Winston. </p><p>Without any warning except a slight movement of </p><p>O’Brien’s hand, a wave of pain flooded his body. It was a </p><p>frightening pain, because he could not see what was hap- </p><p>pening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was </p><p>being done to him. He did not know whether the thing was </p><p>really happening, or whether the effect was electrically pro- </p><p>duced; but his body was being wrenched out of shape, the </p><p>joints were being slowly torn apart. Although the pain had </p><p>brought the sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was </p><p>the fear that his backbone was about to snap. He set his </p><p>teeth and breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep </p><p>silent as long as possible. </p><p>‘You are afraid,’ said O’Brien, watching his face, ‘that in </p><p>another moment something is going to break. Your especial </p><p>fear is that it will be your backbone. You have a vivid mental </p><p>picture of the vertebrae snapping apart and the spinal fluid </p><p>dripping out of them. That is what you are thinking, is it </p><p>not, Winston?’ </p><p>Winston did not answer. O’Brien drew back the lever on </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>309 </p><p>the dial. The wave of pain receded almost as quickly as it </p><p>had come. </p><p>‘That was forty,’ said O’Brien. ‘You can see that the num- </p><p>bers on this dial run up to a hundred. Will you please </p><p>remember, throughout our conversation, that I have it in </p><p>my power to inflict pain on you at any moment and to what- </p><p>ever degree I choose? If you tell me any lies, or attempt to </p><p>prevaricate in any way, or even fall below your usual level </p><p>of intelligence, you will cry out with pain, instantly. Do you </p><p>understand that?’ </p><p>‘Yes,’ said Winston. </p><p>O’Brien’s manner became less severe. He resettled his </p><p>spectacles thoughtfully, and took a pace or two up and </p><p>down. When he spoke his voice was gentle and patient. He </p><p>had the air of a doctor, a teacher, even a priest, anxious to </p><p>explain and persuade rather than to punish. </p><p>‘I am taking trouble with you, Winston,’ he said, ‘because </p><p>you are worth trouble. You know perfectly well what is the </p><p>matter with you. You have known it for years, though you </p><p>have fought against the knowledge. You are mentally de- </p><p>ranged. You suffer from a defective memory. You are unable </p><p>to remember real events and you persuade yourself that you </p><p>remember other events which never happened. Fortunately </p><p>it is curable. You have never cured yourself of it, because </p><p>you did not choose to. There was a small effort of the will </p><p>that you were not ready to make. Even now, I am well aware, </p><p>you are clinging to your disease under the impression that </p><p>it is a virtue. Now we will take an example. At this moment, </p><p>which power is Oceania at war with?’ </p><p>310 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘When I was arrested, Oceania was at war with Eastasia.’ </p><p>‘With Eastasia. Good. And Oceania has always been at </p><p>war with Eastasia, has it not?’ </p><p>Winston drew in his breath. He opened his mouth to </p><p>speak and then did not speak. He could not take his eyes </p><p>away from the dial. </p><p>‘The truth, please, Winston. YOUR truth. Tell me what </p><p>you think you remember.’ </p><p>‘I remember that until only a week before I was arrested, </p><p>we were not at war with Eastasia at all. We were in alliance </p><p>with them. The war was against Eurasia. That had lasted for </p><p>four years. Before that ’ </p><p>O’Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand. </p><p>‘Another example,’ he said. ‘Some years ago you had a </p><p>very serious delusion indeed. You believed that three men, </p><p>three one-time Party members named Jones, Aaronson, </p><p>and Rutherford — men who were executed for treachery </p><p>and sabotage after making the fullest possible confession — </p><p>were not guilty of the crimes they were charged with. You </p><p>believed that you had seen unmistakable documentary evi- </p><p>dence proving that their confessions were false. There was </p><p>a certain photograph about which you had a hallucination. </p><p>You believed that you had actually held it in your hands. It </p><p>was a photograph something like this.’ </p><p>An oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between </p><p>O’Brien’s fingers. For perhaps five seconds it was within the </p><p>angle of Winston’s vision. It was a photograph, and there </p><p>was no question of its identity. It was THE photograph. It </p><p>was another copy of the photograph of Jones, Aaronson, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>311 </p><p>and Rutherford at the party function in New York, which </p><p>he had chanced upon eleven years ago and promptly de- </p><p>stroyed. For only an instant it was before his eyes, then it </p><p>was out of sight again. But he had seen it, unquestionably he </p><p>had seen it! He made a desperate, agonizing effort to wrench </p><p>the top half of his body free. It was impossible to move so </p><p>much as a centimetre in any direction. For the moment he </p><p>had even forgotten the dial. All he wanted was to hold the </p><p>photograph in his fingers again, or at least to see it. </p><p>‘It exists!’ he cried. </p><p>‘No,’ said O’Brien. </p><p>He stepped across the room. There was a memory hole </p><p>in the opposite wall. O’Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the </p><p>frail slip of paper was whirling away on the current of warm </p><p>air; it was vanishing in a flash of flame. O’Brien turned away </p><p>from the wall. </p><p>‘Ashes,’ he said. ‘Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does </p><p>not exist. It never existed.’ </p><p>‘But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I re- </p><p>member it. You remember it.’ </p><p>‘I do not remember it,’ said O’Brien. </p><p>Winston’s heart sank. That was doublethink. He had a </p><p>feeling of deadly helplessness. If he could have been certain </p><p>that O’Brien was lying, it would not have seemed to matter. </p><p>But it was perfectly possible that O’Brien had really forgot-</p><p>ten the photograph. And if so, then already he would have </p><p>forgotten his denial of remembering it, and forgotten the </p><p>act of forgetting. How could one be sure that it was simple </p><p>trickery? Perhaps that lunatic dislocation in the mind could </p><p>312 </p><p>1984 </p><p>really happen: that was the thought that defeated him. </p><p>O’Brien was looking down at him speculatively. More </p><p>than ever he had the air of a teacher taking pains with a </p><p>wayward but promising child. </p><p>‘There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the </p><p>past,’ he said. ‘Repeat it, if you please.’ </p><p>‘’Who controls the past controls the future: who controls </p><p>the present controls the past,“ repeated Winston obedient- </p><p>iy- </p><p>"Who controls the present controls the past,“ said </p><p>O’Brien, nodding his head with slow approval. ‘Is it your </p><p>opinion, Winston, that the past has real existence?’ </p><p>Again the feeling of helplessness descended upon Win- </p><p>ston. His eyes flitted towards the dial. He not only did not </p><p>know whether ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was the answer that would save </p><p>him from pain; he did not even know which answer he be- </p><p>lieved to be the true one. </p><p>O’Brien smiled faintly. ‘You are no metaphysician, Win- </p><p>ston,’ he said. ‘Until this moment you had never considered </p><p>what is meant by existence. I will put it more precisely. Does </p><p>the past exist concretely, in space? Is there somewhere or </p><p>other a place, a world of solid objects, where the past is still </p><p>happening?’ </p><p>‘No.’ </p><p>‘Then where does the past exist, if at all?’ </p><p>‘In records. It is written down.’ </p><p>‘In records. And ?’ </p><p>‘In the mind. In human memories.’ </p><p>‘In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>3i3 </p><p>records, and we control all memories. Then we control the </p><p>past, do we not?’ </p><p>‘But how can you stop people remembering things?’ cried </p><p>Winston again momentarily forgetting the dial. ‘It is invol- </p><p>untary. It is outside oneself. How can you control memory? </p><p>You have not controlled mine!’ </p><p>O’Brien’s manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on </p><p>the dial. </p><p>‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘YOU have not controlled it. </p><p>That is what has brought you here. You are here because </p><p>you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would </p><p>not make the act of submission which is the price of san- </p><p>ity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only </p><p>the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe </p><p>that reality is something objective, external, existing in its </p><p>own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self- </p><p>evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you </p><p>see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same </p><p>thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not ex- </p><p>ternal. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. </p><p>Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and </p><p>in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, </p><p>which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds </p><p>to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except </p><p>by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact </p><p>that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self- </p><p>destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself </p><p>before you can become sane.’ </p><p>He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what </p><p>314 </p><p>1984 </p><p>he had been saying to sink in. </p><p>‘Do you remember,’ he went on, ‘writing in your dia- </p><p>ry, ‘Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make </p><p>four’?’ </p><p>‘Yes,’ said Winston. </p><p>O’Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, </p><p>with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended. </p><p>‘How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?’</p><p>‘Four.’ </p><p>‘And if the party says that it is not four but five — then </p><p>how many?’ </p><p>‘Four.’ </p><p>The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial </p><p>had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over </p><p>Winston’s body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again </p><p>in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could </p><p>not stop. O’Brien watched him, the four fingers still ex- </p><p>tended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only </p><p>slightly eased. </p><p>‘How many fingers, Winston?’ </p><p>‘Four.’ </p><p>The needle went up to sixty. </p><p>‘How many fingers, Winston?’ </p><p>‘Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!’ </p><p>The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at </p><p>it. The heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. </p><p>The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, </p><p>blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four. </p><p>‘How many fingers, Winston?’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>3i5 </p><p>‘Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!’ </p><p>‘How many fingers, Winston?’ </p><p>‘Five! Five! Five!’ </p><p>‘No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think </p><p>there are four. How many fingers, please?’ </p><p>‘Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop </p><p>the pain!’ </p><p>Abruptly he was sitting up with O’Brien’s arm round his </p><p>shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few sec- </p><p>onds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened. </p><p>He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth </p><p>were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For </p><p>a moment he clung to O’Brien like a baby, curiously com- </p><p>forted by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the</p><p>feeling that O’Brien was his protector, that the pain was </p><p>something that came from outside, from some other source, </p><p>and that it was O’Brien who would save him from it. </p><p>‘You are a slow learner, Winston,’ said O’Brien gently. </p><p>‘How can I help it?’ he blubbered. ‘How can I help seeing </p><p>what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four.’ </p><p>Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Some- </p><p>times they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once. </p><p>You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane.’ </p><p>He laid Winston down on the bed. The grip of his limbs </p><p>tightened again, but the pain had ebbed away and the </p><p>trembling had stopped, leaving him merely weak and cold. </p><p>O’Brien motioned with his head to the man in the white </p><p>coat, who had stood immobile throughout the proceedings. </p><p>The man in the white coat bent down and looked closely </p><p>316 </p><p>1984 </p><p>into Winston’s eyes, felt his pulse, laid an ear against his </p><p>chest, tapped here and there, then he nodded to O’Brien. </p><p>‘Again,’ said O’Brien. </p><p>The pain flowed into Winston’s body. The needle must be </p><p>at seventy, seventy-five. He had shut his eyes this time. He </p><p>knew that the fingers were still there, and still four. All that </p><p>mattered was somehow to stay alive until the spasm was </p><p>over. He had ceased to notice whether he was crying out or </p><p>not. The pain lessened again. He opened his eyes. O’Brien </p><p>had drawn back the lever. </p><p>‘How many fingers, Winston?’ </p><p>‘Four. I suppose there are four. I would see five if I could. </p><p>I am trying to see five.’ </p><p>‘Which do you wish: to persuade me that you see five, or </p><p>really to see them?’ </p><p>‘Really to see them.’ </p><p>‘Again,’ said O’Brien. </p><p>Perhaps the needle was eighty — ninety. Winston could </p><p>not intermittently remember why the pain was happening. </p><p>Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of fingers seemed to </p><p>be moving in a sort of dance, weaving in and out, disap- </p><p>pearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was </p><p>trying to count them, he could not remember why. He knew </p><p>only that it was impossible to count them, and that this was</p><p>somehow due to the mysterious identity between five and </p><p>four. The pain died down again. When he opened his eyes </p><p>it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing. In- </p><p>numerable fingers, like moving trees, were still streaming </p><p>past in either direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>3i7 </p><p>his eyes again. </p><p>‘How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?’ </p><p>‘I don’t know. I don’t know. You will kill me if you do that </p><p>again. Four, five, six — in all honesty I don’t know.’ </p><p>‘Better,’ said O’Brien. </p><p>A needle slid into Winston’s arm. Almost in the same in- </p><p>stant a blissful, healing warmth spread all through his body. </p><p>The pain was already half-forgotten. He opened his eyes </p><p>and looked up gratefully at O’Brien. At sight of the heavy, </p><p>lined face, so ugly and so intelligent, his heart seemed to </p><p>turn over. If he could have moved he would have stretched </p><p>out a hand and laid it on O’Brien’s arm. He had never loved </p><p>him so deeply as at this moment, and not merely because </p><p>he had stopped the pain. The old feeling, that at bottom it </p><p>did not matter whether O’Brien was a friend or an enemy, </p><p>had come back. O’Brien was a person who could be talked </p><p>to. Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be </p><p>understood. O’Brien had tortured him to the edge of luna- </p><p>cy, and in a little while, it was certain, he would send him </p><p>to his death. It made no difference. In some sense that went </p><p>deeper than friendship, they were intimates: somewhere or </p><p>other, although the actual words might never be spoken, </p><p>there was a place where they could meet and talk. O’Brien </p><p>was looking down at him with an expression which suggest- </p><p>ed that the same thought might be in his own mind. When </p><p>he spoke it was in an easy, conversational tone. </p><p>‘Do you know where you are, Winston?’ he said. </p><p>‘I don’t know. I can guess. In the Ministry of Love.’ </p><p>‘Do you know how long you have been here?’ </p><p>318 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘I don’t know. Days, weeks, months — I think it is </p><p>months.’ </p><p>‘And why do you imagine that we bring people to this </p><p>place?’ </p><p>‘To make them confess.’ </p><p>‘No, that is not the reason. Try again.’ </p><p>‘To punish them.’ </p><p>‘No!’ exclaimed O’Brien. His voice had changed extraor- </p><p>dinarily, and his face had suddenly become both stern and </p><p>animated. ‘No! Not merely to extract your confession, not to </p><p>punish you. Shall I tell you why we have brought you here? </p><p>To cure you! To make you sane! Will you understand, Win- </p><p>ston, that no one whom we bring to this place ever leaves </p><p>our hands uncured? We are not interested in those stupid </p><p>crimes that you have committed. The Party is not interested </p><p>in the overt act: the thought is all we care about. We do not </p><p>merely destroy our enemies, we change them. Do you un- </p><p>derstand what I mean by that?’ </p><p>He was bending over Winston. His face looked enormous </p><p>because of its nearness, and hideously ugly because it was </p><p>seen from below. Moreover it was filled with a sort of exal- </p><p>tation, a lunatic intensity. Again Winston’s heart shrank. If </p><p>it had been possible he would have cowered deeper into the </p><p>bed. He felt certain that O’Brien was about to twist the dial </p><p>out of sheer wantonness. At this moment, however, O’Brien </p><p>turned away. He took a pace or two up and down. Then he </p><p>continued less vehemently: </p><p>‘The first thing for you to understand is that in this place </p><p>there are no martyrdoms. You have read of the religious </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>319 </p><p>persecutions of the past. In the Middle Ages there was the </p><p>Inquisition. It was a failure. It set out to eradicate heresy, and </p><p>ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it burned at the </p><p>stake, thousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because </p><p>the Inquisition killed its enemies in the open, and killed </p><p>them while they were still unrepentant: in fact, it killed </p><p>them because they were unrepentant. Men were dying be- </p><p>cause they would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally </p><p>all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame to the </p><p>Inquisitor who burned him. Later, in the twentieth century, </p><p>there were the totalitarians, as they were called. There were </p><p>the German Nazis and the Russian Communists. The Rus- </p><p>sians persecuted heresy more cruelly than the Inquisition </p><p>had done. And they imagined that they had learned from</p><p>the mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that one </p><p>must not make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims </p><p>to public trial, they deliberately set themselves to destroy </p><p>their dignity. They wore them down by torture and solitude </p><p>until they were despicable, cringing wretches, confessing </p><p>whatever was put into their mouths, covering themselves </p><p>with abuse, accusing and sheltering behind one another, </p><p>whimpering for mercy. And yet after only a few years the </p><p>same thing had happened over again. The dead men had </p><p>become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once </p><p>again, why was it? In the first place, because the confessions </p><p>that they had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We </p><p>do not make mistakes of that kind. All the confessions that </p><p>are uttered here are true. We make them true. And above </p><p>all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. You must </p><p>320 </p><p>1984 </p><p>stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you, Winston. </p><p>Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out </p><p>from the stream of history. We shall turn you into gas and </p><p>pour you into the stratosphere. Nothing will remain of you, </p><p>not a name in a register, not a memory in a living brain. You </p><p>will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future. You </p><p>will never have existed.’ </p><p>Then why bother to torture me? thought Winston, with a </p><p>momentary bitterness. O’Brien checked his step as though </p><p>Winston had uttered the thought aloud. His large ugly face </p><p>came nearer, with the eyes a little narrowed. </p><p>‘You are thinking,’ he said, ‘that since we intend to de- </p><p>stroy you utterly, so that nothing that you say or do can </p><p>make the smallest difference — in that case, why do we go to </p><p>the trouble of interrogating you first? That is what you were </p><p>thinking, was it not?’ </p><p>‘Yes,’ said Winston. </p><p>O’Brien smiled slightly. ‘You are a flaw in the pattern, </p><p>Winston. You are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not </p><p>tell you just now that we are different from the persecutors </p><p>of the past? We are not content with negative obedience, nor </p><p>even with the most abject submission. When finally you </p><p>surrender to us, it must be of your own free will. We do not </p><p>destroy the heretic because he resists us: so long as he re- </p><p>sists us we never destroy him. We convert him, we capture </p><p>his inner mind, we reshape him. We burn all evil and all </p><p>illusion out of him; we bring him over to our side, not in ap- </p><p>pearance, but genuinely, heart and soul. We make him one </p><p>of ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable to us that </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>321 </p><p>an erroneous thought should exist anywhere in the world, </p><p>however secret and powerless it may be. Even in the instant </p><p>of death we cannot permit any deviation. In the old days the </p><p>heretic walked to the stake still a heretic, proclaiming his </p><p>heresy, exulting in it. Even the victim of the Russian purges </p><p>could carry rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked </p><p>down the passage waiting for the bullet. But we make the </p><p>brain perfect before we blow it out. The command of the old </p><p>despotisms was ‘Thou shalt not”. The command of the total- </p><p>itarians was ‘Thou shalt”. Our command is ‘THOU ART”. </p><p>No one whom we bring to this place ever stands out against </p><p>us. Everyone is washed clean. Even those three miserable </p><p>traitors in whose innocence you once believed — Jones, Aar- </p><p>onson, and Rutherford — in the end we broke them down. I </p><p>took part in their interrogation myself. I saw them gradu- </p><p>ally worn down, whimpering, grovelling, weeping — and in </p><p>the end it was not with pain or fear, only with penitence. </p><p>By the time we had finished with them they were only the </p><p>shells of men. There was nothing left in them except sor- </p><p>row for what they had done, and love of Big Brother. It was </p><p>touching to see how they loved him. They begged to be shot </p><p>quickly, so that they could die while their minds were still </p><p>clean.’ </p><p>His voice had grown almost dreamy. The exaltation, the </p><p>lunatic enthusiasm, was still in his face. He is not pretend- </p><p>ing, thought Winston, he is not a hypocrite, he believes </p><p>every word he says. What most oppressed him was the con- </p><p>sciousness of his own intellectual inferiority. He watched </p><p>the heavy yet graceful form strolling to and fro, in and out </p><p>322 </p><p>1984 </p><p>of the range of his vision. O’Brien was a being in all ways </p><p>larger than himself. There was no idea that he had ever had, </p><p>or could have, that O’Brien had not long ago known, ex- </p><p>amined, and rejected. His mind CONTAINED Winston’s </p><p>mind. But in that case how could it be true that O’Brien was </p><p>mad? It must be he, Winston, who was mad. O’Brien halted </p><p>and looked down at him. His voice had grown stern again. </p><p>‘Do not imagine that you will save yourself, Winston, </p><p>however completely you surrender to us. No one who has </p><p>once gone astray is ever spared. And even if we chose to let </p><p>you live out the natural term of your life, still you would </p><p>never escape from us. What happens to you here is for ever.</p><p>Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to </p><p>the point from which there is no coming back. Things will </p><p>happen to you from which you could not recover, if you </p><p>lived a thousand years. Never again will you be capable of </p><p>ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside </p><p>you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, </p><p>or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or in- </p><p>tegrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and </p><p>then we shall fill you with ourselves.’ </p><p>He paused and signed to the man in the white coat. </p><p>Winston was aware of some heavy piece of apparatus being </p><p>pushed into place behind his head. O’Brien had sat down </p><p>beside the bed, so that his face was almost on a level with </p><p>Winston’s. </p><p>‘Three thousand,’ he said, speaking over Winston’s head </p><p>to the man in the white coat. </p><p>Two soft pads, which felt slightly moist, clamped them- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>323 </p><p>selves against Winston’s temples. He quailed. There was </p><p>pain coming, a new kind of pain. O’Brien laid a hand reas- </p><p>suringly, almost kindly, on his. </p><p>‘This time it will not hurt,’ he said. ‘Keep your eyes fixed </p><p>on mine.’ </p><p>At this moment there was a devastating explosion, or what </p><p>seemed like an explosion, though it was not certain whether </p><p>there was any noise. There was undoubtedly a blinding flash </p><p>of light. Winston was not hurt, only prostrated. Although </p><p>he had already been lying on his back when the thing hap- </p><p>pened, he had a curious feeling that he had been knocked </p><p>into that position. A terrific painless blow had flattened him </p><p>out. Also something had happened inside his head. As his </p><p>eyes regained their focus he remembered who he was, and </p><p>where he was, and recognized the face that was gazing into </p><p>his own; but somewhere or other there was a large patch </p><p>of emptiness, as though a piece had been taken out of his </p><p>brain. </p><p>‘It will not last,’ said O’Brien. ‘Look me in the eyes. What </p><p>country is Oceania at war with?’ </p><p>Winston thought. He knew what was meant by Oceania </p><p>and that he himself was a citizen of Oceania. He also re- </p><p>membered Eurasia and Eastasia; but who was at war with </p><p>whom he did not know. In fact he had not been aware that </p><p>there was any war. </p><p>‘I don’t remember.’ </p><p>‘Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Do you remember that </p><p>now?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>324 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. Since the </p><p>beginning of your life, since the beginning of the Party, </p><p>since the beginning of history, the war has continued with- </p><p>out a break, always the same war. Do you remember that?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘Eleven years ago you created a legend about three men </p><p>who had been condemned to death for treachery. You pre- </p><p>tended that you had seen a piece of paper which proved </p><p>them innocent. No such piece of paper ever existed. You in- </p><p>vented it, and later you grew to believe in it. You remember </p><p>now the very moment at which you first invented it. Do you </p><p>remember that?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘Just now I held up the fingers of my hand to you. You saw </p><p>five fingers. Do you remember that?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>O’Brien held up the fingers of his left hand, with the </p><p>thumb concealed. </p><p>‘There are five fingers there. Do you see five fingers?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>And he did see them, for a fleeting instant, before the </p><p>scenery of his mind changed. He saw five fingers, and there </p><p>was no deformity. Then everything was normal again, and </p><p>the old fear, the hatred, and the bewilderment came crowd- </p><p>ing back again. But there had been a moment — he did not </p><p>know how long, thirty seconds, perhaps — of luminous cer- </p><p>tainty, when each new suggestion of O’Brien’s had filled up </p><p>a patch of emptiness and become absolute truth, and when </p><p>two and two could have been three as easily as five, if that </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>325</p><p>were what was needed. It had faded but before O’Brien had </p><p>dropped his hand; but though he could not recapture it, he </p><p>could remember it, as one remembers a vivid experience at </p><p>some period of one’s life when one was in effect a different </p><p>person. </p><p>‘You see now,’ said O’Brien, ‘that it is at any rate possi- </p><p>ble.’ </p><p>‘Yes,’ said Winston. </p><p>O’Brien stood up with a satisfied air. Over to his left </p><p>Winston saw the man in the white coat break an ampoule </p><p>and draw back the plunger of a syringe. O’Brien turned to </p><p>Winston with a smile. In almost the old manner he resettled </p><p>his spectacles on his nose. </p><p>‘Do you remember writing in your diary,’ he said, ‘that </p><p>it did not matter whether I was a friend or an enemy, since </p><p>I was at least a person who understood you and could be </p><p>talked to? You were right. I enjoy talking to you. Your mind </p><p>appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you </p><p>happen to be insane. Before we bring the session to an end </p><p>you can ask me a few questions, if you choose.’ </p><p>‘Any question I like?’ </p><p>‘Anything.’ He saw that Winston’s eyes were upon the </p><p>dial. ‘It is switched off. What is your first question?’ </p><p>‘What have you done with Julia?’ said Winston. </p><p>O’Brien smiled again. ‘She betrayed you, Winston. Im- </p><p>mediately — unreservedly. I have seldom seen anyone come </p><p>over to us so promptly. You would hardly recognize her if </p><p>you saw her. All her rebelliousness, her deceit, her folly, her </p><p>dirty- mindedness — everything has been burned out of her. </p><p>326 </p><p>1984 </p><p>It was a perfect conversion, a textbook case.’ </p><p>‘You tortured her?’ </p><p>O’Brien left this unanswered. ‘Next question,’ he said. </p><p>‘Does Big Brother exist?’ </p><p>‘Of course he exists. The Party exists. Big Brother is the </p><p>embodiment of the Party.’ </p><p>‘Does he exist in the same way as I exist?’ </p><p>‘You do not exist,’ said O’Brien. </p><p>Once again the sense of helplessness assailed him. He </p><p>knew, or he could imagine, the arguments which proved </p><p>his own nonexistence; but they were nonsense, they were </p><p>only a play on words. Did not the statement, ‘You do not ex- </p><p>ist’, contain a logical absurdity? But what use was it to say </p><p>so? His mind shrivelled as he thought of the unanswerable, </p><p>mad arguments with which O’Brien would demolish him. </p><p>‘I think I exist,’ he said wearily. ‘I am conscious of my </p><p>own identity. I was born and I shall die. I have arms and </p><p>legs. I occupy a particular point in space. No other solid </p><p>object can occupy the same point simultaneously. In that </p><p>sense, does Big Brother exist?’ </p><p>‘It is of no importance. He exists.’ </p><p>‘Will Big Brother ever die?’ </p><p>‘Of course not. How could he die? Next question.’ </p><p>‘Does the Brotherhood exist?’ </p><p>‘That, Winston, you will never know. If we choose to set </p><p>you free when we have finished with you, and if you live to </p><p>be ninety years old, still you will never learn whether the </p><p>answer to that question is Yes or No. As long as you live it </p><p>will be an unsolved riddle in your mind.’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>327 </p><p>Winston lay silent. His breast rose and fell a little faster. </p><p>He still had not asked the question that had come into his </p><p>mind the first. He had got to ask it, and yet it was as though </p><p>his tongue would not utter it. There was a trace of amuse- </p><p>ment in O’Brien’s face. Even his spectacles seemed to wear </p><p>an ironical gleam. He knows, thought Winston suddenly, </p><p>he knows what I am going to ask! At the thought the words </p><p>burst out of him: </p><p>‘What is in Room 101?’ </p><p>The expression on O’Brien’s face did not change. He an- </p><p>swered drily: </p><p>‘You know what is in Room 101, Winston. Everyone </p><p>knows what is in Room 101.’ </p><p>He raised a finger to the man in the white coat. Evidently </p><p>the session was at an end. A needle jerked into Winston’s</p><p>arm. He sank almost instantly into deep sleep. </p><p>328 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter 3 </p><p>^ There are three stages in your reintegration,’ said O’Brien. </p><p>‘There is learning, there is understanding, and there is ac- </p><p>ceptance. It is time for you to enter upon the second stage.’ </p><p>As always, Winston was lying flat on his back. But of late </p><p>his bonds were looser. They still held him to the bed, but </p><p>he could move his knees a little and could turn his head </p><p>from side to side and raise his arms from the elbow. The </p><p>dial, also, had grown to be less of a terror. He could evade its </p><p>pangs if he was quick-witted enough: it was chiefly when he </p><p>showed stupidity that O’Brien pulled the lever. Sometimes </p><p>they got through a whole session without use of the dial. </p><p>He could not remember how many sessions there had been. </p><p>The whole process seemed to stretch out over a long, indefi- </p><p>nite time — weeks, possibly — and the intervals between the </p><p>sessions might sometimes have been days, sometimes only </p><p>an hour or two. </p><p>‘As you lie there,’ said O’Brien, ‘you have often won- </p><p>dered — you have even asked me — why the Ministry of Love </p><p>should expend so much time and trouble on you. And when </p><p>you were free you were puzzled by what was essentially the </p><p>same question. You could grasp the mechanics of the So- </p><p>ciety you lived in, but not its underlying motives. Do you </p><p>remember writing in your diary, ‘I understand HOW: I do </p><p>not understand WHY’? It was when you thought about </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>329 </p><p>‘why’ that you doubted your own sanity. You have read THE </p><p>BOOK, Goldstein’s book, or parts of it, at least. Did it tell </p><p>you anything that you did not know already?’ </p><p>‘You have read it?’ said Winston. </p><p>‘I wrote it. That is to say, I collaborated in writing it. No </p><p>book is produced individually, as you know.’ </p><p>‘Is it true, what it says?’ </p><p>‘As description, yes. The programme it sets forth is non- </p><p>sense. The secret accumulation of knowledge — a gradual </p><p>spread of enlightenment — ultimately a proletarian rebel- </p><p>lion — the overthrow of the Party. You foresaw yourself that </p><p>that was what it would say. It is all nonsense. The proletar- </p><p>ians will never revolt, not in a thousand years or a million. </p><p>They cannot. I do not have to tell you the reason: you know </p><p>it already. If you have ever cherished any dreams of violent </p><p>insurrection, you must abandon them. There is no way in </p><p>which the Party can be overthrown. The rule of the Party is </p><p>for ever. Make that the starting-point of your thoughts.’ </p><p>He came closer to the bed. ‘For ever!’ he repeated. ‘And </p><p>now let us get back to the question of ‘how’ and ‘why”. You </p><p>understand well enough HOW the Party maintains itself </p><p>in power. Now tell me WHY we cling to power. What is </p><p>our motive? Why should we want power? Go on, speak,’ he </p><p>added as Winston remained silent. </p><p>Nevertheless Winston did not speak for another mo- </p><p>ment or two. A feeling of weariness had overwhelmed him. </p><p>The faint, mad gleam of enthusiasm had come back into </p><p>O’Brien’s face. He knew in advance what O’Brien would say. </p><p>That the Party did not seek power for its own ends, but only </p><p>330 </p><p>1984 </p><p>for the good of the majority. That it sought power because </p><p>men in the mass were frail, cowardly creatures who could </p><p>not endure liberty or face the truth, and must be ruled over </p><p>and systematically deceived by others who were stronger </p><p>than themselves. That the choice for mankind lay between </p><p>freedom and happiness, and that, for the great bulk of man- </p><p>kind, happiness was better. That the party was the eternal </p><p>guardian of the weak, a dedicated sect doing evil that good </p><p>might come, sacrificing its own happiness to that of oth- </p><p>ers. The terrible thing, thought Winston, the terrible thing </p><p>was that when O’Brien said this he would believe it. You </p><p>could see it in his face. O’Brien knew everything. A thou- </p><p>sand times better than Winston he knew what the world </p><p>was really like, in what degradation the mass of human be- </p><p>ings lived and by what lies and barbarities the Party kept </p><p>them there. He had understood it all, weighed it all, and it </p><p>made no difference: all was justified by the ultimate purpose. </p><p>What can you do, thought Winston, against the lunatic who </p><p>is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your arguments </p><p>a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy? </p><p>‘You are ruling over us for our own good,’ he said feebly. </p><p>‘You believe that human beings are not fit to govern them- </p><p>selves, and therefore ’ </p><p>He started and almost cried out. A pang of pain had shot</p><p>through his body. O’Brien had pushed the lever of the dial </p><p>up to thirty-five. </p><p>‘That was stupid, Winston, stupid!’ he said. ‘You should </p><p>know better than to say a thing like that.’ </p><p>He pulled the lever back and continued: </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>33i </p><p>‘Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. </p><p>The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not </p><p>interested in the good of others; we are interested solely </p><p>in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness: </p><p>only power, pure power. What pure power means you will </p><p>understand presently. We are different from all the oligar- </p><p>chies of the past, in that we know what we are doing. All </p><p>the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cow- </p><p>ards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian </p><p>Communists came very close to us in their methods, but </p><p>they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. </p><p>They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had </p><p>seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that </p><p>just round the corner there lay a paradise where human be- </p><p>ings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know </p><p>that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relin- </p><p>quishing it. Power is not a means, it is an end. One does not </p><p>establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; </p><p>one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictator- </p><p>ship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of </p><p>torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you </p><p>begin to understand me?’ </p><p>Winston was struck, as he had been struck before, by the </p><p>tiredness of O’Brien’s face. It was strong and fleshy and bru- </p><p>tal, it was full of intelligence and a sort of controlled passion </p><p>before which he felt himself helpless; but it was tired. There </p><p>were pouches under the eyes, the skin sagged from the </p><p>cheekbones. O’Brien leaned over him, deliberately bringing </p><p>the worn face nearer. </p><p>332 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘You are thinking,’ he said, ‘that my face is old and tired. </p><p>You are thinking that I talk of power, and yet I am not even </p><p>able to prevent the decay of my own body. Can you not un- </p><p>derstand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell? The</p><p>weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. Do you </p><p>die when you cut your fingernails?’ </p><p>He turned away from the bed and began strolling up and </p><p>down again, one hand in his pocket. </p><p>‘We are the priests of power,’ he said. ‘God is power. But </p><p>at present power is only a word so far as you are concerned. </p><p>It is time for you to gather some idea of what power means. </p><p>The first thing you must realize is that power is collective. </p><p>The individual only has power in so far as he ceases to be an </p><p>individual. You know the Party slogan: ‘Freedom is Slavery”. </p><p>Has it ever occurred to you that it is reversible? Slavery is </p><p>freedom. Alone — free — the human being is always defeated. </p><p>It must be so, because every human being is doomed to die, </p><p>which is the greatest of all failures. But if he can make com- </p><p>plete, utter submission, if he can escape from his identity, </p><p>if he can merge himself in the Party so that he IS the Party, </p><p>then he is all-powerful and immortal. The second thing for </p><p>you to realize is that power is power over human beings. </p><p>Over the body — but, above all, over the mind. Power over </p><p>matter — external reality, as you would call it — is not impor- </p><p>tant. Already our control over matter is absolute.’ </p><p>For a moment Winston ignored the dial. He made a vio- </p><p>lent effort to raise himself into a sitting position, and merely </p><p>succeeded in wrenching his body painfully. </p><p>‘But how can you control matter?’ he burst out. ‘You don’t </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>333 </p><p>even control the climate or the law of gravity. And there are </p><p>disease, pain, death ’ </p><p>O’Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. ‘We </p><p>control matter because we control the mind. Reality is in- </p><p>side the skull. You will learn by degrees, Winston. There is </p><p>nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, levitation — any- </p><p>thing. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if I wish </p><p>to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it. You </p><p>must get rid of those nineteenth-century ideas about the </p><p>laws of Nature. We make the laws of Nature.’ </p><p>‘But you do not! You are not even masters of this planet. </p><p>What about Eurasia and Eastasia? You have not conquered </p><p>them yet.’ </p><p>‘Unimportant. We shall conquer them when it suits us. </p><p>And if we did not, what difference would it make? We can </p><p>shut them out of existence. Oceania is the world.’ </p><p>‘But the world itself is only a speck of dust. And man is</p><p>tiny — helpless! How long has he been in existence? For mil- </p><p>lions of years the earth was uninhabited.’ </p><p>‘Nonsense. The earth is as old as we are, no older. How </p><p>could it be older? Nothing exists except through human </p><p>consciousness.’ </p><p>‘But the rocks are full of the bones of extinct animals — </p><p>mammoths and mastodons and enormous reptiles which </p><p>lived here long before man was ever heard of.’ </p><p>‘Have you ever seen those bones, Winston? Of course not. </p><p>Nineteenth- century biologists invented them. Before man </p><p>there was nothing. After man, if he could come to an end, </p><p>there would be nothing. Outside man there is nothing.’ </p><p>334 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘But the whole universe is outside us. Look at the stars! </p><p>Some of them are a million light-years away. They are out of </p><p>our reach for ever.’ </p><p>‘What are the stars?’ said O’Brien indifferently. ‘They are </p><p>bits of fire a few kilometres away. We could reach them if we </p><p>wanted to. Or we could blot them out. The earth is the cen- </p><p>tre of the universe. The sun and the stars go round it.’ </p><p>Winston made another convulsive movement. This time </p><p>he did not say anything. O’Brien continued as though an- </p><p>swering a spoken objection: </p><p>‘For certain purposes, of course, that is not true. When </p><p>we navigate the ocean, or when we predict an eclipse, we of- </p><p>ten find it convenient to assume that the earth goes round </p><p>the sun and that the stars are millions upon millions of ki- </p><p>lometres away. But what of it? Do you suppose it is beyond </p><p>us to produce a dual system of astronomy? The stars can be </p><p>near or distant, according as we need them. Do you suppose </p><p>our mathematicians are unequal to that? Have you forgot- </p><p>ten doublethink?’ </p><p>Winston shrank back upon the bed. Whatever he said, </p><p>the swiff answer crushed him like a bludgeon. And yet he </p><p>knew, he KNEW, that he was in the right. The belief that </p><p>nothing exists outside your own mind — surely there must </p><p>be some way of demonstrating that it was false? Had it not </p><p>been exposed long ago as a fallacy? There was even a name </p><p>for it, which he had forgotten. A faint smile twitched the </p><p>corners of O’Brien’s mouth as he looked down at him. </p><p>‘I told you, Winston,’ he said, ‘that metaphysics is not </p><p>your strong point. The word you are trying to think of is </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>335 </p><p>solipsism. But you are mistaken. This is not solipsism. Col- </p><p>lective solipsism, if you like. But that is a different thing: in </p><p>fact, the opposite thing. All this is a digression,’ he added </p><p>in a different tone. ‘The real power, the power we have to </p><p>fight for night and day, is not power over things, but over </p><p>men.’ He paused, and for a moment assumed again his air </p><p>of a schoolmaster questioning a promising pupil: ‘How does </p><p>one man assert his power over another, Winston?’ </p><p>Winston thought. ‘By making him suffer,’ he said. </p><p>‘Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. </p><p>Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obey- </p><p>ing your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain </p><p>and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces </p><p>and putting them together again in new shapes of your own </p><p>choosing. Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we </p><p>are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonis- </p><p>tic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear </p><p>and treachery and torment, a world of trampling and being </p><p>trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but MORE </p><p>merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be </p><p>progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed </p><p>that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded </p><p>upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotions ex- </p><p>cept fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything </p><p>else we shall destroy — everything. Already we are break- </p><p>ing down the habits of thought which have survived from </p><p>before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child </p><p>and parent, and between man and man, and between man </p><p>and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend </p><p>336 </p><p>1984 </p><p>any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and </p><p>no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at </p><p>birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be </p><p>eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the </p><p>renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our </p><p>neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loy- </p><p>alty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, </p><p>except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, ex- </p><p>cept the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will </p><p>be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipo- </p><p>tent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no</p><p>distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no </p><p>curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing </p><p>pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this, </p><p>Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, </p><p>constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Al- </p><p>ways, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, </p><p>the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If </p><p>you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping </p><p>on a human face — for ever.’ </p><p>He paused as though he expected Winston to speak. </p><p>Winston had tried to shrink back into the surface of the bed </p><p>again. He could not say anything. His heart seemed to be </p><p>frozen. O’Brien went on: </p><p>And remember that it is for ever. The face will always </p><p>be there to be stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of so- </p><p>ciety, will always be there, so that he can be defeated and </p><p>humiliated over again. Everything that you have undergone </p><p>since you have been in our hands — all that will continue, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>337 </p><p>and worse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tor- </p><p>tures, the executions, the disappearances will never cease. </p><p>It will be a world of terror as much as a world of triumph. </p><p>The more the Party is powerful, the less it will be tolerant: </p><p>the weaker the opposition, the tighter the despotism. Gold- </p><p>stein and his heresies will live for ever. Every day, at every </p><p>moment, they will be defeated, discredited, ridiculed, spat </p><p>upon and yet they will always survive. This drama that I </p><p>have played out with you during seven years will be played </p><p>out over and over again generation after generation, always </p><p>in subtler forms. Always we shall have the heretic here at our </p><p>mercy, screaming with pain, broken up, contemptible — and </p><p>in the end utterly penitent, saved from himself, crawling to </p><p>our feet of his own accord. That is the world that we are pre- </p><p>paring, Winston. A world of victory after victory, triumph </p><p>after triumph after triumph: an endless pressing, pressing, </p><p>pressing upon the nerve of power. You are beginning, I can </p><p>see, to realize what that world will be like. But in the end </p><p>you will do more than understand it. You will accept it, wel- </p><p>come it, become part of it.’ </p><p>Winston had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. </p><p>‘You can’t!’ he said weakly. </p><p>‘What do you mean by that remark, Winston?’ </p><p>‘You could not create such a world as you have just de- </p><p>scribed. It is a dream. It is impossible.’ </p><p>‘Why?’</p><p>‘It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred </p><p>and cruelty. It would never endure.’ </p><p>‘Why not?’ </p><p>338 </p><p>1984 </p><p>‘It would have no vitality. It would disintegrate. It would </p><p>commit suicide.’ </p><p>‘Nonsense. You are under the impression that hatred is </p><p>more exhausting than love. Why should it be? And if it were, </p><p>what difference would that make? Suppose that we choose </p><p>to wear ourselves out faster. Suppose that we quicken the </p><p>tempo of human life till men are senile at thirty. Still what </p><p>difference would it make? Can you not understand that the </p><p>death of the individual is not death? The party is immor- </p><p>tal.’ </p><p>As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helpless- </p><p>ness. Moreover he was in dread that if he persisted in his </p><p>disagreement O’Brien would twist the dial again. And yet </p><p>he could not keep silent. Feebly, without arguments, with </p><p>nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of </p><p>what O’Brien had said, he returned to the attack. </p><p>‘I don’t know — I don’t care. Somehow you will fail. Some- </p><p>thing will defeat you. Life will defeat you.’ </p><p>‘We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imag- </p><p>ining that there is something called human nature which </p><p>will be outraged by what we do and will turn against us. But </p><p>we create human nature. Men are infinitely malleable. Or </p><p>perhaps you have returned to your old idea that the prole- </p><p>tarians or the slaves will arise and overthrow us. Put it out </p><p>of your mind. They are helpless, like the animals. Humanity </p><p>is the Party. The others are outside — irrelevant.’ </p><p>‘I don’t care. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later </p><p>they will see you for what you are, and then they will tear </p><p>you to pieces.’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>339 </p><p>‘Do you see any evidence that that is happening? Or any </p><p>reason why it should?’</p><p>‘No. I believe it. I KNOW that you will fail. There is </p><p>something in the universe — I don’t know, some spirit, some </p><p>principle — that you will never overcome.’ </p><p>‘Do you believe in God, Winston?’ </p><p>‘No.’ </p><p>‘Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?’ </p><p>‘I don’t know. The spirit of Man.’ </p><p>‘And do you consider yourself a man?’ </p><p>‘Yes.’ </p><p>‘If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your </p><p>kind is extinct; we are the inheritors. Do you understand </p><p>that you are ALONE? You are outside history, you are non- </p><p>existent.’ His manner changed and he said more harshly; </p><p>And you consider yourself morally superior to us, with our </p><p>lies and our cruelty?’ </p><p>‘Yes, I consider myself superior.’ </p><p>O’Brien did not speak. Two other voices were speaking. </p><p>After a moment Winston recognized one of them as his </p><p>own. It was a sound-track of the conversation he had had </p><p>with O’Brien, on the night when he had enrolled himself in </p><p>the Brotherhood. He heard himself promising to lie, to steal, </p><p>to forge, to murder, to encourage drug-taking and prosti- </p><p>tution, to disseminate venereal diseases, to throw vitriol </p><p>in a child’s face. O’Brien made a small impatient gesture, </p><p>as though to say that the demonstration was hardly worth </p><p>making. Then he turned a switch and the voices stopped. </p><p>‘Get up from that bed,’ he said. </p><p>340 </p><p>1984 </p><p>The bonds had loosened themselves. Winston lowered </p><p>himself to the floor and stood up unsteadily. </p><p>‘You are the last man,’ said O’Brien. ‘You are the guard- </p><p>ian of the human spirit. You shall see yourself as you are. </p><p>Take off your clothes.’ </p><p>Winston undid the bit of string that held his overalls to- </p><p>gether. The zip fastener had long since been wrenched out of </p><p>them. He could not remember whether at any time since his </p><p>arrest he had taken off all his clothes at one time. Beneath </p><p>the overalls his body was looped with filthy yellowish rags, </p><p>just recognizable as the remnants of underclothes. As he</p><p>slid them to the ground he saw that there was a three-sided </p><p>mirror at the far end of the room. He approached it, then </p><p>stopped short. An involuntary cry had broken out of him. </p><p>‘Go on,’ said O’Brien. ‘Stand between the wings of the </p><p>mirror. You shall see the side view as well.’ </p><p>He had stopped because he was frightened. A bowed, </p><p>grey- coloured, skeleton-like thing was coming towards </p><p>him. Its actual appearance was frightening, and not merely </p><p>the fact that he knew it to be himself. He moved closer to </p><p>the glass. The creature’s face seemed to be protruded, be- </p><p>cause of its bent carriage. A forlorn, jailbird’s face with a </p><p>nobby forehead running back into a bald scalp, a crooked </p><p>nose, and battered-looking cheekbones above which his </p><p>eyes were fierce and watchful. The cheeks were seamed, the </p><p>mouth had a drawn-in look. Certainly it was his own face, </p><p>but it seemed to him that it had changed more than he had </p><p>changed inside. The emotions it registered would be differ- </p><p>ent from the ones he felt. He had gone partially bald. For the </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>34i </p><p>first moment he had thought that he had gone grey as well, </p><p>but it was only the scalp that was grey. Except for his hands </p><p>and a circle of his face, his body was grey all over with an- </p><p>cient, ingrained dirt. Here and there under the dirt there </p><p>were the red scars of wounds, and near the ankle the vari- </p><p>cose ulcer was an inflamed mass with flakes of skin peeling </p><p>off it. But the truly frightening thing was the emaciation of </p><p>his body. The barrel of the ribs was as narrow as that of a </p><p>skeleton: the legs had shrunk so that the knees were thicker </p><p>than the thighs. He saw now what O’Brien had meant about </p><p>seeing the side view. The curvature of the spine was aston- </p><p>ishing. The thin shoulders were hunched forward so as to </p><p>make a cavity of the chest, the scraggy neck seemed to be </p><p>bending double under the weight of the skull. At a guess he </p><p>would have said that it was the body of a man of sixty, suf- </p><p>fering from some malignant disease. </p><p>‘You have thought sometimes,’ said O’Brien, ‘that my </p><p>face — the face of a member of the Inner Party — looks old </p><p>and worn. What do you think of your own face?’ </p><p>He seized Winston’s shoulder and spun him round so </p><p>that he was facing him. </p><p>‘Look at the condition you are in!’ he said. ‘Look at this </p><p>filthy grime all over your body. Look at the dirt between </p><p>your toes. Look at that disgusting running sore on your leg. </p><p>Do you know that you stink like a goat? Probably you have </p><p>ceased to notice it. Look at your emaciation. Do you see? I </p><p>can make my thumb and forefinger meet round your bicep.</p><p>I could snap your neck like a carrot. Do you know that you </p><p>have lost twenty-five kilograms since you have been in our </p><p>342 </p><p>1984 </p><p>hands? Even your hair is coming out in handfuls. Look!’ He </p><p>plucked at Winston’s head and brought away a tuft of hair. </p><p>‘Open your mouth. Nine, ten, eleven teeth left. How many </p><p>had you when you came to us? And the few you have left are </p><p>dropping out of your head. Look here!’ </p><p>He seized one of Winston’s remaining front teeth be- </p><p>tween his powerful thumb and forefinger. A twinge of pain </p><p>shot through Winston’s jaw. O’Brien had wrenched the </p><p>loose tooth out by the roots. He tossed it across the cell. </p><p>‘You are rotting away,’ he said; ‘you are falling to pieces. </p><p>What are you? A bag of filth. Now turn around and look </p><p>into that mirror again. Do you see that thing facing you? </p><p>That is the last man. If you are human, that is humanity. </p><p>Now put your clothes on again.’ </p><p>Winston began to dress himself with slow stiff move- </p><p>ments. Until now he had not seemed to notice how thin and </p><p>weak he was. Only one thought stirred in his mind; that he </p><p>must have been in this place longer than he had imagined. </p><p>Then suddenly as he fixed the miserable rags round himself </p><p>a feeling of pity for his ruined body overcame him. Before </p><p>he knew what he was doing he had collapsed on to a small </p><p>stool that stood beside the bed and burst into tears. He was </p><p>aware of his ugliness, his gracelessness, a bundle of bones in </p><p>filthy underclothes sitting weeping in the harsh white light: </p><p>but he could not stop himself. O’Brien laid a hand on his </p><p>shoulder, almost kindly. </p><p>‘It will not last for ever,’ he said. ‘You can escape from it </p><p>whenever you choose. Everything depends on yourself.’ </p><p>‘You did it!’ sobbed Winston. ‘You reduced me to this </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>343 </p><p>state.’ </p><p>‘No, Winston, you reduced yourself to it. This is what you </p><p>accepted when you set yourself up against the Party. It was </p><p>all contained in that first act. Nothing has happened that </p><p>you did not foresee.’</p><p>He paused, and then went on: </p><p>‘We have beaten you, Winston. We have broken you up. </p><p>You have seen what your body is like. Your mind is in the </p><p>same state. I do not think there can be much pride left in </p><p>you. You have been kicked and flogged and insulted, you </p><p>have screamed with pain, you have rolled on the floor in </p><p>your own blood and vomit. You have whimpered for mercy, </p><p>you have betrayed everybody and everything. Can you think </p><p>of a single degradation that has not happened to you?’ </p><p>Winston had stopped weeping, though the tears were </p><p>still oozing out of his eyes. He looked up at O’Brien. </p><p>‘I have not betrayed Julia,’ he said. </p><p>O’Brien looked down at him thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he said; </p><p>‘no; that is perfectly true. You have not betrayed Julia.’ </p><p>The peculiar reverence for O’Brien, which nothing </p><p>seemed able to destroy, flooded Winston’s heart again. How </p><p>intelligent, he thought, how intelligent! Never did O’Brien </p><p>fail to understand what was said to him. Anyone else on </p><p>earth would have answered promptly that he HAD be- </p><p>trayed Julia. For what was there that they had not screwed </p><p>out of him under the torture? He had told them everything </p><p>he knew about her, her habits, her character, her past life; </p><p>he had confessed in the most trivial detail everything that </p><p>had happened at their meetings, all that he had said to her </p><p>344 </p><p>1984 </p><p>and she to him, their black-market meals, their adulteries, </p><p>their vague plottings against the Party — everything. And </p><p>yet, in the sense in which he intended the word, he had not </p><p>betrayed her. He had not stopped loving her; his feelings to- </p><p>wards her had remained the same. O’Brien had seen what </p><p>he meant without the need for explanation. </p><p>‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘how soon will they shoot me?’ </p><p>‘It might be a long time,’ said O’Brien. ‘You are a difficult </p><p>case. But don’t give up hope. Everyone is cured sooner or </p><p>later. In the end we shall shoot you.’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>345 </p><p>Chapter 4 </p><p>H e was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger </p><p>every day, if it was proper to speak of days. </p><p>The white light and the humming sound were the same </p><p>as ever, but the cell was a little more comfortable than the </p><p>others he had been in. There was a pillow and a mattress on </p><p>the plank bed, and a stool to sit on. They had given him a </p><p>bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequent- </p><p>ly in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash </p><p>with. They had given him new underclothes and a clean suit </p><p>of overalls. They had dressed his varicose ulcer with sooth- </p><p>ing ointment. They had pulled out the remnants of his teeth </p><p>and given him a new set of dentures. </p><p>Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been </p><p>possible now to keep count of the passage of time, if he had </p><p>felt any interest in doing so, since he was being fed at what </p><p>appeared to be regular intervals. He was getting, he judged, </p><p>three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he won- </p><p>dered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. </p><p>The food was surprisingly good, with meat at every third </p><p>meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had </p><p>no matches, but the never-speaking guard who brought his </p><p>food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke </p><p>it made him sick, but he persevered, and spun the packet out </p><p>for a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal. </p><p>346 </p><p>1984 </p><p>They had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil </p><p>tied to the corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when </p><p>he was awake he was completely torpid. Often he would lie </p><p>from one meal to the next almost without stirring, some- </p><p>times asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in which </p><p>it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown </p><p>used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed </p><p>to make no difference, except that one’s dreams were more </p><p>coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time, </p><p>and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden </p><p>Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit </p><p>ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with O’Brien — not do- </p><p>ing anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful </p><p>things. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were </p><p>mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power </p><p>of intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had been </p><p>removed. He was not bored, he had no desire for conversa- </p><p>tion or distraction. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten or </p><p>questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all over, </p><p>was completely satisfying. </p><p>By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still </p><p>felt no impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie </p><p>quiet and feel the strength gathering in his body. He would </p><p>finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it </p><p>was not an illusion that his muscles were growing round- </p><p>er and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a </p><p>doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now defi- </p><p>nitely thicker than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, </p><p>he began exercising himself regularly. In a little while he </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>347 </p><p>could walk three kilometres, measured by pacing the cell, </p><p>and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He at- </p><p>tempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and </p><p>humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could </p><p>not move out of a walk, he could not hold his stool out at </p><p>arm’s length, he could not stand on one leg without falling </p><p>over. He squatted down on his heels, and found that with </p><p>agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself </p><p>to a standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to </p><p>lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless, he could not </p><p>raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days — a few </p><p>more mealtimes — even that feat was accomplished. A time </p><p>came when he could do it six times running. He began to </p><p>grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an inter- </p><p>mittent belief that his face also was growing back to normal. </p><p>Only when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did </p><p>he remember the seamed, ruined face that had looked back </p><p>at him out of the mirror. </p><p>His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank </p><p>bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees, </p><p>and set to work deliberately at the task of re-educating him- </p><p>self. </p><p>He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw </p><p>now, he had been ready to capitulate long before he had </p><p>taken the decision. From the moment when he was inside </p><p>the Ministry of Love — and yes, even during those minutes </p><p>when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice </p><p>from the telescreen told them what to do — he had grasped </p><p>the frivolity, the shallowness of his attempt to set himself </p><p>348 </p><p>1984 </p><p>up against the power of the Party. He knew now that for</p><p>seven years the Thought Police had watched him like a bee- </p><p>tle under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no </p><p>word spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of </p><p>thought that they had not been able to infer. Even the speck </p><p>of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had careful- </p><p>ly replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him, shown </p><p>him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia </p><p>and himself. Yes, even... He could not fight against the Party </p><p>any longer. Besides, the Party was in the right. It must be </p><p>so; how could the immortal, collective brain be mistaken? </p><p>By what external standard could you check its judgements? </p><p>Sanity was statistical. It was merely a question of learning </p><p>to think as they thought. Only ! </p><p>The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He be- </p><p>gan to write down the thoughts that came into his head. He </p><p>wrote first in large clumsy capitals: </p><p>FREEDOM IS SLAVERY </p><p>Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it: </p><p>TWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE </p><p>But then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though </p><p>shying away from something, seemed unable to concen- </p><p>trate. He knew that he knew what came next, but for the </p><p>moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it, it was </p><p>only by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>349 </p><p>come of its own accord. He wrote: </p><p>GOD IS POWER </p><p>He accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past </p><p>never had been altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. </p><p>Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. Jones, Aar- </p><p>onson, and Rutherford were guilty of the crimes they were </p><p>charged with. He had never seen the photograph that dis- </p><p>proved their guilt. It had never existed, he had invented it. </p><p>He remembered remembering contrary things, but those </p><p>were false memories, products of self- deception. How easy it </p><p>all was! Only surrender, and everything else followed. It was </p><p>like swimming against a current that swept you backwards </p><p>however hard you struggled, and then suddenly deciding to </p><p>turn round and go with the current instead of opposing it. </p><p>Nothing had changed except your own attitude: the predes- </p><p>tined thing happened in any case. He hardly knew why he </p><p>had ever rebelled. Everything was easy, except ! </p><p>Anything could be true. The so-called laws of Na- </p><p>ture were nonsense. The law of gravity was nonsense. ‘If I </p><p>wished,’ O’Brien had said, ‘I could float off this floor like </p><p>a soap bubble.’ Winston worked it out. ‘If he THINKS he </p><p>floats off the floor, and if I simultaneously THINK I see </p><p>him do it, then the thing happens.’ Suddenly, like a lump </p><p>of submerged wreckage breaking the surface of water, the </p><p>thought burst into his mind: ‘It doesn’t really happen. We </p><p>imagine it. It is hallucination.’ He pushed the thought un- </p><p>der instantly. The fallacy was obvious. It presupposed that </p><p>350 </p><p>1984 </p><p>somewhere or other, outside oneself, there was a ‘real’ world </p><p>where ‘real’ things happened. But how could there be such a </p><p>world? What knowledge have we of anything, save through </p><p>our own minds? All happenings are in the mind. Whatever </p><p>happens in all minds, truly happens. </p><p>He had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he </p><p>was in no danger of succumbing to it. He realized, never- </p><p>theless, that it ought never to have occurred to him. The </p><p>mind should develop a blind spot whenever a dangerous </p><p>thought presented itself. The process should be automatic, </p><p>instinctive. CRIMESTOP, they called it in Newspeak. </p><p>He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He pre- </p><p>sented himself with propositions — ’the Party says the earth </p><p>is flat’, ‘the party says that ice is heavier than water’ — and </p><p>trained himself in not seeing or not understanding the ar- </p><p>guments that contradicted them. It was not easy. It needed </p><p>great powers of reasoning and improvisation. The arith- </p><p>metical problems raised, for instance, by such a statement </p><p>as ‘two and two make five’ were beyond his intellectual </p><p>grasp. It needed also a sort of athleticism of mind, an ability </p><p>at one moment to make the most delicate use of logic and </p><p>at the next to be unconscious of the crudest logical errors. </p><p>Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult </p><p>to attain. </p><p>All the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered </p><p>how soon they would shoot him. ‘Everything depends on </p><p>yourself,’ O’Brien had said; but he knew that there was no </p><p>conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It might </p><p>be ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>35i </p><p>for years in solitary confinement, they might send him to </p><p>a labour-camp, they might release him for a while, as they </p><p>sometimes did. It was perfectly possible that before he was </p><p>shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation would </p><p>be enacted all over again. The one certain thing was that </p><p>death never came at an expected moment. The tradition — </p><p>the unspoken tradition: somehow you knew it, though you </p><p>never heard it said — was that they shot you from behind; </p><p>always in the back of the head, without warning, as you </p><p>walked down a corridor from cell to cell. </p><p>One day — but ‘one day’ was not the right expression; just </p><p>as probably it was in the middle of the night: once — he fell </p><p>into a strange, blissful reverie. He was walking down the </p><p>corridor, waiting for the bullet. He knew that it was com- </p><p>ing in another moment. Everything was settled, smoothed </p><p>out, reconciled. There were no more doubts, no more argu- </p><p>ments, no more pain, no more fear. His body was healthy </p><p>and strong. He walked easily, with a joy of movement and </p><p>with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was not any longer </p><p>in the narrow white corridors in the Ministry of Love, he </p><p>was in the enormous sunlit passage, a kilometre wide, down </p><p>which he had seemed to walk in the delirium induced by </p><p>drugs. He was in the Golden Country, following the foot- </p><p>track across the old rabbit- cropped pasture. He could feel </p><p>the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sun- </p><p>shine on his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees, </p><p>faintly stirring, and somewhere beyond that was the stream </p><p>where the dace lay in the green pools under the willows. </p><p>Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The </p><p>352 </p><p>1984 </p><p>sweat broke out on his backbone. He had heard himself cry </p><p>aloud: </p><p>‘Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!’ </p><p>For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucina- </p><p>tion of her presence. She had seemed to be not merely with </p><p>him, but inside him. It was as though she had got into the </p><p>texture of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far </p><p>more than he had ever done when they were together and </p><p>free. Also he knew that somewhere or other she was still </p><p>alive and needed his help. </p><p>He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. </p><p>What had he done? How many years had he added to his </p><p>servitude by that moment of weakness? </p><p>In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots</p><p>outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished. </p><p>They would know now, if they had not known before, that </p><p>he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. He </p><p>obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old </p><p>days he had hidden a heretical mind beneath an appear- </p><p>ance of conformity. Now he had retreated a step further: </p><p>in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped to keep </p><p>the inner heart inviolate. He knew that he was in the wrong, </p><p>but he preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand </p><p>that — O’Brien would understand it. It was all confessed in </p><p>that single foolish cry. </p><p>He would have to start all over again. It might take years. </p><p>He ran a hand over his face, trying to familiarize himself </p><p>with the new shape. There were deep furrows in the cheeks, </p><p>the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose flattened. Besides, since </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>353 </p><p>last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete </p><p>new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve inscrutabili- </p><p>ty when you did not know what your face looked like. In </p><p>any case, mere control of the features was not enough. For </p><p>the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret </p><p>you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the </p><p>while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let </p><p>it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that could </p><p>be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think </p><p>right; he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he </p><p>must keep his hatred locked up inside him like a ball of </p><p>matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with </p><p>the rest of him, a kind of cyst. </p><p>One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not </p><p>tell when it would happen, but a few seconds beforehand </p><p>it should be possible to guess. It was always from behind, </p><p>walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be enough. In </p><p>that time the world inside him could turn over. And then </p><p>suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his </p><p>step, without the changing of a line in his face — suddenly </p><p>the camouflage would be down and bang! would go the bat- </p><p>teries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an enormous </p><p>roaring flame. And almost in the same instant bang! would </p><p>go the bullet, too late, or too early. They would have blown </p><p>his brain to pieces before they could reclaim it. The hereti- </p><p>cal thought would be unpunished, unrepented, out of their </p><p>reach for ever. They would have blown a hole in their own </p><p>perfection. To die hating them, that was freedom. </p><p>He shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting </p><p>354</p><p>1984 </p><p>an intellectual discipline. It was a question of degrading </p><p>himself, mutilating himself. He had got to plunge into the </p><p>filthiest of filth. What was the most horrible, sickening thing </p><p>of all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face (be- </p><p>cause of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought </p><p>of it as being a metre wide), with its heavy black moustache </p><p>and the eyes that followed you to and fro, seemed to float </p><p>into his mind of its own accord. What were his true feelings </p><p>towards Big Brother? </p><p>There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The </p><p>steel door swung open with a clang. O’Brien walked into </p><p>the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced officer and the </p><p>black-uniformed guards. </p><p>‘Get up,’ said O’Brien. ‘Come here.’ </p><p>Winston stood opposite him. O’Brien took Winston’s </p><p>shoulders between his strong hands and looked at him </p><p>closely. </p><p>‘You have had thoughts of deceiving me,’ he said. ‘That </p><p>was stupid. Stand up straighter. Look me in the face.’ </p><p>He paused, and went on in a gentler tone: </p><p>‘You are improving. Intellectually there is very little </p><p>wrong with you. It is only emotionally that you have failed </p><p>to make progress. Tell me, Winston — and remember, no </p><p>lies: you know that I am always able to detect a lie — tell me, </p><p>what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?’ </p><p>‘I hate him.’ </p><p>‘You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you </p><p>to take the last step. You must love Big Brother. It is not </p><p>enough to obey him: you must love him.’ </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>355 </p><p>He released Winston with a little push towards the </p><p>guards. </p><p>‘Room 101,’ he said. </p><p>356 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter 5 </p><p>A t each stage of his imprisonment he had known, or </p><p>seemed to know, whereabouts he was in the window- </p><p>less building. Possibly there were slight differences in the air </p><p>pressure. The cells where the guards had beaten him were </p><p>below ground level. The room where he had been interro- </p><p>gated by O’Brien was high up near the roof. This place was </p><p>many metres underground, as deep down as it was possible </p><p>to go. </p><p>It was bigger than most of the cells he had been in. But </p><p>he hardly noticed his surroundings. All he noticed was that </p><p>there were two small tables straight in front of him, each </p><p>covered with green baize. One was only a metre or two </p><p>from him, the other was further away, near the door. He </p><p>was strapped upright in a chair, so tightly that he could </p><p>move nothing, not even his head. A sort of pad gripped his </p><p>head from behind, forcing him to look straight in front of </p><p>him. </p><p>For a moment he was alone, then the door opened and </p><p>O’Brien came in. </p><p>‘You asked me once,’ said O’Brien, ‘what was in Room </p><p>101. 1 told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone </p><p>knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing </p><p>in the world.’ </p><p>The door opened again. A guard came in, carrying some- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>357 </p><p>thing made of wire, a box or basket of some kind. He set </p><p>it down on the further table. Because of the position in </p><p>which O’Brien was standing. Winston could not see what </p><p>the thing was. </p><p>‘The worst thing in the world,’ said O’Brien, ‘varies from </p><p>individual to individual. It may be burial alive, or death by </p><p>fire, or by drowning, or by impalement, or fifty other deaths. </p><p>There are cases where it is some quite trivial thing, not even </p><p>fatal.’ </p><p>He had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a</p><p>better view of the thing on the table. It was an oblong wire </p><p>cage with a handle on top for carrying it by. Fixed to the </p><p>front of it was something that looked like a fencing mask, </p><p>with the concave side outwards. Although it was three or </p><p>four metres away from him, he could see that the cage was </p><p>divided lengthways into two compartments, and that there </p><p>was some kind of creature in each. They were rats. </p><p>‘In your case,’ said O’Brien, ‘the worst thing in the world </p><p>happens to be rats.’ </p><p>A sort of premonitory tremor, a fear of he was not certain </p><p>what, had passed through Winston as soon as he caught his </p><p>first glimpse of the cage. But at this moment the meaning of </p><p>the mask-like attachment in front of it suddenly sank into </p><p>him. His bowels seemed to turn to water. </p><p>‘You can’t do that!’ he cried out in a high cracked voice. </p><p>‘You couldn’t, you couldn’t! It’s impossible.’ </p><p>‘Do you remember,’ said O’Brien, ‘the moment of pan- </p><p>ic that used to occur in your dreams? There was a wall of </p><p>blackness in front of you, and a roaring sound in your ears. </p><p>358 </p><p>1984 </p><p>There was something terrible on the other side of the wall. </p><p>You knew that you knew what it was, but you dared not drag </p><p>it into the open. It was the rats that were on the other side </p><p>of the wall.’ </p><p>‘O’Brien!’ said Winston, making an effort to control his </p><p>voice. ‘You know this is not necessary. What is it that you </p><p>want me to do?’ </p><p>O’Brien made no direct answer. When he spoke it was </p><p>in the schoolmasterish manner that he sometimes affected. </p><p>He looked thoughtfully into the distance, as though he were </p><p>addressing an audience somewhere behind Winston’s back. </p><p>‘By itself,’ he said, ‘pain is not always enough. There </p><p>are occasions when a human being will stand out against </p><p>pain, even to the point of death. But for everyone there is </p><p>something unendurable — something that cannot be con- </p><p>templated. Courage and cowardice are not involved. If you </p><p>are falling from a height it is not cowardly to clutch at a </p><p>rope. If you have come up from deep water it is not coward- </p><p>ly to fill your lungs with air. It is merely an instinct which </p><p>cannot be destroyed. It is the same with the rats. For you, </p><p>they are unendurable. They are a form of pressure that you </p><p>cannot withstand, even if you wished to. You will do what </p><p>is required of you.’ </p><p>‘But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don’t know </p><p>what it is?’ </p><p>O’Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the </p><p>nearer table. He set it down carefully on the baize cloth. </p><p>Winston could hear the blood singing in his ears. He had the </p><p>feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. He was in the middle </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>359 </p><p>of a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with sunlight, </p><p>across which all sounds came to him out of immense dis- </p><p>tances. Yet the cage with the rats was not two metres away </p><p>from him. They were enormous rats. They were at the age </p><p>when a rat’s muzzle grows blunt and fierce and his fur brown </p><p>instead of grey. </p><p>‘The rat,’ said O’Brien, still addressing his invisible audi- </p><p>ence, ‘although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of </p><p>that. You will have heard of the things that happen in the </p><p>poor quarters of this town. In some streets a woman dare </p><p>not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five minutes. </p><p>The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time </p><p>they will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dy- </p><p>ing people. They show astonishing intelligence in knowing </p><p>when a human being is helpless.’ </p><p>There was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed </p><p>to reach Winston from far away. The rats were fighting; they </p><p>were trying to get at each other through the partition. He </p><p>heard also a deep groan of despair. That, too, seemed to </p><p>come from outside himself. </p><p>O’Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed </p><p>something in it. There was a sharp click. Winston made </p><p>a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the chair. It was </p><p>hopeless; every part of him, even his head, was held im- </p><p>movably. O’Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a </p><p>metre from Winston’s face. </p><p>‘I have pressed the first lever,’ said O’Brien. ‘You under- </p><p>stand the construction of this cage. The mask will fit over </p><p>your head, leaving no exit. When I press this other lever, </p><p>360 </p><p>1984 </p><p>the door of the cage will slide up. These starving brutes will</p><p>shoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever seen a rat leap </p><p>through the air? They will leap on to your face and bore </p><p>straight into it. Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Some- </p><p>times they burrow through the cheeks and devour the </p><p>tongue.’ </p><p>The cage was nearer; it was closing in. Winston heard a </p><p>succession of shrill cries which appeared to be occurring in </p><p>the air above his head. But he fought furiously against his </p><p>panic. To think, to think, even with a split second left — to </p><p>think was the only hope. Suddenly the foul musty odour of </p><p>the brutes struck his nostrils. There was a violent convul- </p><p>sion of nausea inside him, and he almost lost consciousness. </p><p>Everything had gone black. For an instant he was insane, a </p><p>screaming animal. Yet he came out of the blackness clutch- </p><p>ing an idea. There was one and only one way to save himself. </p><p>He must interpose another human being, the BODY of an- </p><p>other human being, between himself and the rats. </p><p>The circle of the mask was large enough now to shut out </p><p>the vision of anything else. The wire door was a couple of </p><p>hand-spans from his face. The rats knew what was coming </p><p>now. One of them was leaping up and down, the other, an </p><p>old scaly grandfather of the sewers, stood up, with his pink </p><p>hands against the bars, and fiercely sniffed the air. Winston </p><p>could see the whiskers and the yellow teeth. Again the black </p><p>panic took hold of him. He was blind, helpless, mindless. </p><p>‘It was a common punishment in Imperial China,’ said </p><p>O’Brien as didactically as ever. </p><p>The mask was closing on his face. The wire brushed his </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>361 </p><p>cheek. And then — no, it was not relief, only hope, a tiny </p><p>fragment of hope. Too late, perhaps too late. But he had </p><p>suddenly understood that in the whole world there was just </p><p>ONE person to whom he could transfer his punishment — </p><p>ONE body that he could thrust between himself and the </p><p>rats. And he was shouting frantically, over and over. </p><p>‘Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia! I don’t care </p><p>what you do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. </p><p>Not me! Julia! Not me!’ </p><p>Tie was falling backwards, into enormous depths, away </p><p>from the rats. He was still strapped in the chair, but he had </p><p>fallen through the floor, through the walls of the build- </p><p>ing, through the earth, through the oceans, through the </p><p>atmosphere, into outer space, into the gulfs between the </p><p>stars — always away, away, away from the rats. He was light </p><p>years distant, but O’Brien was still standing at his side.</p><p>There was still the cold touch of wire against his cheek. But </p><p>through the darkness that enveloped him he heard another </p><p>metallic click, and knew that the cage door had clicked shut </p><p>and not open. </p><p>362 </p><p>1984 </p><p>Chapter 6 </p><p>T he Chestnut Tree was almost empty. A ray of sunlight </p><p>slanting through a window fell on dusty table-tops. It </p><p>was the lonely hour of fifteen. A tinny music trickled from </p><p>the telescreens. </p><p>Winston sat in his usual corner, gazing into an empty </p><p>glass. Now and again he glanced up at a vast face which eyed </p><p>him from the opposite wall. BIG BROTHER IS WATCH- </p><p>ING YOU, the caption said. Unbidden, a waiter came and </p><p>filled his glass up with Victory Gin, shaking into it a few </p><p>drops from another bottle with a quill through the cork. It </p><p>was saccharine flavoured with cloves, the speciality of the </p><p>cafe. </p><p>Winston was listening to the telescreen. At present only </p><p>music was coming out of it, but there was a possibility that </p><p>at any moment there might be a special bulletin from the </p><p>Ministry of Peace. The news from the African front was dis- </p><p>quieting in the extreme. On and off he had been worrying </p><p>about it all day. A Eurasian army (Oceania was at war with </p><p>Eurasia: Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia) was </p><p>moving southward at terrifying speed. The mid-day bulle- </p><p>tin had not mentioned any definite area, but it was probable </p><p>that already the mouth of the Congo was a battlefield. Braz- </p><p>zaville and Leopoldville were in danger. One did not have </p><p>to look at the map to see what it meant. It was not merely </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>363 </p><p>a question of losing Central Africa: for the first time in the </p><p>whole war, the territory of Oceania itself was menaced. </p><p>A violent emotion, not fear exactly but a sort of undif- </p><p>ferentiated excitement, flared up in him, then faded again. </p><p>He stopped thinking about the war. In these days he could </p><p>never fix his mind on any one subject for more than a few </p><p>moments at a time. He picked up his glass and drained it</p><p>at a gulp. As always, the gin made him shudder and even </p><p>retch slightly. The stuff was horrible. The cloves and sac- </p><p>charine, themselves disgusting enough in their sickly way, </p><p>could not disguise the flat oily smell; and what was worst </p><p>of all was that the smell of gin, which dwelt with him night </p><p>and day, was inextricably mixed up in his mind with the </p><p>smell of those </p><p>He never named them, even in his thoughts, and so </p><p>far as it was possible he never visualized them. They were </p><p>something that he was half- aware of, hovering close to his </p><p>face, a smell that clung to his nostrils. As the gin rose in </p><p>him he belched through purple lips. He had grown fatter </p><p>since they released him, and had regained his old colour — </p><p>indeed, more than regained it. His features had thickened, </p><p>the skin on nose and cheekbones was coarsely red, even </p><p>the bald scalp was too deep a pink. A waiter, again unbid- </p><p>den, brought the chessboard and the current issue of ‘The </p><p>Times’, with the page turned down at the chess problem. </p><p>Then, seeing that Winston’s glass was empty, he brought the </p><p>gin bottle and filled it. There was no need to give orders. </p><p>They knew his habits. The chessboard was always waiting </p><p>for him, his corner table was always reserved; even when </p><p>364 </p><p>1984 </p><p>the place was full he had it to himself, since nobody cared </p><p>to be seen sitting too close to him. He never even bothered </p><p>to count his drinks. At irregular intervals they presented </p><p>him with a dirty slip of paper which they said was the bill, </p><p>but he had the impression that they always undercharged </p><p>him. It would have made no difference if it had been the </p><p>other way about. He had always plenty of money nowadays. </p><p>He even had a job, a sinecure, more highly-paid than his old </p><p>job had been. </p><p>The music from the telescreen stopped and a voice took </p><p>over. Winston raised his head to listen. No bulletins from </p><p>the front, however. It was merely a brief announcement </p><p>from the Ministry of Plenty. In the preceding quarter, it ap- </p><p>peared, the Tenth Three-Year Plan’s quota for bootlaces had </p><p>been overfulfilled by 98 per cent. </p><p>He examined the chess problem and set out the pieces. It </p><p>was a tricky ending, involving a couple of knights. ‘White to </p><p>play and mate in two moves.’ Winston looked up at the por- </p><p>trait of Big Brother. White always mates, he thought with a </p><p>sort of cloudy mysticism. Always, without exception, it is so </p><p>arranged. In no chess problem since the beginning of the </p><p>world has black ever won. Did it not symbolize the eternal, </p><p>unvarying triumph of Good over Evil? The huge face gazed </p><p>back at him, full of calm power. White always mates. </p><p>The voice from the telescreen paused and added in a dif- </p><p>ferent and much graver tone: ‘You are warned to stand by </p><p>for an important announcement at fifteen-thirty. Fifteen- </p><p>thirty! This is news of the highest importance. Take care </p><p>not to miss it. Fifteen-thirty!’ The tinkling music struck up </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>365 </p><p>again. </p><p>Winston’s heart stirred. That was the bulletin from the </p><p>front; instinct told him that it was bad news that was com- </p><p>ing. All day, with little spurts of excitement, the thought </p><p>of a smashing defeat in Africa had been in and out of his </p><p>mind. He seemed actually to see the Eurasian army swarm- </p><p>ing across the never-broken frontier and pouring down </p><p>into the tip of Africa like a column of ants. Why had it not </p><p>been possible to outflank them in some way? The outline of </p><p>the West African coast stood out vividly in his mind. He </p><p>picked up the white knight and moved it across the board. </p><p>THERE was the proper spot. Even while he saw the black </p><p>horde racing southward he saw another force, mysteriously </p><p>assembled, suddenly planted in their rear, cutting their co- </p><p>munications by land and sea. He felt that by willing it he </p><p>was bringing that other force into existence. But it was nec- </p><p>essary to act quickly. If they could get control of the whole </p><p>of Africa, if they had airfields and submarine bases at the </p><p>Cape, it would cut Oceania in two. It might mean anything: </p><p>defeat, breakdown, the redivision of the world, the destruc- </p><p>tion of the Party! He drew a deep breath. An extraordinary </p><p>medley of feeling — but it was not a medley, exactly; rather it </p><p>was successive layers of feeling, in which one could not say </p><p>which layer was undermost — struggled inside him. </p><p>The spasm passed. He put the white knight back in its </p><p>place, but for the moment he could not settle down to se- </p><p>rious study of the chess problem. His thoughts wandered </p><p>again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his finger in </p><p>the dust on the table: </p><p>366 </p><p>1984 </p><p>2 + 2=5 </p><p>‘They can’t get inside you,’ she had said. But they could </p><p>get inside you. ‘What happens to you here is FOR EVER,’</p><p>O’Brien had said. That was a true word. There were things, </p><p>your own acts, from which you could never recover. Some- </p><p>thing was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out. </p><p>He had seen her; he had even spoken to her. There was </p><p>no danger in it. He knew as though instinctively that they </p><p>now took almost no interest in his doings. He could have </p><p>arranged to meet her a second time if either of them had </p><p>wanted to. Actually it was by chance that they had met. It </p><p>was in the Park, on a vile, biting day in March, when the </p><p>earth was like iron and all the grass seemed dead and there </p><p>was not a bud anywhere except a few crocuses which had </p><p>pushed themselves up to be dismembered by the wind. He </p><p>was hurrying along with frozen hands and watering eyes </p><p>when he saw her not ten metres away from him. It struck </p><p>him at once that she had changed in some ill-defined way. </p><p>They almost passed one another without a sign, then he </p><p>turned and followed her, not very eagerly. He knew that </p><p>there was no danger, nobody would take any interest in him. </p><p>She did not speak. She walked obliquely away across the </p><p>grass as though trying to get rid of him, then seemed to re- </p><p>sign herself to having him at her side. Presently they were in </p><p>among a clump of ragged leafless shrubs, useless either for </p><p>concealment or as protection from the wind. They halted. </p><p>It was vilely cold. The wind whistled through the twigs and </p><p>fretted the occasional, dirty-looking crocuses. He put his </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>367 </p><p>arm round her waist. </p><p>There was no telescreen, but there must be hidden </p><p>microphones: besides, they could be seen. It did not mat- </p><p>ter, nothing mattered. They could have lain down on the </p><p>ground and done THAT if they had wanted to. His flesh </p><p>froze with horror at the thought of it. She made no response </p><p>whatever to the clasp of his arm; she did not even try to dis- </p><p>engage herself. He knew now what had changed in her. Her </p><p>face was sallower, and there was a long scar, partly hidden </p><p>by the hair, across her forehead and temple; but that was not </p><p>the change. It was that her waist had grown thicker, and, in </p><p>a surprising way, had stiffened. He remembered how once, </p><p>after the explosion of a rocket bomb, he had helped to drag </p><p>a corpse out of some ruins, and had been astonished not </p><p>only by the incredible weight of the thing, but by its rigidity </p><p>and awkwardness to handle, which made it seem more like </p><p>stone than flesh. Her body felt like that. It occurred to him </p><p>that the texture of her skin would be quite different from </p><p>what it had once been. </p><p>He did not attempt to kiss her, nor did they speak. As they </p><p>walked back across the grass, she looked directly at him for </p><p>the first time. It was only a momentary glance, full of con-</p><p>tempt and dislike. He wondered whether it was a dislike that </p><p>came purely out of the past or whether it was inspired also </p><p>by his bloated face and the water that the wind kept squeez- </p><p>ing from his eyes. They sat down on two iron chairs, side by </p><p>side but not too close together. He saw that she was about </p><p>to speak. She moved her clumsy shoe a few centimetres and </p><p>deliberately crushed a twig. Her feet seemed to have grown </p><p>368 </p><p>1984 </p><p>broader, he noticed. </p><p>‘I betrayed you,’ she said baldly. </p><p>‘I betrayed you,’ he said. </p><p>She gave him another quick look of dislike. </p><p>‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘they threaten you with something </p><p>something you can’t stand up to, can’t even think about. </p><p>And then you say, ‘Don’t do it to me, do it to somebody </p><p>else, do it to so-and-so.’ And perhaps you might pretend, </p><p>afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it </p><p>to make them stop and didn’t really mean it. But that isn’t </p><p>true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think </p><p>there’s no other way of saving yourself, and you’re quite </p><p>ready to save yourself that way. You WANT it to happen to </p><p>the other person. You don’t give a damn what they suffer. </p><p>All you care about is yourself.’ </p><p>‘All you care about is yourself,’ he echoed. </p><p>‘And after that, you don’t feel the same towards the other </p><p>person any longer.’ </p><p>‘No,’ he said, ‘you don’t feel the same.’ </p><p>There did not seem to be anything more to say. The wind </p><p>plastered their thin overalls against their bodies. Almost at </p><p>once it became embarrassing to sit there in silence: besides, </p><p>it was too cold to keep still. She said something about catch- </p><p>ing her Tube and stood up to go. </p><p>‘We must meet again,’ he said. </p><p>‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we must meet again.’ </p><p>He followed irresolutely for a little distance, half a pace </p><p>behind her. They did not speak again. She did not actually </p><p>try to shake him off, but walked at just such a speed as to </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com</p><p>369 </p><p>prevent his keeping abreast of her. He had made up his mind </p><p>that he would accompany her as far as the Tube station, but </p><p>suddenly this process of trailing along in the cold seemed </p><p>pointless and unbearable. He was overwhelmed by a desire </p><p>not so much to get away from Julia as to get back to the </p><p>Chestnut Tree Cafe, which had never seemed so attractive </p><p>as at this moment. He had a nostalgic vision of his corner </p><p>table, with the newspaper and the chessboard and the ever- </p><p>flowing gin. Above all, it would be warm in there. The next </p><p>moment, not altogether by accident, he allowed himself to </p><p>become separated from her by a small knot of people. He </p><p>made a halfhearted attempt to catch up, then slowed down, </p><p>turned, and made off in the opposite direction. When he </p><p>had gone fifty metres he looked back. The street was not </p><p>crowded, but already he could not distinguish her. Any one </p><p>of a dozen hurrying figures might have been hers. Perhaps </p><p>her thickened, stiffened body was no longer recognizable </p><p>from behind. </p><p>At the time when it happens,’ she had said, ‘you do mean </p><p>it.’ He had meant it. He had not merely said it, he had wished </p><p>it. He had wished that she and not he should be delivered </p><p>over to the </p><p>Something changed in the music that trickled from the </p><p>telescreen. A cracked and jeering note, a yellow note, came </p><p>into it. And then — perhaps it was not happening, perhaps </p><p>it was only a memory taking on the semblance of sound — a </p><p>voice was singing: </p><p>‘Under the spreading chestnut tree </p><p>370 </p><p>1984 </p><p>I sold you and you sold me f </p><p>The tears welled up in his eyes. A passing waiter noticed </p><p>that his glass was empty and came back with the gin bottle. </p><p>He took up his glass and sniffed at it. The stuff grew </p><p>not less but more horrible with every mouthful he drank. </p><p>But it had become the element he swam in. It was his life, </p><p>his death, and his resurrection. It was gin that sank him </p><p>into stupor every night, and gin that revived him every </p><p>morning. When he woke, seldom before eleven hundred, </p><p>with gummed-up eyelids and fiery mouth and a back that </p><p>seemed to be broken, it would have been impossible even</p><p>to rise from the horizontal if it had not been for the bottle </p><p>and teacup placed beside the bed overnight. Through the </p><p>midday hours he sat with glazed face, the bottle handy, lis- </p><p>tening to the telescreen. From fifteen to closing-time he </p><p>was a fixture in the Chestnut Tree. No one cared what he </p><p>did any longer, no whistle woke him, no telescreen admon- </p><p>ished him. Occasionally, perhaps twice a week, he went to a </p><p>dusty, forgotten-looking office in the Ministry of Truth and </p><p>did a little work, or what was called work. He had been ap- </p><p>pointed to a sub-committee of a sub-committee which had </p><p>sprouted from one of the innumerable committees dealing </p><p>with minor difficulties that arose in the compilation of the </p><p>Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. They were </p><p>engaged in producing something called an Interim Report, </p><p>but what it was that they were reporting on he had never </p><p>definitely found out. It was something to do with the ques- </p><p>tion of whether commas should be placed inside brackets, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>37i </p><p>or outside. There were four others on the committee, all of </p><p>them persons similar to himself. There were days when they </p><p>assembled and then promptly dispersed again, frankly ad- </p><p>mitting to one another that there was not really anything to </p><p>be done. But there were other days when they settled down </p><p>to their work almost eagerly, making a tremendous show </p><p>of entering up their minutes and drafting long memoranda </p><p>which were never finished — when the argument as to what </p><p>they were supposedly arguing about grew extraordinarily </p><p>involved and abstruse, with subtle haggling over definitions, </p><p>enormous digressions, quarrels — threats, even, to appeal to </p><p>higher authority. And then suddenly the life would go out </p><p>of them and they would sit round the table looking at one </p><p>another with extinct eyes, like ghosts fading at cock-crow. </p><p>The telescreen was silent for a moment. Winston raised </p><p>his head again. The bulletin! But no, they were merely </p><p>changing the music. He had the map of Africa behind his </p><p>eyelids. The movement of the armies was a diagram: a black </p><p>arrow tearing vertically southward, and a white arrow hori- </p><p>zontally eastward, across the tail of the first. As though for </p><p>reassurance he looked up at the imperturbable face in the </p><p>portrait. Was it conceivable that the second arrow did not </p><p>even exist? </p><p>His interest flagged again. He drank another mouthful of </p><p>gin, picked up the white knight and made a tentative move. </p><p>Check. But it was evidently not the right move, because </p><p>Uncalled, a memory floated into his mind. He saw a </p><p>candle-lit room with a vast white- counterpaned bed, and </p><p>himself, a boy of nine or ten, sitting on the floor, shaking </p><p>372 </p><p>1984 </p><p>a dice-box, and laughing excitedly. His mother was sitting </p><p>opposite him and also laughing. </p><p>It must have been about a month before she disappeared. </p><p>It was a moment of reconciliation, when the nagging hun- </p><p>ger in his belly was forgotten and his earlier affection for </p><p>her had temporarily revived. He remembered the day well, </p><p>a pelting, drenching day when the water streamed down </p><p>the window-pane and the light indoors was too dull to read </p><p>by. The boredom of the two children in the dark, cramped </p><p>bedroom became unbearable. Winston whined and griz- </p><p>zled, made futile demands for food, fretted about the room </p><p>pulling everything out of place and kicking the wainscot- </p><p>ing until the neighbours banged on the wall, while the </p><p>younger child wailed intermittently. In the end his mother </p><p>said, ‘Now be good, and I’ll buy you a toy. A lovely toy — </p><p>you’ll love it’; and then she had gone out in the rain, to a </p><p>little general shop which was still sporadically open nearby, </p><p>and came back with a cardboard box containing an outfit </p><p>of Snakes and Ladders. He could still remember the smell </p><p>of the damp cardboard. It was a miserable outfit. The board </p><p>was cracked and the tiny wooden dice were so ill- cut that </p><p>they would hardly lie on their sides. Winston looked at the </p><p>thing sulkily and without interest. But then his mother lit a </p><p>piece of candle and they sat down on the floor to play. Soon </p><p>he was wildly excited and shouting with laughter as the tid- </p><p>dly-winks climbed hopefully up the ladders and then came </p><p>slithering down the snakes again, almost to the starting- </p><p>point. They played eight games, winning four each. His tiny </p><p>sister, too young to understand what the game was about, </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>373 </p><p>had sat propped up against a bolster, laughing because the </p><p>others were laughing. For a whole afternoon they had all </p><p>been happy together, as in his earlier childhood. </p><p>He pushed the picture out of his mind. It was a false </p><p>memory. He was troubled by false memories occasionally. </p><p>They did not matter so long as one knew them for what they </p><p>were. Some things had happened, others had not happened. </p><p>He turned back to the chessboard and picked up the white </p><p>knight again. Almost in the same instant it dropped on to </p><p>the board with a clatter. He had started as though a pin had </p><p>run into him.</p><p>A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bul- </p><p>letin! Victory! It always meant victory when a trumpet-call </p><p>preceded the news. A sort of electric drill ran through the </p><p>cafe. Even the waiters had started and pricked up their </p><p>ears. </p><p>The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of </p><p>noise. Already an excited voice was gabbling from the tele- </p><p>screen, but even as it started it was almost drowned by a </p><p>roar of cheering from outside. The news had run round the </p><p>streets like magic. He could hear just enough of what was </p><p>issuing from the telescreen to realize that it had all hap- </p><p>pened, as he had foreseen; a vast seaborne armada had </p><p>secretly assembled a sudden blow in the enemy’s rear, the </p><p>white arrow tearing across the tail of the black. Fragments </p><p>of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: </p><p>‘Vast strategic manoeuvre — perfect co-ordination — utter </p><p>rout — half a million prisoners — complete demoraliza- </p><p>tion — control of the whole of Africa — bring the war within </p><p>374 </p><p>1984 </p><p>measurable distance of its end — victory — greatest victory </p><p>in human history — victory, victory, victory!’ </p><p>Under the table Winston’s feet made convulsive move- </p><p>ments. He had not stirred from his seat, but in his mind </p><p>he was running, swiftly running, he was with the crowds </p><p>outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at the </p><p>portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the </p><p>world! The rock against which the hordes of Asia dashed </p><p>themselves in vain! He thought how ten minutes ago — yes, </p><p>only ten minutes — there had still been equivocation in </p><p>his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front </p><p>would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than a Eur- </p><p>asian army that had perished! Much had changed in him </p><p>since that first day in the Ministry of Love, but the final, in- </p><p>dispensable, healing change had never happened, until this </p><p>moment. </p><p>The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its </p><p>tale of prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting </p><p>outside had died down a little. The waiters were turning </p><p>back to their work. One of them approached with the gin </p><p>bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no at- </p><p>tention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or </p><p>cheering any longer. He was back in the Ministry of Love, </p><p>with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in </p><p>the public dock, confessing everything, implicating every- </p><p>body. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with </p><p>the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at </p><p>his back. The long-hoped-for bullet was entering his brain.</p><p>He gazed up at the enormous face, forty years it had tak- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>375 </p><p>en him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the </p><p>dark moustache. 0 cruel, needless misunderstanding! O </p><p>stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin- </p><p>scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was </p><p>all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. </p><p>He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother. </p><p>THE END </p><p>APPENDIX. </p><p>The Principles of Newspeak </p><p>Newspeak was the official language of Oceania and </p><p>had been devised to meet the ideological needs of Ingsoc, </p><p>or English Socialism. In the year 1984 there was not as yet </p><p>anyone who used Newspeak as his sole means of commu- </p><p>nication, either in speech or writing. The leading articles </p><p>in ‘The Times’ were written in it, but this was a TOUR DE </p><p>FORCE which could only be carried out by a specialist. It </p><p>was expected that Newspeak would have finally supersed- </p><p>ed Oldspeak (or Standard English, as we should call it) by </p><p>about the year 2050. Meanwhile it gained ground steadi- </p><p>ly, all Party members tending to use Newspeak words and </p><p>grammatical constructions more and more in their every- </p><p>day speech. The version in use in 1984, and embodied in the </p><p>Ninth and Tenth Editions of the Newspeak Dictionary, was </p><p>a provisional one, and contained many superfluous words </p><p>and archaic formations which were due to be suppressed </p><p>later. It is with the final, perfected version, as embodied in </p><p>the Eleventh Edition of the Dictionary, that we are con- </p><p>cerned here. </p><p>The purpose of Newspeak was not only to provide a </p><p>376 </p><p>1984 </p><p>medium of expression for the world-view and mental hab- </p><p>its proper to the devotees of Ingsoc, but to make all other </p><p>modes of thought impossible. It was intended that when </p><p>Newspeak had been adopted once and for all and Oldspeak </p><p>forgotten, a heretical thought — that is, a thought diverging</p><p>from the principles of Ingsoc — should be literally unthink- </p><p>able, at least so far as thought is dependent on words. Its </p><p>vocabulary was so constructed as to give exact and of- </p><p>ten very subtle expression to every meaning that a Party </p><p>member could properly wish to express, while excluding </p><p>all other meanings and also the possibility of arriving at </p><p>them by indirect methods. This was done partly by the </p><p>invention of new words, but chiefly by eliminating unde- </p><p>sirable words and by stripping such words as remained of </p><p>unorthodox meanings, and so far as possible of all second- </p><p>ary meanings whatever. To give a single example. The word </p><p>FREE still existed in Newspeak, but it could only be used in </p><p>such statements as ‘This dog is free from lice’ or ‘This field </p><p>is free from weeds’. It could not be used in its old sense of </p><p>‘politically free’ or ‘intellectually free’ since political and in- </p><p>tellectual freedom no longer existed even as concepts, and </p><p>were therefore of necessity nameless. Quite apart from the </p><p>suppression of definitely heretical words, reduction of vo- </p><p>cabulary was regarded as an end in itself, and no word that </p><p>could be dispensed with was allowed to survive. Newspeak </p><p>was designed not to extend but to DIMINISH the range of </p><p>thought, and this purpose was indirectly assisted by cutting </p><p>the choice of words down to a minimum. </p><p>Newspeak was founded on the English language as we </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>377 </p><p>now know it, though many Newspeak sentences, even when </p><p>not containing newly-created words, would be barely intel- </p><p>ligible to an English-speaker of our own day. Newspeak </p><p>words were divided into three distinct classes, known as </p><p>the A vocabulary, the B vocabulary (also called compound </p><p>words), and the C vocabulary. It will be simpler to discuss </p><p>each class separately, but the grammatical peculiarities of </p><p>the language can be dealt with in the section devoted to the </p><p>A vocabulary, since the same rules held good for all three </p><p>categories. </p><p>THE A VOCABULARY. The A vocabulary consisted </p><p>of the words needed for the business of everyday life — for </p><p>such things as eating, drinking, working, putting on one’s </p><p>clothes, going up and down stairs, riding in vehicles, garden- </p><p>ing, cooking, and the like. It was composed almost entirely </p><p>of words that we already possess words like HIT, RUN, </p><p>DOG, TREE, SUGAR, HOUSE, FIELD— but in compari- </p><p>son with the present-day English vocabulary their number </p><p>was extremely small, while their meanings were far more </p><p>rigidly defined. All ambiguities and shades of meaning had </p><p>been purged out of them. So far as it could be achieved, a </p><p>Newspeak word of this class was simply a staccato sound </p><p>expressing ONE clearly understood concept. It would have </p><p>been quite impossible to use the A vocabulary for literary</p><p>purposes or for political or philosophical discussion. It was </p><p>intended only to express simple, purposive thoughts, usu- </p><p>ally involving concrete objects or physical actions. </p><p>The grammar of Newspeak had two outstanding pe- </p><p>culiarities. The first of these was an almost complete </p><p>378 </p><p>1984 </p><p>interchangeability between different parts of speech. Any </p><p>word in the language (in principle this applied even to very </p><p>abstract words such as IF or WHEN) could be used either </p><p>as verb, noun, adjective, or adverb. Between the verb and </p><p>the noun form, when they were of the same root, there was </p><p>never any variation, this rule of itself involving the de- </p><p>struction of many archaic forms. The word THOUGHT, </p><p>for example, did not exist in Newspeak. Its place was tak- </p><p>en by THINK, which did duty for both noun and verb. No </p><p>etymological principle was followed here: in some cases it </p><p>was the original noun that was chosen for retention, in oth- </p><p>er cases the verb. Even where a noun and verb of kindred </p><p>meaning were not etymologically connected, one or other </p><p>of them was frequently suppressed. There was, for example, </p><p>no such word as CUT, its meaning being sufficiently cov- </p><p>ered by the noun -verb KNIFE. Adjectives were formed by </p><p>adding the suffix -FUL to the noun-verb, and adverbs by </p><p>adding -WISE. Thus for example, SPEEDFUL meant ‘rapid’ </p><p>and SPEEDWISE meant ‘quickly’. Certain of our present- </p><p>day adjectives, such as GOOD, STRONG, BIG, BLACK, </p><p>SOFT, were retained, but their total number was very small. </p><p>There was little need for them, since almost any adjectival </p><p>meaning could be arrived at by adding -FUL to a noun-verb. </p><p>None of the now- existing adverbs was retained, except for a </p><p>very few already ending in -WISE: the -WISE termination </p><p>was invariable. The word WELL, for example, was replaced </p><p>by GOODWISE. </p><p>In addition, any word — this again applied in principle </p><p>to every word in the language — could be negatived by add- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>379 </p><p>ing the affix UN-, or could be strengthened by the affix </p><p>PLUS-, or, for still greater emphasis, DOUBLEPLUS-. Thus, </p><p>for example, UNCOLD meant ‘warm’, while PLUSCOLD </p><p>and DOUBLEPLUSCOLD meant, respectively, ‘very cold’ </p><p>and ‘superlatively cold’. It was also possible, as in present-</p><p>day English, to modify the meaning of almost any word by </p><p>prepositional affixes such as ANTE-, POST-, UP-, DOWN-, </p><p>etc. By such methods it was found possible to bring about </p><p>an enormous diminution of vocabulary. Given, for instance, </p><p>the word GOOD, there was no need for such a word as BAD, </p><p>since the required meaning was equally well — indeed, bet- </p><p>ter — expressed by UNGOOD. All that was necessary, in </p><p>any case where two words formed a natural pair of oppo- </p><p>sites, was to decide which of them to suppress. DARK, for </p><p>example, could be replaced by UNLIGHT, or LIGHT by </p><p>UNDARK, according to preference. </p><p>The second distinguishing mark of Newspeak gram- </p><p>mar was its regularity. Subject to a few exceptions which </p><p>are mentioned below all inflexions followed the same rules. </p><p>Thus, in all verbs the preterite and the past participle were </p><p>the same and ended in -ED. The preterite of STEAL was </p><p>STEALED, the preterite of THINK was THINKED, and </p><p>so on throughout the language, all such forms as SWAM, </p><p>GAVE, BROUGHT, SPOKE, TAKEN, etc., being abolished. </p><p>All plurals were made by adding -S or -ES as the case might </p><p>be. The plurals OF MAN, OX, LIFE, were MANS, OXES, </p><p>LIFES. Comparison of adjectives was invariably made by </p><p>adding -ER, -EST (GOOD, GOODER, GOODEST), ir- </p><p>regular forms and the MORE, MOST formation being </p><p>380 </p><p>1984 </p><p>suppressed. </p><p>The only classes of words that were still allowed to inflect </p><p>irregularly were the pronouns, the relatives, the demonstra- </p><p>tive adjectives, and the auxiliary verbs. All of these followed </p><p>their ancient usage, except that WHOM had been scrapped </p><p>as unnecessary, and the SHALL, SHOULD tenses had been </p><p>dropped, all their uses being covered by WILL and WOULD. </p><p>There were also certain irregularities in word-formation </p><p>arising out of the need for rapid and easy speech. A word </p><p>which was difficult to utter, or was liable to be incorrectly </p><p>heard, was held to be ipso facto a bad word; occasionally </p><p>therefore, for the sake of euphony, extra letters were insert- </p><p>ed into a word or an archaic formation was retained. But </p><p>this need made itself felt chiefly in connexion with the B </p><p>vocabulary. WHY so great an importance was attached to </p><p>ease of pronunciation will be made clear later in this essay. </p><p>THE B VOCABULARY. The B vocabulary consisted of </p><p>words which had been deliberately constructed for political </p><p>purposes: words, that is to say, which not only had in every </p><p>case a political implication, but were intended to impose </p><p>a desirable mental attitude upon the person using them. </p><p>Without a full understanding of the principles of Ingsoc </p><p>it was difficult to use these words correctly. In some cases</p><p>they could be translated into Oldspeak, or even into words </p><p>taken from the A vocabulary, but this usually demanded </p><p>a long paraphrase and always involved the loss of certain </p><p>overtones. The B words were a sort of verbal shorthand, of- </p><p>ten packing whole ranges of ideas into a few syllables, and </p><p>at the same time more accurate and forcible than ordinary </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>381 </p><p>language. </p><p>The B words were in all cases compound words. [Com- </p><p>pound words such as SPEAKWRITE, were of course to be </p><p>found in the A vocabulary, but these were merely convenient </p><p>abbreviations and had no special ideologcal colour.] They </p><p>consisted of two or more words, or portions of words, weld- </p><p>ed together in an easily pronounceable form. The resulting </p><p>amalgam was always a noun-verb, and inflected according </p><p>to the ordinary rules. To take a single example: the word </p><p>GOODT1TINK, meaning, very roughly, ‘orthodoxy’, or, if </p><p>one chose to regard it as a verb, ‘to think in an orthodox </p><p>manner’. This inflected as follows: noun-verb, GOOD- </p><p>TE1INK; past tense and past participle, GOODTE1INKED; </p><p>present participle, GOOD-TE1INKING; adjective, GOOD- </p><p>THINKFUL; adverb, GOODTHINKWISE; verbal noun, </p><p>GOODTHINKER. </p><p>The B words were not constructed on any etymological </p><p>plan. The words of which they were made up could be any </p><p>parts of speech, and could be placed in any order and muti- </p><p>lated in any way which made them easy to pronounce while </p><p>indicating their derivation. In the word CRIMETHINK </p><p>(thoughtcrime), for instance, the TE1INK came second, </p><p>whereas in TE1INKPOL (Thought Police) it came first, </p><p>and in the latter word POLICE had lost its second syllable. </p><p>Because of the great difficulty in securing euphony, irregu- </p><p>lar formations were commoner in the B vocabulary than </p><p>in the A vocabulary. For example, the adjective forms of </p><p>MINITRUE, MINIPAX, and MINILUV were, respectively, </p><p>MINITRUTHFUL, MINIPEACEFUL, and MINILOVELY, </p><p>382 </p><p>1984 </p><p>simply because -TRUEFUL, -PAXFUL, and -LOVEFUL </p><p>were slightly awkward to pronounce. In principle, however, </p><p>all B words could inflect, and all inflected in exactly the </p><p>same way.</p><p>Some of the B words had highly subtilized meanings, </p><p>barely intelligible to anyone who had not mastered the </p><p>language as a whole. Consider, for example, such a typical </p><p>sentence from a ‘Times’ leading article as OLDTF1INKERS </p><p>UNBELLYFEEL INGSOC. The shortest rendering that one </p><p>could make of this in Oldspeak would be: ‘Those whose </p><p>ideas were formed before the Revolution cannot have a full </p><p>emotional understanding of the principles of English So- </p><p>cialism.’ But this is not an adequate translation. To begin </p><p>with, in order to grasp the full meaning of the Newspeak </p><p>sentence quoted above, one would have to have a clear idea </p><p>of what is meant by INGSOC. And in addition, only a per- </p><p>son thoroughly grounded in Ingsoc could appreciate the </p><p>full force of the word BELLYFEEL, which implied a blind, </p><p>enthusiastic acceptance difficult to imagine today; or of the </p><p>word OLDTHINK, which was inextricably mixed up with </p><p>the idea of wickedness and decadence. But the special func- </p><p>tion of certain Newspeak words, of which OLDTHINK </p><p>was one, was not so much to express meanings as to de- </p><p>stroy them. These words, necessarily few in number, had </p><p>had their meanings extended until they contained within </p><p>themselves whole batteries of words which, as they were </p><p>sufficiently covered by a single comprehensive term, could </p><p>now be scrapped and forgotten. The greatest difficulty fac- </p><p>ing the compilers of the Newspeak Dictionary was not to </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>383 </p><p>invent new words, but, having invented them, to make sure </p><p>what they meant: to make sure, that is to say, what ranges of </p><p>words they cancelled by their existence. </p><p>As we have already seen in the case of the word FREE, </p><p>words which had once borne a heretical meaning were </p><p>sometimes retained for the sake of convenience, but only </p><p>with the undesirable meanings purged out of them. Count- </p><p>less other words such as HONOUR, JUSTICE, MORALITY, </p><p>INTERNATIONALISM, DEMOCRACY, SCIENCE, and </p><p>RELIGION had simply ceased to exist. A few blanket words </p><p>covered them, and, in covering them, abolished them. All </p><p>words grouping themselves round the concepts of liber- </p><p>ty and equality, for instance, were contained in the single </p><p>word CRIMETHINK, while all words grouping themselves </p><p>round the concepts of objectivity and rationalism were </p><p>contained in the single word OLDTHINK. Greater preci- </p><p>sion would have been dangerous. What was required in a </p><p>Party member was an outlook similar to that of the ancient </p><p>Hebrew who knew, without knowing much else, that all na- </p><p>tions other than his own worshipped ‘false gods’. He did </p><p>not need to know that these gods were called Baal, Osiris, </p><p>Moloch, Ashtaroth, and the like: probably the less he knew </p><p>about them the better for his orthodoxy. He knew Jehovah</p><p>and the commandments of Jehovah: he knew, therefore, </p><p>that all gods with other names or other attributes were false </p><p>gods. In somewhat the same way, the party member knew </p><p>what constituted right conduct, and in exceedingly vague, </p><p>generalized terms he knew what kinds of departure from </p><p>it were possible. His sexual life, for example, was entirely </p><p>384 </p><p>1984 </p><p>regulated by the two Newspeak words SEXCRIME (sex- </p><p>ual immorality) and GOODSEX (chastity). SEXCRIME </p><p>covered all sexual misdeeds whatever. It covered fornica- </p><p>tion, adultery, homosexuality, and other perversions, and, </p><p>in addition, normal intercourse practised for its own sake. </p><p>There was no need to enumerate them separately, since they </p><p>were all equally culpable, and, in principle, all punishable </p><p>by death. In the C vocabulary, which consisted of scientific </p><p>and technical words, it might be necessary to give special- </p><p>ized names to certain sexual aberrations, but the ordinary </p><p>citizen had no need of them. He knew what was meant by </p><p>GOODSEX — that is to say, normal intercourse between </p><p>man and wife, for the sole purpose of begetting children, </p><p>and without physical pleasure on the part of the woman: all </p><p>else was SEXCRIME. In Newspeak it was seldom possible to </p><p>follow a heretical thought further than the perception that </p><p>it WAS heretical: beyond that point the necessary words </p><p>were nonexistent. </p><p>No word in the B vocabulary was ideologically neutral. </p><p>A great many were euphemisms. Such words, for instance, </p><p>as JOYCAMP (forced-labour camp) or MINIPAX Minis- </p><p>try of Peace, i.e. Ministry of War) meant almost the exact </p><p>opposite of what they appeared to mean. Some words, on </p><p>the other hand, displayed a frank and contemptuous un- </p><p>derstanding of the real nature of Oceanic society. An </p><p>example was PROLEFEED, meaning the rubbishy enter- </p><p>tainment and spurious news which the Party handed out </p><p>to the masses. Other words, again, were ambivalent, hav- </p><p>ing the connotation ‘good’ when applied to the Party and </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>385 </p><p>‘bad’ when applied to its enemies. But in addition there were </p><p>great numbers of words which at first sight appeared to be </p><p>mere abbreviations and which derived their ideological co- </p><p>lour not from their meaning, but from their structure. </p><p>So far as it could be contrived, everything that had or </p><p>might have political significance of any kind was fitted into </p><p>the B vocabulary. The name of every organization, or body </p><p>of people, or doctrine, or country, or institution, or public </p><p>building, was invariably cut down into the familiar shape; </p><p>that is, a single easily pronounced word with the smallest </p><p>number of syllables that would preserve the original deri- </p><p>vation. In the Ministry of Truth, for example, the Records </p><p>Department, in which Winston Smith worked, was called </p><p>RECDEP, the Fiction Department was called FICDEP, the </p><p>Teleprogrammes Department was called TELEDEP, and so </p><p>on. This was not done solely with the object of saving time. </p><p>Even in the early decades of the twentieth century, tele- </p><p>scoped words and phrases had been one of the characteristic </p><p>features of political language; and it had been noticed that </p><p>the tendency to use abbreviations of this kind was most </p><p>marked in totalitarian countries and totalitarian organi- </p><p>zations. Examples were such words as NAZI, GESTAPO, </p><p>COMINTERN, INPRECORR, AGITPROP. In the begin- </p><p>ning the practice had been adopted as it were instinctively, </p><p>but in Newspeak it was used with a conscious purpose. It </p><p>was perceived that in thus abbreviating a name one nar- </p><p>rowed and subtly altered its meaning, by cutting out most of </p><p>the associations that would otherwise cling to it. The words </p><p>COMMUNIST INTERNATIONAL, for instance, call up </p><p>386 </p><p>1984 </p><p>a composite picture of universal human brotherhood, red </p><p>flags, barricades, Karl Marx, and the Paris Commune. The </p><p>word COMINTERN, on the other hand, suggests merely a </p><p>tightly-knit organization and a well-defined body of doc- </p><p>trine. It refers to something almost as easily recognized, </p><p>and as limited in purpose, as a chair or a table. COMIN- </p><p>TERN is a word that can be uttered almost without taking </p><p>thought, whereas COMMUNIST INTERNATIONAL is </p><p>a phrase over which one is obliged to linger at least mo- </p><p>mentarily. In the same way, the associations called up by a </p><p>word like MINITRUE are fewer and more controllable than </p><p>those called up by MINISTRY OF TRUTH. This accounted </p><p>not only for the habit of abbreviating whenever possible, but </p><p>also for the almost exaggerated care that was taken to make </p><p>every word easily pronounceable. </p><p>In Newspeak, euphony outweighed every consideration </p><p>other than exactitude of meaning. Regularity of grammar </p><p>was always sacrificed to it when it seemed necessary. And </p><p>rightly so, since what was required, above all for political </p><p>purposes, was short clipped words of unmistakable mean- </p><p>ing which could be uttered rapidly and which roused the </p><p>minimum of echoes in the speaker’s mind. The words of the </p><p>B vocabulary even gained in force from the fact that nearly </p><p>all of them were very much alike. Almost invariably these</p><p>words— GOODTHINK, MINIPAX, PROLEFEED, SEX- </p><p>CRIME, JOYCAMP, INGSOC, BELLYFEEL, THINKPOL, </p><p>and countless others — were words of two or three syllables, </p><p>with the stress distributed equally between the first syllable </p><p>and the last. The use of them encouraged a gabbling style of </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>387 </p><p>speech, at once staccato and monotonous. And this was ex- </p><p>actly what was aimed at. The intention was to make speech, </p><p>and especially speech on any subject not ideologically neu- </p><p>tral, as nearly as possible independent of consciousness. For </p><p>the purposes of everyday life it was no doubt necessary, or </p><p>sometimes necessary, to reflect before speaking, but a Party </p><p>member called upon to make a political or ethical judge- </p><p>ment should be able to spray forth the correct opinions as </p><p>automatically as a machine gun spraying forth bullets. His </p><p>training fitted him to do this, the language gave him an al- </p><p>most foolproof instrument, and the texture of the words, </p><p>with their harsh sound and a certain wilful ugliness which </p><p>was in accord with the spirit of Ingsoc, assisted the process </p><p>still further. </p><p>So did the fact of having very few words to choose from. </p><p>Relative to our own, the Newspeak vocabulary was tiny, </p><p>and new ways of reducing it were constantly being devised. </p><p>Newspeak, indeed, differed from most all other languages </p><p>in that its vocabulary grew smaller instead of larger every </p><p>year. Each reduction was a gain, since the smaller the area </p><p>of choice, the smaller the temptation to take thought. Ulti- </p><p>mately it was hoped to make articulate speech issue from </p><p>the larynx without involving the higher brain centres at </p><p>all. This aim was frankly admitted in the Newspeak word </p><p>DUCKSPE AK, meaning ‘to quack like a duck’. Like various </p><p>other words in the B vocabulary, DUCKSPEAK was ambiv- </p><p>alent in meaning. Provided that the opinions which were </p><p>quacked out were orthodox ones, it implied nothing but </p><p>praise, and when ‘The Times’ referred to one of the orators </p><p>388 </p><p>1984 </p><p>of the Party as a DOUBLEPLUSGOOD DUCKSPEAKER it </p><p>was paying a warm and valued compliment. </p><p>TE1E C VOCABULARY. The C vocabulary was supple- </p><p>mentary to the others and consisted entirely of scientific </p><p>and technical terms. These resembled the scientific terms</p><p>in use today, and were constructed from the same roots, but </p><p>the usual care was taken to define them rigidly and strip </p><p>them of undesirable meanings. They followed the same </p><p>grammatical rules as the words in the other two vocabu- </p><p>laries. Very few of the C words had any currency either in </p><p>everyday speech or in political speech. Any scientific work- </p><p>er or technician could find all the words he needed in the </p><p>list devoted to his own speciality, but he seldom had more </p><p>than a smattering of the words occurring in the other lists. </p><p>Only a very few words were common to all lists, and there </p><p>was no vocabulary expressing the function of Science as a </p><p>habit of mind, or a method of thought, irrespective of its </p><p>particular branches. There was, indeed, no word for ‘Sci- </p><p>ence’, any meaning that it could possibly bear being already </p><p>sufficiently covered by the word INGSOC. </p><p>From the foregoing account it will be seen that in New- </p><p>speak the expression of unorthodox opinions, above a very </p><p>low level, was well-nigh impossible. It was of course pos- </p><p>sible to utter heresies of a very crude kind, a species of </p><p>blasphemy. It would have been possible, for example, to say </p><p>BIG BROTHER IS UNGOOD. But this statement, which </p><p>to an orthodox ear merely conveyed a self-evident absur- </p><p>dity, could not have been sustained by reasoned argument, </p><p>because the necessary words were not available. Ideas inim- </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>389 </p><p>ical to Ingsoc could only be entertained in a vague wordless </p><p>form, and could only be named in very broad terms which </p><p>lumped together and condemned whole groups of heresies </p><p>without defining them in doing so. One could, in fact, only </p><p>use Newspeak for unorthodox purposes by illegitimately </p><p>translating some of the words back into Oldspeak. For ex- </p><p>ample, ALL MANS ARE EQUAL was a possible Newspeak </p><p>sentence, but only in the same sense in which ALL MEN </p><p>ARE REDHAIRED is a possible Oldspeak sentence. It did </p><p>not contain a grammatical error, but it expressed a palpa- </p><p>ble untruth — i.e. that all men are of equal size, weight, or </p><p>strength. The concept of political equality no longer existed, </p><p>and this secondary meaning had accordingly been purged </p><p>out of the word EQUAL. In 1984, when Oldspeak was still </p><p>the normal means of communication, the danger theo- </p><p>retically existed that in using Newspeak words one might </p><p>remember their original meanings. In practice it was not </p><p>difficult for any person well grounded in DOUBLETHINK </p><p>to avoid doing this, but within a couple of generations even </p><p>the possibility of such a lapse would have vaished. A per- </p><p>son growing up with Newspeak as his sole language would </p><p>no more know that EQUAL had once had the second- </p><p>ary meaning of ‘politically equal’, or that FREE had once </p><p>meant ‘intellectually free’, than for instance, a person who </p><p>had never heard of chess would be aware of the secondary</p><p>meanings attaching to QUEEN and ROOK. There would </p><p>be many crimes and errors which it would be beyond his </p><p>power to commit, simply because they were nameless and </p><p>therefore unimaginable. And it was to be foreseen that with </p><p>390 </p><p>1984 </p><p>the passage of time the distinguishing characteristics of </p><p>Newspeak would become more and more pronounced — its </p><p>words growing fewer and fewer, their meanings more and </p><p>more rigid, and the chance of putting them to improper </p><p>uses always diminishing. </p><p>When Oldspeak had been once and for all superseded, </p><p>the last link with the past would have been severed. History </p><p>had already been rewritten, but fragments of the literature </p><p>of the past survived here and there, imperfectly censored, </p><p>and so long as one retained one’s knowledge of Oldspeak </p><p>it was possible to read them. In the future such fragments, </p><p>even if they chanced to survive, would be unintelligible </p><p>and untranslatable. It was impossible to translate any pas- </p><p>sage of Oldspeak into Newspeak unless it either referred to </p><p>some technical process or some very simple everyday ac- </p><p>tion, or was already orthodox (GOODTHINKFUL would </p><p>be the Newspeak expression) in tendency. In practice this </p><p>meant that no book written before approximately 1960 </p><p>could be translated as a whole. Pre-revolutionary literature </p><p>could only be subjected to ideological translation — that is, </p><p>alteration in sense as well as language. Take for example </p><p>the well-known passage from the Declaration of Indepen- </p><p>dence: </p><p>WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT, </p><p>THAT ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL, THAT THEY </p><p>ARE ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR WITH CERTAIN </p><p>INALIENABLE RIGHTS, THAT AMONG THESE ARE </p><p>LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>39i </p><p>THAT TO SECURE THESE RIGHTS, GOVERNMENTS ARE </p><p>INSTITUTED AMONG MEN, DERIVING THEIR POWERS </p><p>FROM THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED. THAT </p><p>WHENEVER ANY FORM OF GOVERNMENT BECOMES </p><p>DESTRUCTIVE OF THOSE ENDS, IT IS THE RIGHT OF THE </p><p>PEOPLE WALTER OR ABOLISH IT, AND TO INSTITUTE</p><p>NEW GOVERNMENT... </p><p>It would have been quite impossible to render this into </p><p>Newspeak while keeping to the sense of the original. The </p><p>nearest one could come to doing so would be to swallow the </p><p>whole passage up in the single word CRIMETHINK. A full </p><p>translation could only be an ideological translation, where- </p><p>by Jefferson’s words would be changed into a panegyric on </p><p>absolute government. </p><p>A good deal of the literature of the past was, indeed, al- </p><p>ready being transformed in this way. Considerations of </p><p>prestige made it desirable to preserve the memory of cer- </p><p>tain historical figures, while at the same time bringing </p><p>their achievements into line with the philosophy of Ingsoc. </p><p>Various writers, such as Shakespeare, Milton, Swiff, By- </p><p>ron, Dickens, and some others were therefore in process of </p><p>translation: when the task had been completed, their orig- </p><p>inal writings, with all else that survived of the literature </p><p>of the past, would be destroyed. These translations were </p><p>a slow and difficult business, and it was not expected that </p><p>they would be finished before the first or second decade of </p><p>the twenty-first century. There were also large quantities of </p><p>merely utilitarian literature — indispensable technical man- </p><p>392 </p><p>1984 </p><p>uals, and the like — that had to be treated in the same way. It </p><p>was chiefly in order to allow time for the preliminary work </p><p>of translation that the final adoption of Newspeak had been </p><p>fixed for so late a date as 2050. </p><p>Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com </p><p>393 </p><p></pre> </div><!--/.container--></p><p> </main></p><p> </div><!--/#wrap--></p><p> <!-- Timing ...</p><p> rendered on: www20.us.archive.org</p><p> seconds diff sec message stack(file:line:function)</p><p>=========================================================</p><p> 0.0000 0.0000 petabox start var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:1:require</p><p> |common/ia:55:require_once</p><p> |setup.php:330:log</p><p> 0.0009 0.0009 call get_redis() var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:325:getItem</p><p> |common/Item.inc:77:parseMetadata</p><p> |Item.inc:132:get_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:371:get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1599:direct</p><p> |Caching/AbstractReactiveCache.inc:281:do_recompute</p><p> |AbstractReactiveCache.inc:392:call_user_func_array</p><p> |./unknown:unknown:{closure}</p><p> |/var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/common/Metadata.inc:1640:_get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1764:log</p><p> 0.0051 0.0042 redis_read start var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:325:getItem</p><p> |common/Item.inc:77:parseMetadata</p><p> |Item.inc:132:get_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:371:get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1599:direct</p><p> |Caching/AbstractReactiveCache.inc:281:do_recompute</p><p> |AbstractReactiveCache.inc:392:call_user_func_array</p><p> |./unknown:unknown:{closure}</p><p> |/var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/common/Metadata.inc:1640:_get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1872:log</p><p> 0.0214 0.0163 redis_read finish var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:325:getItem</p><p> |common/Item.inc:77:parseMetadata</p><p> |Item.inc:132:get_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:371:get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1599:direct</p><p> |Caching/AbstractReactiveCache.inc:281:do_recompute</p><p> |AbstractReactiveCache.inc:392:call_user_func_array</p><p> |./unknown:unknown:{closure}</p><p> |/var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/common/Metadata.inc:1640:_get_json_obj</p><p> |Metadata.inc:1874:log</p><p> 0.0373 0.0158 begin session_start var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:543:stream</p><p> |download.php:988:head</p><p> |common/Nav.inc:67:__construct</p><p> |Nav.inc:135:session_start</p><p> |Cookies.inc:61:log</p><p> 0.0374 0.0001 done session_start var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:543:stream</p><p> |download.php:988:head</p><p> |common/Nav.inc:67:__construct</p><p> |Nav.inc:135:session_start</p><p> |Cookies.inc:67:log</p><p> 0.1680 0.1306 bug dump var/cache/petabox/petabox/www/sf/download.php:83:main_wrap</p><p> |download.php:104:main</p><p> |download.php:543:stream</p><p> |download.php:1020:footer</p><p> |common/setup.php:130:footer</p><p> |Nav.inc:1392:dump</p><p> |Bug.inc:120:log</p><p> --></p><p> <script type="text/javascript"></p><p>if (window.archive_analytics) {</p><p> var vs = window.archive_analytics.get_data_packets();</p><p> for (var i in vs) {</p><p> vs[i]['cache_bust']=Math.random();</p><p> vs[i]['server_ms']=168;</p><p> vs[i]['server_name']="www20.us.archive.org";</p><p> }</p><p> if ($(".more_search").size()>0) {</p><p> window.archive_analytics.send_scroll_fetch_base_event();</p><p> }</p><p>}</p><p></script></p><p> </div></p><p> </body></p><p></html></p></body></text></TEI>