1984

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Etext by O. Dag, Russian Federation, April, 2002., E-mail: dag@orwell.ru

01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)

NINETEEN EIGHTY-FOUR

GEORGE ORWELL

PART I

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking

thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to

escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory

Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from

entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it

a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the

wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face

of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly

handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the

lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the

electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the

economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up,

and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right

ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing,

opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the

wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes

follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption

beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which

had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an

oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface

of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank

somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the

telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of

shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail

figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls

which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face

naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor

blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold.

Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper

into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue,

there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were

plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed down from every

commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite.

BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked

deep into Winston's own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one

corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering

the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down

between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted

away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into

people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought

Police mattered.

Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling

away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan.

The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that

Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by

it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the

metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of

course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given

moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any

individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched

everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire

whenever they wanted to. You had to live - did live, from habit that

became instinct - in the assumption that every sound you made was

overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.

Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though,

as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the

Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the

grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste - this was

London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the

provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that

should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there

always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides

shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and

their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all

directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air

and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places

where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid

colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he

could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of

bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly

unintelligible.

The Ministry of Truth - Minitrue, in Newspeak[1] - was startlingly

different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal

structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace,

300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to

read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans

of the Party:

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms

above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about

London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and

size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from

the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously.

They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire

apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned

itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry

of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which

maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible

for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv,

and Miniplenty.

The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no

windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love,

nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter

except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of

barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even

the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced

guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.

Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the

expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the

telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the

Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen,

and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of

dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow's breakfast. He

took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white

label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese

rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a

shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.

Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes.

The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the

sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next

moment, however, the burning in his belly died down and the world began to

look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked

VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously held it upright, whereupon the tobacco

fell out on to the floor. With the next he was more successful. He went

back to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood to the

left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took out a penholder, a

bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized blank book with a red back and a

marbled cover.

For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual

position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it

could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the

window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was

now sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably been

intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well

back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so

far as sight went. He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed

in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual

geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now

about to do.

But it had also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out

of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper,

a little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for

at least forty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was much

older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little

junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town (just what quarter he did not now

remember) and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to

possess it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops

('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the rule was not

strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and

razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. He

had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside

and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious

of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home

in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising

possession.

The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not

illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if

detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or

at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib

into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an

archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured

one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that

the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib

instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to

writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate

everything into the speak-write which was of course impossible for his

present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just

a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the

decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote:

April 4th, 1984.

He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him.

To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It

must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was

thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it

was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.

For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this

diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round

the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the

Newspeak word doublethink. For the first time the magnitude of what he had

undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It

was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present,

in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it,

and his predicament would be meaningless.

For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had

changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not

merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have

forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks

past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his

mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would

be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable

restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for

years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. Moreover

his varicose ulcer had begun itching unbearably. He dared not scratch it,

because if he did so it always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking

by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front

of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music,

and a slight booziness caused by the gin.

Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of

what he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up

and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its

full stops:

April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very

good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the

Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying

to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along

in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters

gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea round him turned pink and

he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience

shouting with laughter when he sank. then you saw a lifeboat full of

children with a helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman

might have been a jewess sitting up in the bow with a little boy about

three years old in her arms. little boy screaming with fright and hiding

his head between her breasts as if he was trying to burrow right into her

and the woman putting her arms round him and comforting him although she

was blue with fright herself, all the time covering him up as much as

possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets off him. then

the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the

boat went all to matchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child's

arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its

nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the

party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly

started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not

in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint

until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened

to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never--

Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp.

He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish. But the

curious thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had

clarified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt equal to

writing it down. It was, he now realized, because of this other incident

that he had suddenly decided to come home and begin the diary today.

It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous

could be said to happen.

It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where

Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and

grouping them in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in

preparation for the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place in

one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew by sight, but had never

spoken to, came unexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he

often passed in the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that

she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably - since he had sometimes

seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner - she had some mechanical

job on one of the novel-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of

about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic

movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was

wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to

bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the

very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the

atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general

clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked

nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always

the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted

adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and

nosers-out of unorthodoxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression

of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor

she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him

and for a moment had filled him with black terror. The idea had even

crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it

was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a peculiar

uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever

she was anywhere near him.

The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party

and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim

idea of its nature. A momentary hush passed over the group of people round

the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member

approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse,

humorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a

certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his

nose which was curiously disarming - in some indefinable way, curiously

civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such

terms, might have recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his

snuffbox. Winston had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many

years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued

by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane manner and his prize-fighter's

physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief - or perhaps

not even a belief, merely a hope - that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was

not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly. And again,

perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was written in his face, but

simply intelligence. But at any rate he had the appearance of being a

person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and

get him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this

guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At this moment O'Brien glanced

at his wrist-watch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently

decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was

over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple of places away.

A small, sandy-haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was

between them. The girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.

The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous

machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of

the room. It was a noise that set one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair

at the back of one's neck. The Hate had started.

As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had

flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the

audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and

disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how

long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of

the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged

in counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had

mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of the Two Minutes

Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not

the principal figure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of

the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all

treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of

his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his

conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his

foreign paymasters, perhaps even - so it was occasionally rumoured - in

some hiding-place in Oceania itself.

Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never see the face of

Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face,

with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard - a

clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile

silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles

was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a

sheep-like quality. Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon

the doctrines of the Party - an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a

child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible

enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-

headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big Brother,

he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the

immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of

speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he

was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed - and all

this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the

habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak

words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally

use in real life. And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to

the reality which Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on

the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army -

row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who

swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others

exactly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers" boots formed the

background to Goldstein's bleating voice.

Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable

exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room.

The self-satisfied sheep-like face on the screen, and the terrifying power

of the Eurasian army behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the

sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger

automatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia

or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was

generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although

Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a

thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in

books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the

general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were - in spite of all

this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh

dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and

saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought

Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network

of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood,

its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a

terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the

author and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book

without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book. But

one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood

nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if

there was a way of avoiding it.

In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up

and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an

effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The

little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening

and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O'Brien's heavy face was

flushed. He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest

swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a

wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out 'Swine!

Swine! Swine!' and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and

flung it at the screen. It struck Goldstein's nose and bounced off; the

voice continued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he was

shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of

his chair. The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one

was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to

avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always

unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to

kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow

through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one

even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the

rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be

switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus, at

one moment Winston's hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but,

on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police;

and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic on

the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies. And yet

the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all that

was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret

loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to

tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against

the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his

helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like

some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking

the structure of civilization.

It was even possible, at moments, to switch one's hatred this way or

that by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which

one wrenches one's head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston

succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the

dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed

through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He

would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint

Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax.

Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. He

hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted

to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple

waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only

the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.

The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had become an

actual sheep's bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a

sheep. Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who

seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and

seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the

people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats. But in

the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile

figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-

moustachio'd, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost

filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying. It was

merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in

the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring

confidence by the fact of being spoken. Then the face of Big Brother faded

away again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out in bold

capitals:

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for several seconds on

the screen, as though the impact that it had made on everyone's eyeballs

was too vivid to wear off immediately. The little sandy-haired woman had

flung herself forward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a

tremulous murmur that sounded like 'My Saviour!' she extended her arms

towards the screen. Then she buried her face in her hands. It was apparent

that she was uttering a prayer.

At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow,

rhythmical chant of 'B-B!....B-B!....' - over and over again, very slowly,

with a long pause between the first 'B' and the second-a heavy, murmurous

sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to

hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms. For perhaps as

much as thirty seconds they kept it up. It was a refrain that was often

heard in moments of overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to

the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of

self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic

noise. Winston's entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he

could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chanting

of 'B-B!....B-B!' always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with

the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise. To dissemble your feelings, to

control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive

reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the

expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him. And it was

exactly at this moment that the significant thing happened - if, indeed,

it did happen.

Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye. O'Brien had stood up. He had

taken off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose

with his characteristic gesture. But there was a fraction of a second when

their eyes met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew - yes,

he knew! - that O'Brien was thinking the same thing as himself. An

unmistakable message had passed. It was as though their two minds had

opened and the thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their

eyes. 'I am with you,' O'Brien seemed to be saying to him. 'I know

precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your

hatred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on your side!' And then the

flash of intelligence was gone, and O'Brien's face was as inscrutable as

everybody else's.

That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened.

Such incidents never had any sequel. All that they did was to keep alive in

him the belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of

the Party. Perhaps the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true

after all - perhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was impossible, in

spite of the endless arrests and confessions and executions, to be sure

that the Brotherhood was not simply a myth. Some days he believed in it,

some days not. There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might

mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint

scribbles on lavatory walls - once, even, when two strangers met, a small

movement of the hand which had looked as though it might be a signal of

recognition. It was all guesswork: very likely he had imagined everything.

He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at O'Brien again. The idea

of following up their momentary contact hardly crossed his mind. It would

have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to set about

doing it. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal

glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable

event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.

Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a belch. The

gin was rising from his stomach.

His eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that while he sat

helplessly musing he had also been writing, as though by automatic action.

And it was no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His

pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat

capitals--

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

over and over again, filling half a page.

He could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was absurd, since the

writing of those particular words was not more dangerous than the initial

act of opening the diary, but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the

spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether.

He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless.

Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from

writing it, made no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or

whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police

would get him just the same. He had committed - would still have

committed, even if he had never set pen to paper - the essential crime

that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it.

Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might

dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they

were bound to get you.

It was always at night - the arrests invariably happened at night.

The sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shaking your shoulder, the

lights glaring in your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed. In the

vast majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest. People

simply disappeared, always during the night. Your name was removed from the

registers, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your

one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished,

annihilated: vapourized was the usual word.

For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He began writing in

a hurried untidy scrawl:

theyll shoot me i don't care theyll shoot me in the back of the

neck i dont care down with big brother they always shoot you in the back of

the neck i dont care down with big brother--

He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down

the pen. The next moment he started violently. There was a knocking at the

door.

Already! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that whoever

it was might go away after a single attempt. But no, the knocking was

repeated. The worst thing of all would be to delay. His heart was thumping

like a drum, but his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless. He

got up and moved heavily towards the door.

==II==

As he put his hand to the door-knob Winston saw that he had left the

diary open on the table. DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in

letters almost big enough to be legible across the room. It was an

inconceivably stupid thing to have done. But, he realized, even in his

panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by shutting the book

while the ink was wet.

He drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly a warm wave of

relief flowed through him. A colourless, crushed-looking woman, with wispy

hair and a lined face, was standing outside.

'Oh, comrade,' she began in a dreary, whining sort of voice, 'I

thought I heard you come in. Do you think you could come across and have a

look at our kitchen sink? It's got blocked up and--'

It was Mrs. Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same floor.

('Mrs.' was a word somewhat discountenanced by the Party - you were

supposed to call everyone 'comrade' - but with some women one used it

instinctively.) She was a woman of about thirty, but looking much older.

One had the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face.

Winston followed her down the passage. These amateur repair jobs were an

almost daily irritation. Victory Mansions were old flats, built in 1930 or

thereabouts, and were falling to pieces. The plaster flaked constantly from

ceilings and walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked

whenever there was snow, the heating system was usually running at half

steam when it was not closed down altogether from motives of economy.

Repairs, except what you could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by

remote committees which were liable to hold up even the mending of a

window-pane for two years.

'Of course it's only because Tom isn't home,' said Mrs. Parsons

vaguely.

The Parsons" flat was bigger than Winston's, and dingy in a different

way. Everything had a battered, trampled-on look, as though the place had

just been visited by some large violent animal. Games impedimenta -

hockey-sticks, boxing-gloves, a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts

turned inside out - lay all over the floor, and on the table there was a

litter of dirty dishes and dog-eared exercise-books. On the walls were

scarlet banners of the Youth League and the Spies, and a full-sized poster

of Big Brother. There was the usual boiled-cabbage smell, common to the

whole building, but it was shot through by a sharper reek of sweat, which

- one knew this at the first sniff, though it was hard to say how - was

the sweat of some person not present at the moment. In another room someone

with a comb and a piece of toilet paper was trying to keep tune with the

military music which was still issuing from the telescreen.

'It's the children,' said Mrs. Parsons, casting a half-apprehensive

glance at the door. 'They haven't been out today. And of course--'

She had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the middle. The

kitchen sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy greenish water which

smelt worse than ever of cabbage. Winston knelt down and examined the

angle-joint of the pipe. He hated using his hands, and he hated bending

down, which was always liable to start him coughing. Mrs. Parsons looked on

helplessly.

'Of course if Tom was home he'd put it right in a moment,' she said.

'He loves anything like that. He's ever so good with his hands, Tom is.'

Parsons was Winston's fellow-employee at the Ministry of Truth. He was

a fattish but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile

enthusiasms - one of those completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on

whom, more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party

depended. At thirty-five he had just been unwillingly evicted from the

Youth League, and before graduating into the Youth League he had managed to

stay on in the Spies for a year beyond the statutory age. At the Ministry

he was employed in some subordinate post for which intelligence was not

required, but on the other hand he was a leading figure on the Sports

Committee and all the other committees engaged in organizing community

hikes, spontaneous demonstrations, savings campaigns, and voluntary

activities generally. He would inform you with quiet pride, between whiffs

of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance at the Community Centre every

evening for the past four years. An overpowering smell of sweat, a sort of

unconscious testimony to the strenuousness of his life, followed him about

wherever he went, and even remained behind him after he had gone.

'Have you got a spanner?' said Winston, fiddling with the nut on the

angle-joint.

'A spanner,' said Mrs. Parsons, immediately becoming invertebrate. 'I

don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps the children--'

There was a trampling of boots and another blast on the comb as the

children charged into the living-room. Mrs. Parsons brought the spanner.

Winston let out the water and disgustedly removed the clot of human hair

that had blocked up the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could in

the cold water from the tap and went back into the other room.

'Up with your hands!' yelled a savage voice.

A handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the

table and was menacing him with a toy automatic pistol, while his small

sister, about two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of

wood. Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirts, and red

neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies. Winston raised his hands

above his head, but with an uneasy feeling, so vicious was the boy's

demeanour, that it was not altogether a game.

'You're a traitor!' yelled the boy. 'You're a thought-criminal! You're

a Eurasian spy! I'll shoot you, I'll vaporize you, I'll send you to the

salt mines!'

Suddenly they were both leaping round him, shouting 'Traitor!' and

'Thought-criminal!' the little girl imitating her brother in every

movement. It was somehow slightly frightening, like the gambolling of tiger

cubs which will soon grow up into man-eaters. There was a sort of

calculating ferocity in the boy's eye, a quite evident desire to hit or

kick Winston and a consciousness of being very nearly big enough to do so.

It was a good job it was not a real pistol he was holding, Winston thought.

Mrs. Parsons" eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the children, and

back again. In the better light of the living-room he noticed with interest

that there actually was dust in the creases of her face.

'They do get so noisy,' she said. 'They're disappointed because they

couldn't go to see the hanging, that's what it is. I'm too busy to take

them. and Tom won't be back from work in time.'

'Why can't we go and see the hanging?' roared the boy in his huge

voice.

'Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!' chanted the little

girl, still capering round.

Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to be hanged in

the Park that evening, Winston remembered. This happened about once a

month, and was a popular spectacle. Children always clamoured to be taken

to see it. He took his leave of Mrs. Parsons and made for the door. But he

had not gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his

neck an agonizingly painful blow. It was as though a red-hot wire had been

jabbed into him. He spun round just in time to see Mrs. Parsons dragging

her son back into the doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult.

'Goldstein!' bellowed the boy as the door closed on him. But what most

struck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the woman's greyish face.

Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen and sat down

at the table again, still rubbing his neck. The music from the telescreen

had stopped. Instead, a clipped military voice was reading out, with a sort

of brutal relish, a description of the armaments of the new Floating

Fortress which had just been anchored between lceland and the Faroe

lslands.

With those children, he thought, that wretched woman must lead a life

of terror. Another year, two years, and they would be watching her night

and day for symptoms of unorthodoxy. Nearly all children nowadays were

horrible. What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as

the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages,

and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the

discipline of the Party. On the contrary, they adored the Party and

everything connected with it. The songs, the processions, the banners, the

hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship

of Big Brother - it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their

ferocity was turned outwards, against the enemies of the State, against

foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought-criminals. It was almost normal

for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children. And with

good reason, for hardly a week passed in which the Times did not carry a

paragraph describing how some eavesdropping little sneak - 'child hero'

was the phrase generally used - had overheard some compromising remark and

denounced its parents to the Thought Police.

The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked up his pen

half-heartedly, wondering whether he could find something more to write in

the diary. Suddenly he began thinking of O'Brien again.

Years ago - how long was it? Seven years it must be - he had dreamed

that he was walking through a pitch-dark room. And someone sitting to one

side of him had said as he passed: 'We shall meet in the place where there

is no darkness.' It was said very quietly, almost casually - a statement,

not a command. He had walked on without pausing. What was curious was that

at the time, in the dream, the words had not made much impression on him.

It was only later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on

significance. He could not now remember whether it was before or after

having the dream that he had seen O'Brien for the first time, nor could he

remember when he had first identified the voice as O'Brien's. But at any

rate the identification existed. It was O'Brien who had spoken to him out

of the dark.

Winston had never been able to feel sure - even after this morning's

flash of the eyes it was still impossible to be sure whether O'Brien was a

friend or an enemy. Nor did it even seem to matter greatly. There was a

link of understanding between them, more important than affection or

partisanship. 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' he

had said. Winston did not know what it meant, only that in some way or

another it would come true.

The voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call, clear and

beautiful, floated into the stagnant air. The voice continued raspingly:

'Attention! Your attention, please! A newsflash has this moment

arrived from the Malabar front. Our forces in South India have won a

glorious victory. I am authorized to say that the action we are now

reporting may well bring the war within measurable distance of its end.

Here is the newsflash--'

Bad news coming, thought Winston. And sure enough, following on a gory

description of the annihilation of a Eurasian army, with stupendous figures

of killed and prisoners, came the announcement that, as from next week, the

chocolate ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty.

Winston belched again. The gin was wearing off, leaving a deflated

feeling. The telescreen - perhaps to celebrate the victory, perhaps to

drown the memory of the lost chocolate - crashed into 'Oceania, 'tis for

thee'. You were supposed to stand to attention. However, in his present

position he was invisible.

'Oceania, 'tis for thee' gave way to lighter music. Winston walked

over to the window, keeping his back to the telescreen. The day was still

cold and clear. Somewhere far away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull,

reverberating roar. About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on

London at present.

Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and fro, and

the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished. Ingsoc. The sacred

principles of Ingsoc. Newspeak, doublethink, the mutability of the past. He

felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in

a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past

was dead, the future was unimaginable. What certainty had he that a single

human creature now living was on his side? And what way of knowing that the

dominion of the Party would not endure for ever? Like an answer, the three

slogans on the white face of the Ministry of Truth came back to him:

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There, too, in

tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other

face of the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes

pursued you. On coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on

posters, and on the wrappings of a cigarette packet - everywhere. Always

the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake,

working or eating, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or in bed - no

escape. Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your

skull.

The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of the Ministry of

Truth, with the light no longer shining on them, looked grim as the

loopholes of a fortress. His heart quailed before the enormous pyramidal

shape. It was too strong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs

would not batter it down. He wondered again for whom he was writing the

diary. For the future, for the past - for an age that might be imaginary.

And in front of him there lay not death but annihilation. The diary would

be reduced to ashes and himself to vapour. Only the Thought Police would

read what he had written, before they wiped it out of existence and out of

memory. How could you make appeal to the future when not a trace of you,

not even an anonymous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically

survive?

The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten minutes. He had

to be back at work by fourteen-thirty.

Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into

him. He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear.

But so long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not

broken. It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you

carried on the human heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen,

and wrote:

To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when

men are different from one another and do not live alone - to a time when

truth exists and what is done cannot be undone:

From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age

of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink - greetings!

He was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that it was only

now, when he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had

taken the decisive step. The consequences of every act are included in the

act itself. He wrote:

Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.

Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to

stay alive as long as possible. Two fingers of his right hand were

inkstained. It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you. Some

nosing zealot in the Ministry (a woman, probably: someone like the little

sandy-haired woman or the dark-haired girl from the Fiction Department)

might start wondering why he had been writing during the lunch interval,

why he had used an old-fashioned pen, what he had been writing - and then

drop a hint in the appropriate quarter. He went to the bathroom and

carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty dark-brown soap which

rasped your skin like sandpaper and was therefore well adapted for this

purpose.

He put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless to think of

hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had

been discovered. A hair laid across the page-ends was too obvious. With the

tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and

deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken

off if the book was moved.

==III==

Winston was dreaming of his mother.

He must, he thought, have been ten or eleven years old when his mother

had disappeared. She was a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow

movements and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered more vaguely

as dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark clothes (Winston remembered

especially the very thin soles of his father's shoes) and wearing

spectacles. The two of them must evidently have been swallowed up in one of

the first great purges of the fifties.

At this moment his mother was sitting in some place deep down beneath

him, with his young sister in her arms. He did not remember his sister at

all, except as a tiny, feeble baby, always silent, with large, watchful

eyes. Both of them were looking up at him. They were down in some

subterranean place - the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very deep

grave - but it was a place which, already far below him, was itself moving

downwards. They were in the saloon of a sinking ship, looking up at him

through the darkening water. There was still air in the saloon, they could

still see him and he them, but all the while they were sinking down, down

into the green waters which in another moment must hide them from sight for

ever. He was out in the light and air while they were being sucked down to

death, and they were down there because he was up here. He knew it and they

knew it, and he could see the knowledge in their faces. There was no

reproach either in their faces or in their hearts, only the knowledge that

they must die in order that he might remain alive, and that this was part

of the unavoidable order of things.

He could not remember what had happened, but he knew in his dream that

in some way the lives of his mother and his sister had been sacrificed to

his own. It was one of those dreams which, while retaining the

characteristic dream scenery, are a continuation of one's intellectual

life, and in which one becomes aware of facts and ideas which still seem

new and valuable after one is awake. The thing that now suddenly struck

Winston was that his mother's death, nearly thirty years ago, had been

tragic and sorrowful in a way that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he

perceived, belonged to the ancient time, to a time when there was still

privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of a family stood by

one another without needing to know the reason. His mother's memory tore at

his heart because she had died loving him, when he was too young and

selfish to love her in return, and because somehow, he did not remember

how, she had sacrificed herself to a conception of loyalty that was private

and unalterable. Such things, he saw, could not happen today. Today there

were fear, hatred, and pain, but no dignity of emotion, no deep or complex

sorrows. All this he seemed to see in the large eyes of his mother and his

sister, looking up at him through the green water, hundreds of fathoms down

and still sinking.

Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a summer evening

when the slanting rays of the sun gilded the ground. The landscape that he

was looking at recurred so often in his dreams that he was never fully

certain whether or not he had seen it in the real world. In his waking

thoughts he called it the Golden Country. It was an old, rabbit-bitten

pasture, with a foot-track wandering across it and a molehill here and

there. In the ragged hedge on the opposite side of the field the boughs of

the elm trees were swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just

stirring in dense masses like women's hair. Somewhere near at hand, though

out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream where dace were

swimming in the pools under the willow trees.

The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across the field. With

what seemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them

disdainfully aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire

in him, indeed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant

was admiration for the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside.

With its grace and carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a

whole system of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the

Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a single splendid

movement of the arm. That too was a gesture belonging to the ancient time.

Winston woke up with the word 'Shakespeare' on his lips.

The telescreen was giving forth an ear-splitting whistle which

continued on the same note for thirty seconds. It was nought seven fifteen,

getting-up time for office workers. Winston wrenched his body out of bed -

naked, for a member of the Outer Party received only 3,000 clothing coupons

annually, and a suit of pyjamas was 600 - and seized a dingy singlet and a

pair of shorts that were lying across a chair. The Physical Jerks would

begin in three minutes. The next moment he was doubled up by a violent

coughing fit which nearly always attacked him soon after waking up. It

emptied his lungs so completely that he could only begin breathing again by

lying on his back and taking a series of deep gasps. His veins had swelled

with the effort of the cough, and the varicose ulcer had started itching.

'Thirty to forty group!' yapped a piercing female voice. 'Thirty to

forty group! Take your places, please. Thirties to forties!'

Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the

image of a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-

shoes, had already appeared.

'Arms bending and stretching!' she rapped out. 'Take your time by me.

One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit

of life into it! One, two, three four! One two, three, four!...'

The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of Winston's

mind the impression made by his dream, and the rhythmic movements of the

exercise restored it somewhat. As he mechanically shot his arms back and

forth, wearing on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered

proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling to think his way

backward into the dim period of his early childhood. It was extraordinarily

difficult. Beyond the late fifties everything faded. When there were no

external records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life

lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which had quite probably not

happened, you remembered the detail of incidents without being able to

recapture their atmosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you

could assign nothing. Everything had been different then. Even the names of

countries, and their shapes on the map, had been different. Airstrip One,

for instance, had not been so called in those days: it had been called

England or Britain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had always been

called London.

Winston could not definitely remember a time when his country had not

been at war, but it was evident that there had been a fairly long interval

of peace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an

air raid which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was the

time when the atomic bomb had fallen on Colchester. He did not remember the

raid itself, but he did remember his father's hand clutching his own as

they hurried down, down, down into some place deep in the earth, round and

round a spiral staircase which rang under his feet and which finally so

wearied his legs that he began whimpering and they had to stop and rest.

His mother, in her slow, dreamy way, was following a long way behind them.

She was carrying his baby sister - or perhaps it was only a bundle of

blankets that she was carrying: he was not certain whether his sister had

been born then. Finally they had emerged into a noisy, crowded place which

he had realized to be a Tube station.

There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, and other

people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above the

other. Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the

floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side

on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap

pushed back from very white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were

blue and full of tears. He reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his

skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling

from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also

suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish

way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond

forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed

to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old man loved - a little

granddaughter, perhaps - had been killed. Every few minutes the old man

kept repeating:

'We didn't ought to 'ave trusted 'em. I said so, Ma, didn't I? That's

what comes of trusting 'em. I said so all along. We didn't ought to 'ave

trusted the buggers.'

But which buggers they didn't ought to have trusted Winston could not

now remember.

Since about that time, war had been literally continuous, though

strictly speaking it had not always been the same war. For several months

during his childhood there had been confused street fighting in London

itself, some of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history

of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any given moment,

would have been utterly impossible, since no written record, and no spoken

word, ever made mention of any other alignment than the existing one. At

this moment, for example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at war with

Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. In no public or private utterance

was it ever admitted that the three powers had at any time been grouped

along different lines. Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four

years since Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with

Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge which he happened

to possess because his memory was not satisfactorily under control.

Officially the change of partners had never happened. Oceania was at war

with Eurasia: therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The

enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that

any past or future agreement with him was impossible.

The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he

forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were

gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be

good for the back muscles) - the frightening thing was that it might all

be true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and say of this

or that event, it never happened - that, surely, was more terrifying than

mere torture and death?

The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia.

He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as

short a time as four years ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in

his own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if

all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed - if all records told

the same tale - then the lie passed into history and became truth. 'Who

controls the past,' ran the Party slogan, 'controls the future: who

controls the present controls the past.' And yet the past, though of its

nature alterable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was true

from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed

was an unending series of victories over your own memory. 'Reality

control', they called it: in Newspeak, 'doublethink'

'Stand easy!' barked the instructress, a little more genially.

Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled his lungs with

air. His mind slid away into the labyrinthine world of doublethink. To know

and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling

carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which

cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of

them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim

to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the

guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary to forget, then

to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and

then promptly to forget it again: and above all, to apply the same process

to the process itself. That was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to

induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of the

act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to understand the word

'doublethink' involved the use of doublethink.

The instructress had called them to attention again. 'And now let's

see which of us can touch our toes!' she said enthusiastically. 'Right over

from the hips, please, comrades. One-two! One-two!...'

Winston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains all the way

from his heels to his buttocks and often ended by bringing on another

coughing fit. The half-pleasant quality went out of his meditations. The

past, he reflected, had not merely been altered, it had been actually

destroyed. For how could you establish even the most obvious fact when

there existed no record outside your own memory? He tried to remember in

what year he had first heard mention of Big Brother. He thought it must

have been at some time in the sixties, but it was impossible to be certain.

In the Party histories, of course, Big Brother figured as the leader and

guardian of the Revolution since its very earliest days. His exploits had

been gradually pushed backwards in time until already they extended into

the fabulous world of the forties and the thirties, when the capitalists in

their strange cylindrical hats still rode through the streets of London in

great gleaming motor-cars or horse carriages with glass sides. There was no

knowing how much of this legend was true and how much invented. Winston

could not even remember at what date the Party itself had come into

existence. He did not believe he had ever heard the word Ingsoc before

1960, but it was possible that in its Oldspeak form - 'English Socialism',

that is to say - it had been current earlier. Everything melted into mist.

Sometimes, indeed, you could put your finger on a definite lie. It was not

true, for example, as was claimed in the Party history books, that the

Party had invented aeroplanes. He remembered aeroplanes since his earliest

childhood. But you could prove nothing. There was never any evidence. Just

once in his whole life he had held in his hands unmistakable documentary

proof of the falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion--

'Smith!' screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith

W.! Yes, you! Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. You're not

trying. Lower, please! That's better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole

squad, and watch me.'

A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston's body. His face

remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment!

A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while

the instructress raised her arms above her head and - one could not say

gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency - bent over and

tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes.

'There, comrades! That's how I want to see you doing it. Watch me

again. I'm thirty-nine and I've had four children. Now look.' She bent over

again. 'You see my knees aren't bent. You can all do it if you want to,'

she added as she straightened herself up. 'Anyone under forty-five is

perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don't all have the privilege of

fighting in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit. Remember our

boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just

think what they have to put up with. Now try again. That's better, comrade,

that's much better,' she added encouragingly as Winston, with a violent

lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with knees unbent, for the first time

in several years.

==IV==

With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the

telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day's work started,

Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its

mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped

together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the

pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk.

In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of

the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a

larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of

Winston's arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last

was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or

tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at

short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed

memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or

even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic

action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in,

whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous

furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building.

Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each

contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon -

not actually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words - which

was used in the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran:

times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify

times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify

current issue

times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify

times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons

rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling

With a faint feeling of satisfaction Winston laid the fourth message

aside. It was an intricate and responsible job and had better be dealt with

last. The other three were routine matters, though the second one would

probably mean some tedious wading through lists of figures.

Winston dialled 'back numbers' on the telescreen and called for the

appropriate issues of the Times, which slid out of the pneumatic tube after

only a few minutes" delay. The messages he had received referred to

articles or news items which for one reason or another it was thought

necessary to alter, or, as the official phrase had it, to rectify. For

example, it appeared from the Times of the seventeenth of March that Big

Brother, in his speech of the previous day, had predicted that the South

Indian front would remain quiet but that a Eurasian offensive would shortly

be launched in North Africa. As it happened, the Eurasian Higher Command

had launched its offensive in South India and left North Africa alone. It

was therefore necessary to rewrite a paragraph of Big Brother's speech, in

such a way as to make him predict the thing that had actually happened. Or

again, the Times of the nineteenth of December had published the official

forecasts of the output of various classes of consumption goods in the

fourth quarter of 1983, which was also the sixth quarter of the Ninth

Three-Year Plan. Today's issue contained a statement of the actual output,

from which it appeared that the forecasts were in every instance grossly

wrong. Winston's job was to rectify the original figures by making them

agree with the later ones. As for the third message, it referred to a very

simple error which could be set right in a couple of minutes. As short a

time ago as February, the Ministry of Plenty had issued a promise (a

'categorical pledge' were the official words) that there would be no

reduction of the chocolate ration during 1984. Actually, as Winston was

aware, the chocolate ration was to be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty

at the end of the present week. All that was needed was to substitute for

the original promise a warning that it would probably be necessary to

reduce the ration at some time in April.

As soon as Winston had dealt with each of the messages, he clipped his

speakwritten corrections to the appropriate copy of the Times and pushed

them into the pneumatic tube. Then, with a movement which was as nearly as

possible unconscious, he crumpled up the original message and any notes

that he himself had made, and dropped them into the memory hole to be

devoured by the flames.

What happened in the unseen labyrinth to which the pneumatic tubes

led, he did not know in detail, but he did know in general terms. As soon

as all the corrections which happened to be necessary in any particular

number of the Times had been assembled and collated, that number would be

reprinted, the original copy destroyed, and the corrected copy placed on

the files in its stead. This process of continuous alteration was applied

not only to newspapers, but to books, periodicals, pamphlets, posters,

leaflets, films, sound-tracks, cartoons, photographs - to every kind of

literature or documentation which might conceivably hold any political or

ideological significance. Day by day and almost minute by minute the past

was brought up to date. In this way every prediction made by the Party

could be shown by documentary evidence to have been correct, nor was any

item of news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted with the needs

of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record. All history was a

palimpsest, scraped clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was

necessary. In no case would it have been possible, once the deed was done,

to prove that any falsification had taken place. The largest section of the

Records Department, far larger than the one on which Winston worked,

consisted simply of persons whose duty it was to track down and collect all

copies of books, newspapers, and other documents which had been superseded

and were due for destruction. A number of the Times which might, because of

changes in political alignment, or mistaken prophecies uttered by Big

Brother, have been rewritten a dozen times still stood on the files bearing

its original date, and no other copy existed to contradict it. Books, also,

were recalled and rewritten again and again, and were invariably reissued

without any admission that any alteration had been made. Even the written

instructions which Winston received, and which he invariably got rid of as

soon as he had dealt with them, never stated or implied that an act of

forgery was to be committed: always the reference was to slips, errors,

misprints, or misquotations which it was necessary to put right in the

interests of accuracy.

But actually, he thought as he re-adjusted the Ministry of Plenty's

figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the substitution of one

piece of nonsense for another. Most of the material that you were dealing

with had no connexion with anything in the real world, not even the kind of

connexion that is contained in a direct lie. Statistics were just as much a

fantasy in their original version as in their rectified version. A great

deal of the time you were expected to make them up out of your head. For

example, the Ministry of Plenty's forecast had estimated the output of

boots for the quarter at 145 million pairs. The actual output was given as

sixty-two millions. Winston, however, in rewriting the forecast, marked the

figure down to fifty-seven millions, so as to allow for the usual claim

that the quota had been overfulfilled. In any case, sixty-two millions was

no nearer the truth than fifty-seven millions, or than 145 millions. Very

likely no boots had been produced at all. Likelier still, nobody knew how

many had been produced, much less cared. All one knew was that every

quarter astronomical numbers of boots were produced on paper, while perhaps

half the population of Oceania went barefoot. And so it was with every

class of recorded fact, great or small. Everything faded away into a

shadow-world in which, finally, even the date of the year had become

uncertain.

Winston glanced across the hall. In the corresponding cubicle on the

other side a small, precise-looking, dark-chinned man named Tillotson was

working steadily away, with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth

very close to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite. He had the air of trying to

keep what he was saying a secret between himself and the telescreen. He

looked up, and his spectacles darted a hostile flash in Winston's

direction.

Winston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what work he was

employed on. People in the Records Department did not readily talk about

their jobs. In the long, windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles

and its endless rustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into

speakwrites, there were quite a dozen people whom Winston did not even know

by name, though he daily saw them hurrying to and fro in the corridors or

gesticulating in the Two Minutes Hate. He knew that in the cubicle next to

him the little woman with sandy hair toiled day in day out, simply at

tracking down and deleting from the Press the names of people who had been

vaporized and were therefore considered never to have existed. There was a

certain fitness in this, since her own husband had been vaporized a couple

of years earlier. And a few cubicles away a mild, ineffectual, dreamy

creature named Ampleforth, with very hairy ears and a surprising talent for

juggling with rhymes and metres, was engaged in producing garbled versions

- definitive texts, they were called - of poems which had become

ideologically offensive, but which for one reason or another were to be

retained in the anthologies. And this hall, with its fifty workers or

thereabouts, was only one sub-section, a single cell, as it were, in the

huge complexity of the Records Department. Beyond, above, below, were other

swarms of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude of jobs. There were

the huge printing-shops with their sub-editors, their typography experts,

and their elaborately equipped studios for the faking of photographs. There

was the tele-programmes section with its engineers, its producers, and its

teams of actors specially chosen for their skill in imitating voices. There

were the armies of reference clerks whose job was simply to draw up lists

of books and periodicals which were due for recall. There were the vast

repositories where the corrected documents were stored, and the hidden

furnaces where the original copies were destroyed. And somewhere or other,

quite anonymous, there were the directing brains who co-ordinated the whole

effort and laid down the lines of policy which made it necessary that this

fragment of the past should be preserved, that one falsified, and the other

rubbed out of existence.

And the Records Department, after all, was itself only a single branch

of the Ministry of Truth, whose primary job was not to reconstruct the past

but to supply the citizens of Oceania with newspapers, films, textbooks,

telescreen programmes, plays, novels - with every conceivable kind of

information, instruction, or entertainment, from a statue to a slogan, from

a lyric poem to a biological treatise, and from a child's spelling-book to

a Newspeak dictionary. And the Ministry had not only to supply the

multifarious needs of the party, but also to repeat the whole operation at

a lower level for the benefit of the proletariat. There was a whole chain

of separate departments dealing with proletarian literature, music, drama,

and entertainment generally. Here were produced rubbishy newspapers

containing almost nothing except sport, crime and astrology, sensational

five-cent novelettes, films oozing with sex, and sentimental songs which

were composed entirely by mechanical means on a special kind of

kaleidoscope known as a versificator. There was even a whole sub-section -

Pornosec, it was called in Newspeak - engaged in producing the lowest kind

of pornography, which was sent out in sealed packets and which no Party

member, other than those who worked on it, was permitted to look at.

Three messages had slid out of the pneumatic tube while Winston was

working, but they were simple matters, and he had disposed of them before

the Two Minutes Hate interrupted him. When the Hate was over he returned to

his cubicle, took the Newspeak dictionary from the shelf, pushed the

speakwrite to one side, cleaned his spectacles, and settled down to his

main job of the morning.

Winston's greatest pleasure in life was in his work. Most of it was a

tedious routine, but included in it there were also jobs so difficult and

intricate that you could lose yourself in them as in the depths of a

mathematical problem - delicate pieces of forgery in which you had nothing

to guide you except your knowledge of the principles of Ingsoc and your

estimate of what the Party wanted you to say. Winston was good at this kind

of thing. On occasion he had even been entrusted with the rectification of

the Times leading articles, which were written entirely in Newspeak. He

unrolled the message that he had set aside earlier. It ran:

times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons

rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling

In Oldspeak (or standard English) this might be rendered:

The reporting of Big Brother's Order for the Day in the Times of

December 3rd 1983 is extremely unsatisfactory and makes references to non-

existent persons. Rewrite it in full and submit your draft to higher

authority before filing.

Winston read through the offending article. Big Brother's Order for

the Day, it seemed, had been chiefly devoted to praising the work of an

organization known as FFCC, which supplied cigarettes and other comforts to

the sailors in the Floating Fortresses. A certain Comrade Withers, a

prominent member of the Inner Party, had been singled out for special

mention and awarded a decoration, the Order of Conspicuous Merit, Second

Class.

Three months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved with no reasons

given. One could assume that Withers and his associates were now in

disgrace, but there had been no report of the matter in the Press or on the

telescreen. That was to be expected, since it was unusual for political

offenders to be put on trial or even publicly denounced. The great purges

involving thousands of people, with public trials of traitors and thought-

criminals who made abject confession of their crimes and were afterwards

executed, were special show-pieces not occurring oftener than once in a

couple of years. More commonly, people who had incurred the displeasure of

the Party simply disappeared and were never heard of again. One never had

the smallest clue as to what had happened to them. In some cases they might

not even be dead. Perhaps thirty people personally known to Winston, not

counting his parents, had disappeared at one time or another.

Winston stroked his nose gently with a paper-clip. In the cubicle

across the way Comrade Tillotson was still crouching secretively over his

speakwrite. He raised his head for a moment: again the hostile spectacle-

flash. Winston wondered whether Comrade Tillotson was engaged on the same

job as himself. It was perfectly possible. So tricky a piece of work would

never be entrusted to a single person: on the other hand, to turn it over

to a committee would be to admit openly that an act of fabrication was

taking place. Very likely as many as a dozen people were now working away

on rival versions of what Big Brother had actually said. And presently some

master brain in the Inner Party would select this version or that, would

re-edit it and set in motion the complex processes of cross-referencing

that would be required, and then the chosen lie would pass into the

permanent records and become truth.

Winston did not know why Withers had been disgraced. Perhaps it was

for corruption or incompetence. Perhaps Big Brother was merely getting rid

of a too-popular subordinate. Perhaps Withers or someone close to him had

been suspected of heretical tendencies. Or perhaps - what was likeliest of

all - the thing had simply happened because purges and vaporizations were

a necessary part of the mechanics of government. The only real clue lay in

the words 'refs unpersons', which indicated that Withers was already dead.

You could not invariably assume this to be the case when people were

arrested. Sometimes they were released and allowed to remain at liberty for

as much as a year or two years before being executed. Very occasionally

some person whom you had believed dead long since would make a ghostly

reappearance at some public trial where he would implicate hundreds of

others by his testimony before vanishing, this time for ever. Withers,

however, was already an unperson. He did not exist: he had never existed.

Winston decided that it would not be enough simply to reverse the tendency

of Big Brother's speech. It was better to make it deal with something

totally unconnected with its original subject.

He might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of traitors and

thought-criminals, but that was a little too obvious, while to invent a

victory at the front, or some triumph of over-production in the Ninth

Three-Year Plan, might complicate the records too much. What was needed was

a piece of pure fantasy. Suddenly there sprang into his mind, ready made as

it were, the image of a certain Comrade Ogilvy, who had recently died in

battle, in heroic circumstances. There were occasions when Big Brother

devoted his Order for the Day to commemorating some humble, rank-and-file

Party member whose life and death he held up as an example worthy to be

followed. Today he should commemorate Comrade Ogilvy. It was true that

there was no such person as Comrade Ogilvy, but a few lines of print and a

couple of faked photographs would soon bring him into existence.

Winston thought for a moment, then pulled the speakwrite towards him

and began dictating in Big Brother's familiar style: a style at once

military and pedantic, and, because of a trick of asking questions and then

promptly answering them ('What lessons do we learn from this fact,

comrades? The lesson - which is also one of the fundamental principles of

Ingsoc - that,' etc., etc.), easy to imitate.

At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys except a drum,

a sub-machine gun, and a model helicopter. At six - a year early, by a

special relaxation of the rules - he had joined the Spies, at nine he had

been a troop leader. At eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought

Police after overhearing a conversation which appeared to him to have

criminal tendencies. At seventeen he had been a district organizer of the

Junior Anti-Sex League. At nine teen he had designed a hand-grenade which

had been adopted by the Ministry of Peace and which, at its first trial,

had killed thirty-one Eurasian prisoners in one burst. At twenty-three he

had perished in action. Pursued by enemy jet planes while flying over the

Indian Ocean with important despatches, he had weighted his body with his

machine gun and leapt out of the helicopter into deep water, despatches and

all - an end, said Big Brother, which it was impossible to contemplate

without feelings of envy. Big Brother added a few remarks on the purity and

single-mindedness of Comrade Ogilvy's life. He was a total abstainer and a

nonsmoker, had no recreations except a daily hour in the gymnasium, and had

taken a vow of celibacy, believing marriage and the care of a family to be

incompatible with a twenty-four-hour-a-day devotion to duty. He had no

subjects of conversation except the principles of Ingsoc, and no aim in

life except the defeat of the Eurasian enemy and the hunting-down of spies,

saboteurs, thoughtcriminals, and traitors generally.

Winston debated with himself whether to award Comrade Ogilvy the Order

of Conspicuous Merit: in the end he decided against it because of the

unnecessary cross-referencing that it would entail.

Once again he glanced at his rival in the opposite cubicle. Something

seemed to tell him with certainty that Tillotson was busy on the same job

as himself. There was no way of knowing whose job would finally be adopted,

but he felt a profound conviction that it would be his own. Comrade Ogilvy,

unimagined an hour ago, was now a fact. It struck him as curious that you

could create dead men but not living ones. Comrade Ogilvy, who had never

existed in the present, now existed in the past, and when once the act of

forgery was forgotten, he would exist just as authentically, and upon the

same evidence, as Charlemagne or Julius Caesar.

==V==

In the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch queue jerked

slowly forward. The room was already very full and deafeningly noisy. From

the grille at the counter the steam of stew came pouring forth, with a sour

metallic smell which did not quite overcome the fumes of Victory Gin. On

the far side of the room there was a small bar, a mere hole in the wall,

where gin could be bought at ten cents the large nip.

'Just the man I was looking for,' said a voice at Winston's back.

He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research

Department. Perhaps 'friend' was not exactly the right word. You did not

have friends nowadays, you had comrades: but there were some comrades whose

society was pleasanter than that of others. Syme was a philologist, a

specialist in Newspeak. Indeed, he was one of the enormous team of experts

now engaged in compiling the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary.

He was a tiny creature, smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large,

protuberant eyes, at once mournful and derisive, which seemed to search

your face closely while he was speaking to you.

'I wanted to ask you whether you'd got any razor blades,' he said.

'Not one!' said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. 'I've tried all

over the place. They don't exist any longer.'

Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he had two unused

ones which he was hoarding up. There had been a famine of them for months

past. At any given moment there was some necessary article which the Party

shops were unable to supply. Sometimes it was buttons, sometimes it was

darning wool, sometimes it was shoelaces; at present it was razor blades.

You could only get hold of them, if at all, by scrounging more or less

furtively on the 'free' market.

'I've been using the same blade for six weeks,' he added untruthfully.

The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he turned and

faced Syme again. Each of them took a greasy metal tray from a pile at the

end of the counter.

'Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday?' said Syme.

'I was working,' said Winston indifferently. 'I shall see it on the

flicks, I suppose.'

'A very inadequate substitute,' said Syme.

His mocking eyes roved over Winston's face. 'I know you,' the eyes

seemed to say, 'I see through you. I know very well why you didn't go to

see those prisoners hanged.' In an intellectual way, Syme was venomously

orthodox. He would talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of

helicopter raids on enemy villages, and trials and confessions of thought-

criminals, the executions in the cellars of the Ministry of Love. Talking

to him was largely a matter of getting him away from such subjects and

entangling him, if possible, in the technicalities of Newspeak, on which he

was authoritative and interesting. Winston turned his head a little aside

to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark eyes.

'It was a good hanging,' said Syme reminiscently. 'I think it spoils

it when they tie their feet together. I like to see them kicking. And above

all, at the end, the tongue sticking right out, and blue - a quite bright

blue. That's the detail that appeals to me.'

'Nex', please!' yelled the white-aproned prole with the ladle.

Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille. On to each was

dumped swiftly the regulation lunch - a metal pannikin of pinkish-grey

stew, a hunk of bread, a cube of cheese, a mug of milkless Victory Coffee,

and one saccharine tablet.

'There's a table over there, under that telescreen,' said Syme. 'Let's

pick up a gin on the way.'

The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. They threaded

their way across the crowded room and unpacked their trays on to the metal-

topped table, on one corner of which someone had left a pool of stew, a

filthy liquid mess that had the appearance of vomit. Winston took up his

mug of gin, paused for an instant to collect his nerve, and gulped the

oily-tasting stuff down. When he had winked the tears out of his eyes he

suddenly discovered that he was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of

the stew, which, in among its general sloppiness, had cubes of spongy

pinkish stuff which was probably a preparation of meat. Neither of them

spoke again till they had emptied their pannikins. From the table at

Winston's left, a little behind his back, someone was talking rapidly and

continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck, which

pierced the general uproar of the room.

'How is the Dictionary getting on?' said Winston, raising his voice to

overcome the noise.

'Slowly,' said Syme. 'I'm on the adjectives. It's fascinating.'

He had brightened up immediately at the mention of Newspeak. He pushed

his pannikin aside, took up his hunk of bread in one delicate hand and his

cheese in the other, and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak

without shouting.

'The Eleventh Edition is the definitive edition,' he said. 'We're

getting the language into its final shape - the shape it's going to have

when nobody speaks anything else. When we've finished with it, people like

you will have to learn it all over again. You think, I dare say, that our

chief job is inventing new words. But not a bit of it! We're destroying

words - scores of them, hundreds of them, every day. We're cutting the

language down to the bone. The Eleventh Edition won't contain a single word

that will become obsolete before the year 2050.'

He bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls,

then continued speaking, with a sort of pedant's passion. His thin dark

face had become animated, his eyes had lost their mocking expression and

grown almost dreamy.

'It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course the great

wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns

that can be got rid of as well. It isn't only the synonyms; there are also

the antonyms. After all, what justification is there for a word which is

simply the opposite of some other word? A word contains its opposite in

itself. Take "good", for instance. If you have a word like "good", what

need is there for a word like "bad"? "Ungood" will do just as well -

better, because it's an exact opposite, which the other is not. Or again,

if you want a stronger version of "good", what sense is there in having a

whole string of vague useless words like "excellent" and "splendid" and all

the rest of them? "Plusgood" covers the meaning, or "doubleplusgood" if you

want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms already. but in

the final version of Newspeak there'll be nothing else. In the end the

whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words -

in reality, only one word. Don't you see the beauty of that, Winston? It

was B.B.'s idea originally, of course,' he added as an afterthought.

A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston's face at the mention

of Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of

enthusiasm.

'You haven't a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,' he said almost

sadly. 'Even when you write it you're still thinking in Oldspeak. I've read

some of those pieces that you write in the Times occasionally. They're good

enough, but they're translations. In your heart you'd prefer to stick to

Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. You

don't grasp the beauty of the destruction of words. Do you know that

Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller

every year?'

Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he hoped,

not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the dark-

coloured bread, chewed it briefly, and went on:

'Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range

of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible,

because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that

can ever be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning

rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten.

Already, in the Eleventh Edition, we're not far from that point. But the

process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year

fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little

smaller. Even now, of course, there's no reason or excuse for committing

thoughtcrime. It's merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control.

But in the end there won't be any need even for that. The Revolution will

be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc is

Newspeak,' he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. 'Has it ever

occurred to you, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, not a

single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation

as we are having now?'

'Except--' began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped.

It had been on the tip of his tongue to say 'Except the proles,' but

he checked himself, not feeling fully certain that this remark was not in

some way unorthodox. Syme, however, had divined what he was about to say.

'The proles are not human beings,' he said carelessly. 'By 2050 -

earlier, probably - all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared.

The whole literature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer,

Shakespeare, Milton, Byron - they'll exist only in Newspeak versions, not

merely changed into something different, but actually changed into

something contradictory of what they used to be. Even the literature of the

Party will change. Even the slogans will change. How could you have a

slogan like "freedom is slavery" when the concept of freedom has been

abolished? The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact there

will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking

- not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.'

One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep conviction, Syme

will be vaporized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly and speaks

too plainly. The Party does not like such people. One day he will

disappear. It is written in his face.

Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned a little sideways

in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table on his left the man

with the strident voice was still talking remorselessly away. A young woman

who was perhaps his secretary, and who was sitting with her back to

Winston, was listening to him and seemed to be eagerly agreeing with

everything that he said. From time to time Winston caught some such remark

as 'I think you're so right, I do so agree with you', uttered in a youthful

and rather silly feminine voice. But the other voice never stopped for an

instant, even when the girl was speaking. Winston knew the man by sight,

though he knew no more about him than that he held some important post in

the Fiction Department. He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular

throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and

because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles caught the

light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of eyes. What was

slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured out of his

mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once

Winston caught a phrase - 'complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism'

- jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line

of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-

quacking. And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was

saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might be

denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against thought-

criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against the atrocities of

the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the

Malabar front - it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could be

certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. As he

watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and down, Winston

had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but some kind of

dummy. It was not the man's brain that was speaking, it was his larynx. The

stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it was not speech

in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness, like the

quacking of a duck.

Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of his spoon

was tracing patterns in the puddle of stew. The voice from the other table

quacked rapidly on, easily audible in spite of the surrounding din.

'There is a word in Newspeak,' said Syme, 'I don't know whether you

know it: duckspeak, to quack like a duck. It is one of those interesting

words that have two contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is

abuse, applied to someone you agree with, it is praise.'

Unquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston thought again. He

thought it with a kind of sadness, although well knowing that Syme despised

him and slightly disliked him, and was fully capable of denouncing him as a

thought-criminal if he saw any reason for doing so. There was something

subtly wrong with Syme. There was something that he lacked: discretion,

aloofness, a sort of saving stupidity. You could not say that he was

unorthodox. He believed in the principles of Ingsoc, he venerated Big

Brother, he rejoiced over victories, he hated heretics, not merely with

sincerity but with a sort of restless zeal, an up-to-dateness of

information, which the ordinary Party member did not approach. Yet a faint

air of disreputability always clung to him. He said things that would have

been better unsaid, he had read too many books, he frequented the Chestnut

Tree Cafe, haunt of painters and musicians. There was no law, not even an

unwritten law, against frequenting the Chestnut Tree Cafe, yet the place

was somehow ill-omened. The old, discredited leaders of the Party had been

used to gather there before they were finally purged. Goldstein himself, it

was said, had sometimes been seen there, years and decades ago. Syme's fate

was not difficult to foresee. And yet it was a fact that if Syme grasped,

even for three seconds, the nature of his, Winston's, secret opinions, he

would betray him instantly to the Thought police. So would anybody else,

for that matter: but Syme more than most. Zeal was not enough. Orthodoxy

was unconsciousness.

Syme looked up. 'Here comes Parsons,' he said.

Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add, 'that bloody fool'.

Parsons, Winston's fellow-tenant at Victory Mansions, was in fact threading

his way across the room - a tubby, middle-sized man with fair hair and a

froglike face. At thirty-five he was already putting on rolls of fat at

neck and waistline, but his movements were brisk and boyish. His whole

appearance was that of a little boy grown large, so much so that although

he was wearing the regulation overalls, it was almost impossible not to

think of him as being dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirt, and red

neckerchief of the Spies. In visualizing him one saw always a picture of

dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy forearms. Parsons did,

indeed, invariably revert to shorts when a community hike or any other

physical activity gave him an excuse for doing so. He greeted them both

with a cheery 'Hullo, hullo!' and sat down at the table, giving off an

intense smell of sweat. Beads of moisture stood out all over his pink face.

His powers of sweating were extraordinary. At the Community Centre you

could always tell when he had been playing table-tennis by the dampness of

the bat handle. Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there was a

long column of words, and was studying it with an ink-pencil between his

fingers.

'Look at him working away in the lunch hour,' said Parsons, nudging

Winston. 'Keenness, eh? What's that you've got there, old boy? Something a

bit too brainy for me, I expect. Smith, old boy, I'll tell you why I'm

chasing you. It's that sub you forgot to give me.'

'Which sub is that?' said Winston, automatically feeling for money.

About a quarter of one's salary had to be earmarked for voluntary

subscriptions, which were so numerous that it was difficult to keep track

of them.

'For Hate Week. You know - the house-by-house fund. I'm treasurer for

our block. We're making an all-out effort - going to put on a tremendous

show. I tell you, it won't be my fault if old Victory Mansions doesn't have

the biggest outfit of flags in the whole street. Two dollars you promised

me.'

Winston found and handed over two creased and filthy notes, which

Parsons entered in a small notebook, in the neat handwriting of the

illiterate.

'By the way, old boy,' he said. 'I hear that little beggar of mine let

fly at you with his catapult yesterday. I gave him a good dressing-down for

it. In fact I told him I'd take the catapult away if he does it again.'

'I think he was a little upset at not going to the execution,' said

Winston.

'Ah, well - what I mean to say, shows the right spirit, doesn't it?

Mischievous little beggars they are, both of them, but talk about keenness!

All they think about is the Spies, and the war, of course. D'you know what

that little girl of mine did last Saturday, when her troop was on a hike

out Berkhamsted way? She got two other girls to go with her, slipped off

from the hike, and spent the whole afternoon following a strange man. They

kept on his tail for two hours, right through the woods, and then, when

they got into Amersham, handed him over to the patrols.'

'What did they do that for?' said Winston, somewhat taken aback.

Parsons went on triumphantly:

'My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent - might have been

dropped by parachute, for instance. But here's the point, old boy. What do

you think put her on to him in the first place? She spotted he was wearing

a funny kind of shoes - said she'd never seen anyone wearing shoes like

that before. So the chances were he was a foreigner. Pretty smart for a

nipper of seven, eh?'

'What happened to the man?' said Winston.

'Ah, that I couldn't say, of course. But I wouldn't be altogether

surprised if--' Parsons made the motion of aiming a rifle, and clicked his

tongue for the explosion.

'Good,' said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from his strip of

paper.

'Of course we can't afford to take chances,' agreed Winston dutifully.

'What I mean to say, there is a war on,' said Parsons.

As though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call floated from the

telescreen just above their heads. However, it was not the proclamation of

a military victory this time, but merely an announcement from the Ministry

of Plenty.

'Comrades!' cried an eager youthful voice. 'Attention, comrades! We

have glorious news for you. We have won the battle for production! Returns

now completed of the output of all classes of consumption goods show that

the standard of living has risen by no less than 20 per cent over the past

year. All over Oceania this morning there were irrepressible spontaneous

demonstrations when workers marched out of factories and offices and

paraded through the streets with banners voicing their gratitude to Big

Brother for the new, happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed upon

us. Here are some of the completed figures. Foodstuffs--'

The phrase 'our new, happy life' recurred several times. It had been a

favourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Parsons, his attention

caught by the trumpet call, sat listening with a sort of gaping solemnity,

a sort of edified boredom. He could not follow the figures, but he was

aware that they were in some way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged

out a huge and filthy pipe which was already half full of charred tobacco.

With the tobacco ration at 100 grammes a week it was seldom possible to

fill a pipe to the top. Winston was smoking a Victory Cigarette which he

held carefully horizontal. The new ration did not start till tomorrow and

he had only four cigarettes left. For the moment he had shut his ears to

the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that streamed out of the

telescreen. It appeared that there had even been demonstrations to thank

Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty grammes a week. And

only yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the ration was to

be reduced to twenty grammes a week. Was it possible that they could

swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons

swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature

at the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a furious

desire to track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone who should suggest that

last week the ration had been thirty grammes. Syme, too - in some more

complex way, involving doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, alone

in the possession of a memory?

The fabulous statistics continued to pour out of the telescreen. As

compared with last year there was more food, more clothes, more houses,

more furniture, more cooking-pots, more fuel, more ships, more helicopters,

more books, more babies - more of everything except disease, crime, and

insanity. Year by year and minute by minute, everybody and everything was

whizzing rapidly upwards. As Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up his

spoon and was dabbling in the pale-coloured gravy that dribbled across the

table, drawing a long streak of it out into a pattern. He meditated

resentfully on the physical texture of life. Had it always been like this?

Had food always tasted like this? He looked round the canteen. A low-

ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of innumerable

bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed so close together that you

sat with elbows touching; bent spoons, dented trays, coarse white mugs; all

surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of

bad gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Always in your

stomach and in your skin there was a sort of protest, a feeling that you

had been cheated of something that you had a right to. It was true that he

had no memories of anything greatly different. In any time that he could

accurately remember, there had never been quite enough to eat, one had

never had socks or underclothes that were not full of holes, furniture had

always been battered and rickety, rooms underheated, tube trains crowded,

houses falling to pieces, bread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-

tasting, cigarettes insufficient - nothing cheap and plentiful except

synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew worse as one's body aged, was

it not a sign that this was not the natural order of things, if one's heart

sickened at the discomfort and dirt and scarcity, the interminable winters,

the stickiness of one's socks, the lifts that never worked, the cold water,

the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the food with its

strange evil tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one

had some kind of ancestral memory that things had once been different?

He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was ugly, and would

still have been ugly even if dressed otherwise than in the uniform blue

overalls. On the far side of the room, sitting at a table alone, a small,

curiously beetle-like man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes

darting suspicious glances from side to side. How easy it was, thought

Winston, if you did not look about you, to believe that the physical type

set up by the Party as an ideal-tall muscular youths and deep-bosomed

maidens, blond-haired, vital, sunburnt, carefree - existed and even

predominated. Actually, so far as he could judge, the majority of people in

Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curious how that

beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries: little dumpy men, growing

stout very early in life, with short legs, swift scuttling movements, and

fat inscrutable faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to

flourish best under the dominion of the Party.

The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended on another trumpet

call and gave way to tinny music. Parsons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by

the bombardment of figures, took his pipe out of his mouth.

'The Ministry of Plenty's certainly done a good job this year,' he

said with a knowing shake of his head. 'By the way, Smith old boy, I

suppose you haven't got any razor blades you can let me have?'

'Not one,' said Winston. 'I've been using the same blade for six weeks

myself.'

'Ah, well - just thought I'd ask you, old boy.'

'Sorry,' said Winston.

The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily silenced during

the Ministry's announcement, had started up again, as loud as ever. For

some reason Winston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs. Parsons, with

her wispy hair and the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years

those children would be denouncing her to the Thought Police. Mrs. Parsons

would be vaporized. Syme would be vaporized. Winston would be vaporized.

O'Brien would be vaporized. Parsons, on the other hand, would never be

vaporized. The eyeless creature with the quacking voice would never be

vaporized. The little beetle-like men who scuttle so nimbly through the

labyrinthine corridors of Ministries they, too, would never be vaporized.

And the girl with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction Department - she

would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that he knew

instinctively who would survive and who would perish: though just what it

was that made for survival, it was not easy to say.

At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk.

The girl at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him.

It was the girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way,

but with curious intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away

again.

The sweat started out on Winston's backbone. A horrible pang of terror

went through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left a sort of nagging

uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him? Why did she keep following him

about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been at

the table when he arrived, or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at

any rate, during the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him

when there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had

been to listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough.

His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually a

member of the Thought Police, but then it was precisely the amateur spy who

was the greatest danger of all. He did not know how long she had been

looking at him, but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was

possible that his features had not been perfectly under control. It was

terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public

place or within range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you

away. A nervous tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering

to yourself - anything that carried with it the suggestion of abnormality,

of having something to hide. In any case, to wear an improper expression on

your face (to look incredulous when a victory was announced, for example)

was itself a punishable offence. There was even a word for it in Newspeak:

facecrime, it was called.

The girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after all she was

not really following him about, perhaps it was coincidence that she had sat

so close to him two days running. His cigarette had gone out, and he laid

it carefully on the edge of the table. He would finish smoking it after

work, if he could keep the tobacco in it. Quite likely the person at the

next table was a spy of the Thought Police, and quite likely he would be in

the cellars of the Ministry of Love within three days, but a cigarette end

must not be wasted. Syme had folded up his strip of paper and stowed it

away in his pocket. Parsons had begun talking again.

'Did I ever tell you, old boy,' he said, chuckling round the stem of

his pipe, 'about the time when those two nippers of mine set fire to the

old market-woman's skirt because they saw her wrapping up sausages in a

poster of B.B.? Sneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of

matches. Burned her quite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But keen as

mustard! That's a first-rate training they give them in the Spies nowadays

- better than in my day, even. What d'you think's the latest thing they've

served them out with? Ear trumpets for listening through keyholes! My

little girl brought one home the other night - tried it out on our

sitting-room door, and reckoned she could hear twice as much as with her

ear to the hole. Of course it's only a toy, mind you. Still, gives 'em the

right idea, eh?'

At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. It was the

signal to return to work. All three men sprang to their feet to join in the

struggle round the lifts, and the remaining tobacco fell out of Winston's

cigarette.

VI

Winston was writing in his diary:

It was three years ago. It was on a dark evening, in a narrow side-

street near one of the big railway stations. She was standing near a

doorway in the wall, under a street lamp that hardly gave any light. She

had a young face, painted very thick. It was really the paint that appealed

to me, the whiteness of it, like a mask, and the bright red lips. Party

women never paint their faces. There was nobody else in the street, and no

telescreens. She said two dollars. I--

For the moment it was too difficult to go on. He shut his eyes and

pressed his fingers against them, trying to squeeze out the vision that

kept recurring. He had an almost overwhelming temptation to shout a string

of filthy words at the top of his voice. Or to bang his head against the

wall, to kick over the table, and hurl the inkpot through the window - to

do any violent or noisy or painful thing that might black out the memory

that was tormenting him.

Your worst enemy, he reflected, was your own nervous system. At any

moment the tension inside you was liable to translate itself into some

visible symptom. He thought of a man whom he had passed in the street a few

weeks back; a quite ordinary-looking man, a Party member, aged thirty-five

to forty, tallish and thin, carrying a brief-case. They were a few metres

apart when the left side of the man's face was suddenly contorted by a sort

of spasm. It happened again just as they were passing one another: it was

only a twitch, a quiver, rapid as the clicking of a camera shutter, but

obviously habitual. He remembered thinking at the time: That poor devil is

done for. And what was frightening was that the action was quite possibly

unconscious. The most deadly danger of all was talking in your sleep. There

was no way of guarding against that, so far as he could see.

He drew his breath and went on writing:

I went with her through the doorway and across a backyard into a

basement kitchen. There was a bed against the wall, and a lamp on the

table, turned down very low. She--

His teeth were set on edge. He would have liked to spit.

Simultaneously with the woman in the basement kitchen he thought of

Katharine, his wife. Winston was married - had been married, at any rate:

probably he still was married, so far as he knew his wife was not dead. He

seemed to breathe again the warm stuffy odour of the basement kitchen, an

odour compounded of bugs and dirty clothes and villainous cheap scent, but

nevertheless alluring, because no woman of the Party ever used scent, or

could be imagined as doing so. Only the proles used scent. In his mind the

smell of it was inextricably mixed up with fornication.

When he had gone with that woman it had been his first lapse in two

years or thereabouts. Consorting with prostitutes was forbidden, of course,

but it was one of those rules that you could occasionally nerve yourself to

break. It was dangerous, but it was not a life-and-death matter. To be

caught with a prostitute might mean five years in a forced-labour camp: not

more, if you had committed no other offence. And it was easy enough,

provided that you could avoid being caught in the act. The poorer quarters

swarmed with women who were ready to sell themselves. Some could even be

purchased for a bottle of gin, which the proles were not supposed to drink.

Tacitly the Party was even inclined to encourage prostitution, as an outlet

for instincts which could not be altogether suppressed. Mere debauchery did

not matter very much, so long as it was furtive and joyless and only

involved the women of a submerged and despised class. The unforgivable

crime was promiscuity between Party members. But - though this was one of

the crimes that the accused in the great purges invariably confessed to -

it was difficult to imagine any such thing actually happening.

The aim of the Party was not merely to prevent men and women from

forming loyalties which it might not be able to control. Its real,

undeclared purpose was to remove all pleasure from the sexual act. Not love

so much as eroticism was the enemy, inside marriage as well as outside it.

All marriages between Party members had to be approved by a committee

appointed for the purpose, and - though the principle was never clearly

stated - permission was always refused if the couple concerned gave the

impression of being physically attracted to one another. The only

recognized purpose of marriage was to beget children for the service of the

Party. Sexual intercourse was to be looked on as a slightly disgusting

minor operation, like having an enema. This again was never put into plain

words, but in an indirect way it was rubbed into every Party member from

childhood onwards. There were even organizations such as the Junior Anti-

Sex League, which advocated complete celibacy for both sexes. All children

were to be begotten by artificial insemination (artsem, it was called in

Newspeak) and brought up in public institutions. This, Winston was aware,

was not meant altogether seriously, but somehow it fitted in with the

general ideology of the Party. The Party was trying to kill the sex

instinct, or, if it could not be killed, then to distort it and dirty it.

He did not know why this was so, but it seemed natural that it should be

so. And as far as the women were concerned, the Party's efforts were

largely successful.

He thought again of Katharine. It must be nine, ten - nearly eleven

years since they had parted. It was curious how seldom he thought of her.

For days at a time he was capable of forgetting that he had ever been

married. They had only been together for about fifteen months. The Party

did not permit divorce, but it rather encouraged separation in cases where

there were no children.

Katharine was a tall, fair-haired girl, very straight, with splendid

movements. She had a bold, aquiline face, a face that one might have called

noble until one discovered that there was as nearly as possible nothing

behind it. Very early in her married life he had decided - though perhaps

it was only that he knew her more intimately than he knew most people -

that she had without exception the most stupid, vulgar, empty mind that he

had ever encountered. She had not a thought in her head that was not a

slogan, and there was no imbecility, absolutely none that she was not

capable of swallowing if the Party handed it out to her. 'The human sound-

track' he nicknamed her in his own mind. Yet he could have endured living

with her if it had not been for just one thing - sex.

As soon as he touched her she seemed to wince and stiffen. To embrace

her was like embracing a jointed wooden image. And what was strange was

that even when she was clasping him against her he had the feeling that she

was simultaneously pushing him away with all her strength. The rigidlty of

her muscles managed to convey that impression. She would lie there with

shut eyes, neither resisting nor co-operating but submitting. It was

extraordinarily embarrassing, and, after a while, horrible. But even then

he could have borne living with her if it had been agreed that they should

remain celibate. But curiously enough it was Katharine who refused this.

They must, she said, produce a child if they could. So the performance

continued to happen, once a week quite regulariy, whenever it was not

impossible. She even used to remind him of it in the morning, as something

which had to be done that evening and which must not be forgotten. She had

two names for it. One was 'making a baby', and the other was 'our duty to

the Party' (yes, she had actually used that phrase). Quite soon he grew to

have a feeling of positive dread when the appointed day came round. But

luckily no child appeared, and in the end she agreed to give up trying, and

soon afterwards they parted.

Winston sighed inaudibly. He picked up his pen again and wrote:

She threw herself down on the bed, and at once, without any kind of

preliminary in the most coarse, horrible way you can imagine, pulled up her

skirt. I--

He saw himself standing there in the dim lamplight, with the smell of

bugs and cheap scent in his nostrils, and in his heart a feeling of defeat

and resentment which even at that moment was mixed up with the thought of

Katharine's white body, frozen for ever by the hypnotic power of the Party.

Why did it always have to be like this? Why could he not have a woman of

his own instead of these filthy scuffles at intervals of years? But a real

love affair was an almost unthinkable event. The women of the Party were

all alike. Chastity was as deep ingrained in them as Party loyalty. By

careful early conditioning, by games and cold water, by the rubbish that

was dinned into them at school and in the Spies and the Youth League, by

lectures, parades, songs, slogans, and martial music, the natural feeling

had been driven out of them. His reason told him that there must be

exceptions, but his heart did not believe it. They were all impregnable, as

the Party intended that they should be. And what he wanted, more even than

to be loved, was to break down that wall of virtue, even if it were only

once in his whole life. The sexual act, successfully performed, was

rebellion. Desire was thoughtcrime. Even to have awakened Katharine, if he

could have achieved it, would have been like a seduction, although she was

his wife.

But the rest of the story had got to be written down. He wrote:

I turned up the lamp. When I saw her in the light--

After the darkness the feeble light of the paraffin lamp had seemed

very bright. For the first time he could see the woman properly. He had

taken a step towards her and then halted, full of lust and terror. He was

painfully conscious of the risk he had taken in coming here. It was

perfectly possible that the patrols would catch him on the way out: for

that matter they might be waiting outside the door at this moment. If he

went away without even doing what he had come here to do--!

It had got to be written down, it had got to be confessed. What he had

suddenly seen in the lamplight was that the woman was old. The paint was

plastered so thick on her face that it looked as though it might crack like

a cardboard mask. There were streaks of white in her hair; but the truly

dreadful detail was that her mouth had fallen a little open, revealing

nothing except a cavernous blackness. She had no teeth at all.

He wrote hurriedly, in scrabbling handwriting:

When I saw her in the light she was quite an old woman, fifty years

old at least. But I went ahead and did it just the same.

He pressed his fingers against his eyelids again. He had written it

down at last, but it made no difference. The therapy had not worked. The

urge to shout filthy words at the top of his voice was as strong as ever.

==VII==

If there is hope, wrote Winston, it lies in the proles.

If there was hope, it must lie in the proles, because only there in

those swarming disregarded masses, 85 per cent of the population of

Oceania, could the force to destroy the Party ever be generated. The Party

could not be overthrown from within. Its enemies, if it had any enemies,

had no way of coming together or even of identifying one another. Even if

the legendary Brotherhood existed, as just possibly it might, it was

inconceivable that its members could ever assemble in larger numbers than

twos and threes. Rebellion meant a look in the eyes, an inflexion of the

voice, at the most, an occasional whispered word. But the proles, if only

they could somehow become conscious of their own strength. would have no

need to conspire. They needed only to rise up and shake themselves like a

horse shaking off flies. If they chose they could blow the Party to pieces

tomorrow morning. Surely sooner or later it must occur to them to do it?

And yet--!

He remembered how once he had been walking down a crowded street when

a tremendous shout of hundreds of voices women's voices - had burst from a

side-street a little way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger and

despair, a deep, loud 'Oh-o-o-o-oh!' that went humming on like the

reverberation of a bell. His heart had leapt. It's started! he had thought.

A riot! The proles are breaking loose at last! When he had reached the spot

it was to see a mob of two or three hundred women crowding round the stalls

of a street market, with faces as tragic as though they had been the doomed

passengers on a sinking ship. But at this moment the general despair broke

down into a multitude of individual quarrels. It appeared that one of the

stalls had been selling tin saucepans. They were wretched, flimsy things,

but cooking-pots of any kind were always difficult to get. Now the supply

had unexpectedly given out. The successful women, bumped and jostled by the

rest, were trying to make off with their saucepans while dozens of others

clamoured round the stall, accusing the stall-keeper of favouritism and of

having more saucepans somewhere in reserve. There was a fresh outburst of

yells. Two bloated women, one of them with her hair coming down, had got

hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear it out of one another's

hands. For a moment they were both tugging, and then the handle came off.

Winston watched them disgustedly. And yet, just for a moment, what almost

frightening power had sounded in that cry from only a few hundred throats!

Why was it that they could never shout like that about anything that

mattered?

He wrote:

Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after

they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.

That, he reflected, might almost have been a transcription from one of

the Party textbooks. The Party claimed, of course, to have liberated the

proles from bondage. Before the Revolution they had been hideously

oppressed by the capitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had

been forced to work in the coal mines (women still did work in the coal

mines, as a matter of fact), children had been sold into the factories at

the age of six. But simultaneously, true to the Principles of doublethink,

the Party taught that the proles were natural inferiors who must be kept in

subjection, like animals, by the application of a few simple rules. In

reality very little was known about the proles. It was not necessary to

know much. So long as they continued to work and breed, their other

activities were without importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned

loose upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of life

that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral pattern. They were

born, they grew up in the gutters, they went to work at twelve, they passed

through a brief blossoming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married

at twenty, they were middle-aged at thirty, they died, for the most part,

at sixty. Heavy physical work, the care of home and children, petty

quarrels with neighbours, films, football, beer, and above all, gambling,

filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not

difficult. A few agents of the Thought Police moved always among them,

spreading false rumours and marking down and eliminating the few

individuals who were judged capable of becoming dangerous; but no attempt

was made to indoctrinate them with the ideology of the Party. It was not

desirable that the proles should have strong political feelings. All that

was required of them was a primitive patriotism which could be appealed to

whenever it was necessary to make them accept longer working-hours or

shorter rations. And even when they became discontented, as they sometimes

did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without general ideas,

they could only focus it on petty specific grievances. The larger evils

invariably escaped their notice. The great majority of proles did not even

have telescreens in their homes. Even the civil police interfered with them

very little. There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a whole

world-within-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes, drug-peddlers, and

racketeers of every description; but since it all happened among the proles

themselves, it was of no importance. In all questions of morals they were

allowed to follow their ancestral code. The sexual puritanism of the Party

was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity went unpunished, divorce was

permitted. For that matter, even religious worship would have been

permitted if the proles had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. They

were beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: 'Proles and animals are

free.'

Winston reached down and cautiously scratched his varicose ulcer. It

had begun itching again. The thing you invariably came back to was the

impossibility of knowing what life before the Revolution had really been

like. He took out of the drawer a copy of a children's history textbook

which he had borrowed from Mrs. Parsons, and began copying a passage into

the diary:

In the old days (it ran), before the glorious Revolution, London was

not the beautiful city that we know today. It was a dark, dirty, miserable

place where hardly anybody had enough to eat and where hundreds and

thousands of poor people had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to

sleep under. Children no older than you had to work twelve hours a day for

cruel masters who flogged them with whips if they worked too slowly and fed

them on nothing but stale breadcrusts and water. But in among all this

terrible poverty there were just a few great big beautiful houses that were

lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to look after them.

These rich men were called capitalists. They were fat, ugly men with wicked

faces, like the one in the picture on the opposite page. You can see that

he is dressed in a long black coat which was called a frock coat, and a

queer, shiny hat shaped like a stovepipe, which was called a top hat. This

was the uniform of the capitalists, and no one else was allowed to wear it.

The capitalists owned everything in the world, and everyone else was their

slave. They owned all the land, all the houses, all the factories, and all

the money. If anyone disobeyed them they could throw them into prison, or

they could take his job away and starve him to death. When any ordinary

person spoke to a capitalist he had to cringe and bow to him, and take off

his cap and address him as 'Sir'. The chief of all the capitalists was

called the King, and--

But he knew the rest of the catalogue. There would be mention of the

bishops in their lawn sleeves, the judges in their ermine robes, the

pillory, the stocks, the treadmill, the cat-o'-nine tails, the Lord Mayor's

Banquet, and the practice of kissing the Pope's toe. There was also

something called the jus primae noctis, which would probably not be

mentioned in a textbook for children. It was the law by which every

capitalist had the right to sleep with any woman working in one of his

factories.

How could you tell how much of it was lies? It might be true that the

average human being was better off now than he had been before the

Revolution. The only evidence to the contrary was the mute protest in your

own bones, the instinctive feeling that the conditions you lived in were

intolerable and that at some other time they must have been different. It

struck him that the truly characteristic thing about modern life was not

its cruelty and insecurity, but simply its bareness, its dinginess, its

listlessness. Life, if you looked about you, bore no resemblance not only

to the lies that streamed out of the telescreens, but even to the ideals

that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it, even for a Party

member, were neutral and non-political, a matter of slogging through dreary

jobs, fighting for a place on the Tube, darning a worn-out sock, cadging a

saccharine tablet, saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the Party

was something huge, terrible, and glittering - a world of steel and

concrete, of monstrous machines and terrifying weapons - a nation of

warriors and fanatics, marching forward in perfect unity, all thinking the

same thoughts and shouting the same slogans, perpetually working, fighting,

triumphing, persecuting - three hundred million people all with the same

face. The reality was decaying, dingy cities where underfed people shuffled

to and fro in leaky shoes, in patched-up nineteenth-century houses that

smelt always of cabbage and bad lavatories. He seemed to see a vision of

London, vast and ruinous, city of a million dustbins, and mixed up with it

was a picture of Mrs. Parsons, a woman with lined face and wispy hair,

fiddling helplessly with a blocked waste-pipe.

He reached down and scratched his ankle again. Day and night the

telescreens bruised your ears with statistics proving that people today had

more food, more clothes, better houses, better recreations - that they

lived longer, worked shorter hours, were bigger, healthier, stronger,

happier, more intelligent, better educated, than the people of fifty years

ago. Not a word of it could ever be proved or disproved. The Party claimed,

for example, that today 40 per cent of adult proles were literate: before

the Revolution, it was said, the number had only been 15 per cent. The

Party claimed that the infant mortality rate was now only 160 per thousand,

whereas before the Revolution it had been 300 - and so it went on. It was

like a single equation with two unknowns. It might very well be that

literally every word in the history books, even the things that one

accepted without question, was pure fantasy. For all he knew there might

never have been any such law as the jus primae noctis, or any such creature

as a capitalist, or any such garment as a top hat.

Everything faded into mist. The past was erased, the erasure was

forgotten, the lie became truth. Just once in his life he had possessed -

after the event: that was what counted - concrete, unmistakable evidence

of an act of falsification. He had held it between his fingers for as long

as thirty seconds. In 1973, it must have been - at any rate, it was at

about the time when he and Katharine had parted. But the really relevant

date was seven or eight years earlier.

The story really began in the middle sixties, the period of the great

purges in which the original leaders of the Revolution were wiped out once

and for all. By 1970 none of them was left, except Big Brother himself. All

the rest had by that time been exposed as traitors and counter-

revolutionaries. Goldstein had fled and was hiding no one knew where, and

of the others, a few had simply disappeared, while the majority had been

executed after spectacular public trials at which they made confession of

their crimes. Among the last survivors were three men named Jones,

Aaronson, and Rutherford. It must have been in 1965 that these three had

been arrested. As often happened, they had vanished for a year or more, so

that one did not know whether they were alive or dead, and then had

suddenly been brought forth to incriminate themselves in the usual way.

They had confessed to intelligence with the enemy (at that date, too, the

enemy was Eurasia), embezzlement of public funds, the murder of various

trusted Party members, intrigues against the leadership of Big Brother

which had started long before the Revolution happened, and acts of sabotage

causing the death of hundreds of thousands of people. After confessing to

these things they had been pardoned, reinstated in the Party, and given

posts which were in fact sinecures but which sounded important. All three

had written long, abject articles in the Times, analysing the reasons for

their defection and promising to make amends.

Some time after their release Winston had actually seen all three of

them in the Chestnut Tree Cafe. He remembered the sort of terrified

fascination with which he had watched them out of the corner of his eye.

They were men far older than himself, relics of the ancient world, almost

the last great figures left over from the heroic days of the Party. The

glamour of the underground struggle and the civil war still faintly clung

to them. He had the feeling, though already at that time facts and dates

were growing blurry, that he had known their names years earlier than he

had known that of Big Brother. But also they were outlaws, enemies,

untouchables, doomed with absolute certainty to extinction within a year or

two. No one who had once fallen into the hands of the Thought Police ever

escaped in the end. They were corpses waiting to be sent back to the grave.

There was no one at any of the tables nearest to them. It was not wise

even to be seen in the neighbourhood of such people. They were sitting in

silence before glasses of the gin flavoured with cloves which was the

speciality of the cafe. Of the three, it was Rutherford whose appearance

had most impressed Winston. Rutherford had once been a famous caricaturist,

whose brutal cartoons had helped to inflame popular opinion before and

during the Revolution. Even now, at long intervals, his cartoons were

appearing in the Times. They were simply an imitation of his earlier

manner, and curiously lifeless and unconvincing. Always they were a

rehashing of the ancient themes - slum tenements, starving children,

street battles, capitalists in top hats - even on the barricades the

capitalists still seemed to cling to their top hats an endless, hopeless

effort to get back into the past. He was a monstrous man, with a mane of

greasy grey hair, his face pouched and seamed, with thick negroid lips. At

one time he must have been immensely strong; now his great body was

sagging, sloping, bulging, falling away in every direction. He seemed to be

breaking up before one's eyes, like a mountain crumbling.

It was the lonely hour of fifteen. Winston could not now remember how

he had come to be in the cafe at such a time. The place was almost empty. A

tinny music was trickling from the telescreens. The three men sat in their

corner almost motionless, never speaking. Uncommanded, the waiter brought

fresh glasses of gin. There was a chessboard on the table beside them, with

the pieces set out but no game started. And then, for perhaps half a minute

in all, something happened to the telescreens. The tune that they were

playing changed, and the tone of the music changed too. There came into it

- but it was something hard to describe. It was a peculiar, cracked,

braying, jeering note: in his mind Winston called it a yellow note. And

then a voice from the telescreen was singing:

Under the spreading chestnut tree

I sold you and you sold me:

There lie they, and here lie we

Under the spreading chestnut tree.

The three men never stirred. But when Winston glanced again at

Rutherford's ruinous face, he saw that his eyes were full of tears. And for

the first time he noticed, with a kind of inward shudder, and yet not

knowing at what he shuddered, that both Aaronson and Rutherford had broken

noses.

A little later all three were re-arrested. It appeared that they had

engaged in fresh conspiracies from the very moment of their release. At

their second trial they confessed to all their old crimes over again, with

a whole string of new ones. They were executed, and their fate was recorded

in the Party histories, a warning to posterity. About five years after

this, in 1973, Winston was unrolling a wad of documents which had just

flopped out of the pneumatic tube on to his desk when he came on a fragment

of paper which had evidently been slipped in among the others and then

forgotten. The instant he had flattened it out he saw its significance. It

was a half-page torn out of the Times of about ten years earlier - the top

half of the page, so that it included the date - and it contained a

photograph of the delegates at some Party function in New York. Prominent

in the middle of the group were Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. There was

no mistaking them, in any case their names were in the caption at the

bottom.

The point was that at both trials all three men had confessed that on

that date they had been on Eurasian soil. They had flown from a secret

airfield in Canada to a rendezvous somewhere in Siberia, and had conferred

with members of the Eurasian General Staff, to whom they had betrayed

important military secrets. The date had stuck in Winston's memory because

it chanced to be midsummer day; but the whole story must be on record in

countless other places as well. There was only one possible conclusion: the

confessions were lies.

Of course, this was not in itself a discovery. Even at that time

Winston had not imagined that the people who were wiped out in the purges

had actually committed the crimes that they were accused of. But this was

concrete evidence; it was a fragment of the abolished past, like a fossil

bone which turns up in the wrong stratum and destroys a geological theory.

It was enough to blow the Party to atoms, if in some way it could have been

published to the world and its significance made known.

He had gone straight on working. As soon as he saw what the photograph

was, and what it meant, he had covered it up with another sheet of paper.

Luckily, when he unrolled it, it had been upside-down from the point of

view of the telescreen.

He took his scribbling pad on his knee and pushed back his chair so as

to get as far away from the telescreen as possible. To keep your face

expressionless was not difficult, and even your breathing could be

controlled, with an effort: but you could not control the beating of your

heart, and the telescreen was quite delicate enough to pick it up. He let

what he judged to be ten minutes go by, tormented all the while by the fear

that some accident - a sudden draught blowing across his desk, for

instance - would betray him. Then, without uncovering it again, he dropped

the photograph into the memory hole, along with some other waste papers.

Within another minute, perhaps, it would have crumbled into ashes.

That was ten - eleven years ago. Today, probably, he would have kept

that photograph. It was curious that the fact of having held it in his

fingers seemed to him to make a difference even now, when the photograph

itself, as well as the event it recorded, was only memory. Was the Party's

hold upon the past less strong, he wondered, because a piece of evidence

which existed no longer had once existed?

But today, supposing that it could be somehow resurrected from its

ashes, the photograph might not even be evidence. Already, at the time when

he made his discovery, Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia, and it

must have been to the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men had

betrayed their country. Since then there had been other changes - two,

three, he could not remember how many. Very likely the confessions had been

rewritten and rewritten until the original facts and dates no longer had

the smallest significance. The past not only changed, but changed

continuously. What most afflicted him with the sense of nightmare was that

he had never clearly understood why the huge imposture was undertaken. The

immediate advantages of falsifying the past were obvious, but the ultimate

motive was mysterious. He took up his pen again and wrote:

I understand HOW: I do not understand WHY.

He wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself

was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one. At one time

it had been a sign of madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun;

today, to believe that the past is inalterable. He might be alone in

holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the thought of being

a lunatic did not greatly trouble him: the horror was that he might also be

wrong.

He picked up the children's history book and looked at the portrait of

Big Brother which formed its frontispiece. The hypnotic eyes gazed into his

own. It was as though some huge force were pressing down upon you -

something that penetrated inside your skull, battering against your brain,

frightening you out of your beliefs, persuading you, almost, to deny the

evidence of your senses. In the end the Party would announce that two and

two made five, and you would have to believe it. It was inevitable that

they should make that claim sooner or later: the logic of their position

demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the very existence

of external reality, was tacitly denied by their philosophy. The heresy of

heresies was common sense. And what was terrifying was not that they would

kill you for thinking otherwise, but that they might be right. For, after

all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the force of

gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the

external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is

controllable what then?

But no! His courage seemed suddenly to stiffen of its own accord. The

face of O'Brien, not called up by any obvious association, had floated into

his mind. He knew, with more certainty than before, that O'Brien was on his

side. He was writing the diary for O'Brien - to O'Brien: it was like an

interminable letter which no one would ever read, but which was addressed

to a particular person and took its colour from that fact.

The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It

was their final, most essential command. His heart sank as he thought of

the enormous power arrayed against him, the ease with which any Party

intellectual would overthrow him in debate, the subtle arguments which he

would not be able to understand, much less answer. And yet he was in the

right! They were wrong and he was right. The obvious, the silly, and the

true had got to be defended. Truisms are true, hold on to that! The solid

world exists, its laws do not change. Stones are hard, water is wet,

objects unsupported fall towards the earth's centre. With the feeling that

he was speaking to O'Brien, and also that he was setting forth an important

axiom, he wrote:

Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that

is granted, all else follows.

==VII==

From somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of roasting coffee

- real coffee, not Victory Coffee - came floating out into the street.

Winston paused involuntarily. For perhaps two seconds he was back in the

half-forgotten world of his childhood. Then a door banged, seeming to cut

off the smell as abruptly as though it had been a sound.

He had walked several kilometres over pavements, and his varicose

ulcer was throbbing. This was the second time in three weeks that he had

missed an evening at the Community Centre: a rash act, since you could be

certain that the number of your attendances at the Centre was carefully

checked. In principle a Party member had no spare time, and was never alone

except in bed. It was assumed that when he was not working, eating, or

sleeping he would be taking part in some kind of communal recreation: to do

anything that suggested a taste for solitude, even to go for a walk by

yourself, was always slightly dangerous. There was a word for it in

Newspeak: ownlife, it was called, meaning individualism and eccentricity.

But this evening as he came out of the Ministry the balminess of the April

air had tempted him. The sky was a warmer blue than he had seen it that

year, and suddenly the long, noisy evening at the Centre, the boring,

exhausting games, the lectures, the creaking camaraderie oiled by gin, had

seemed intolerable. On impulse he had turned away from the bus-stop and

wandered off into the labyrinth of London, first south, then east, then

north again, losing himself among unknown streets and hardly bothering in

which direction he was going.

'If there is hope,' he had written in the diary, 'it lies in the

proles.' The words kept coming back to him, statement of a mystical truth

and a palpable absurdity. He was somewhere in the vague, brown-coloured

slums to the north and east of what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He

was walking up a cobbled street of little two-storey houses with battered

doorways which gave straight on the pavement and which were somehow

curiously suggestive of ratholes. There were puddles of filthy water here

and there among the cobbles. In and out of the dark doorways, and down

narrow alley-ways that branched off on either side, people swarmed in

astonishing numbers - girls in full bloom, with crudely lipsticked mouths,

and youths who chased the girls, and swollen waddling women who showed you

what the girls would be like in ten years" time, and old bent creatures

shuffling along on splayed feet, and ragged barefooted children who played

in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells from their mothers.

Perhaps a quarter of the windows in the street were broken and boarded up.

Most of the people paid no attention to Winston; a few eyed him with a sort

of guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red forearms folded

across thelr aprons were talking outside a doorway. Winston caught scraps

of conversation as he approached.

'"Yes," I says to 'er, "that's all very well," I says. "But if you'd

of been in my place you'd of done the same as what I done. It's easy to

criticize," I says, "but you ain't got the same problems as what I got."'

'Ah,' said the other, 'that's jest it. That's jest where it is.'

The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women studied him in hostile

silence as he went past. But it was not hostility, exactly; merely a kind

of wariness, a momentary stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar

animal. The blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in a

street like this. Indeed, it was unwise to be seen in such places, unless

you had definite business there. The patrols might stop you if you happened

to run into them. 'May I see your papers, comrade? What are you doing here?

What time did you leave work? Is this your usual way home?' - and so on

and so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking home by an

unusual route: but it was enough to draw attention to you if the Thought

Police heard about it.

Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There were yells of

warning from all sides. People were shooting into the doorways like

rabbits. A young woman leapt out of a doorway a little ahead of Winston,

grabbed up a tiny child playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it,

and leapt back again, all in one movement. At the same instant a man in a

concertina-like black suit, who had emerged from a side alley, ran towards

Winston, pointing excitedly to the sky.

'Steamer!' he yelled. 'Look out, guv'nor! Bang over'ead! Lay down

quick!'

'Steamer' was a nickname which, for some reason, the proles applied to

rocket bombs. Winston promptly flung himself on his face. The proles were

nearly always right when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed

to possess some kind of instinct which told them several seconds in advance

when a rocket was coming, although the rockets supposedly travelled faster

than sound. Winston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar

that seemed to make the pavement heave; a shower of light objects pattered

on to his back. When he stood up he found that he was covered with

fragments of glass from the nearest window.

He walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of houses 200 metres up

the street. A black plume of smoke hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of

plaster dust in which a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There

was a little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him, and in the

middle of it he could see a bright red streak. When he got up to it he saw

that it was a human hand severed at the wrist. Apart from the bloody stump,

the hand was so completely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast.

He kicked the thing into the gutter, and then, to avoid the crowd,

turned down a side-street to the right. Within three or four minutes he was

out of the area which the bomb had affected, and the sordid swarming life

of the streets was going on as though nothing had happened. It was nearly

twenty hours, and the drinking-shops which the proles frequented ('pubs',

they called them) were choked with customers. From their grimy swing doors,

endlessly opening and shutting, there came forth a smell of urine, sawdust,

and sour beer. In an angle formed by a projecting house-front three men

were standing very close together, the middle one of them holding a folded-

up newspaper which the other two were studying over his shoulder. Even

before he was near enough to make out the expression on their faces,

Winston could see absorption in every line of their bodies. It was

obviously some serious piece of news that they were reading. He was a few

paces away from them when suddenly the group broke up and two of the men

were in violent altercation. For a moment they seemed almost on the point

of blows.

'Can't you bleeding well listen to what I say? I tell you no number

ending in seven ain't won for over fourteen months!'

'Yes, it 'as, then!'

'No, it 'as not! Back 'ome I got the 'ole lot of 'em for over two

years wrote down on a piece of paper. I takes 'em down reg'lar as the

clock. An" I tell you, no number ending in seven--'

'Yes, a seven 'as won! I could pretty near tell you the bleeding

number. Four oh seven, it ended in. It were in February - second week in

February.'

'February your grandmother! I got it all down in black and white. An"

I tell you, no number--'

'Oh, pack it in!' said the third man.

They were talking about the Lottery. Winston looked back when he had

gone thirty metres. They were still arguing, with vivid, passionate faces.

The Lottery, with its weekly pay-out of enormous prizes, was the one public

event to which the proles paid serious attention. It was probable that

there were some millions of proles for whom the Lottery was the principal

if not the only reason for remaining alive. It was their delight, their

folly, their anodyne, their intellectual stimulant. Where the Lottery was

concerned, even people who could barely read and write seemed capable of

intricate calculations and staggering feats of memory. There was a whole

tribe of men who made a living simply by selling systems, forecasts, and

lucky amulets. Winston had nothing to do with the running of the Lottery,

which was managed by the Ministry of Plenty, but he was aware (indeed

everyone in the party was aware) that the prizes were largely imaginary.

Only small sums were actually paid out, the winners of the big prizes being

non-existent persons. In the absence of any real intercommunication between

one part of Oceania and another, this was not difficult to arrange.

But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling on to

that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable: it was when you

looked at the human beings passing you on the pavement that it became an

act of faith. The street into which he had turned ran downhill. He had a

feeling that he had been in this neighbourhood before, and that there was a

main thoroughfare not far away. From somewhere ahead there came a din of

shouting voices. The street took a sharp turn and then ended in a flight of

steps which led down into a sunken alley where a few stall-keepers were

selling tired-looking vegetables. At this moment Winston remembered where

he was. The alley led out into the main street, and down the next turning,

not five minutes away, was the junk-shop where he had bought the blank book

which was now his diary. And in a small stationer's shop not far away he

had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink.

He paused for a moment at the top of the steps. On the opposite side

of the alley there was a dingy little pub whose windows appeared to be

frosted over but in reality were merely coated with dust. A very old man,

bent but active, with white moustaches that bristled forward like those of

a prawn, pushed open the swing door and went in. As Winston stood watching,

it occurred to him that the old man, who must be eighty at the least, had

already been middle-aged when the Revolution happened. He and a few others

like him were the last links that now existed with the vanished world of

capitalism. In the Party itself there were not many people left whose ideas

had been formed before the Revolution. The older generation had mostly been

wiped out in the great purges of the fifties and sixties, and the few who

survived had long ago been terrified into complete intellectual surrender.

If there was any one still alive who could give you a truthful account of

conditions in the early part of the century, it could only be a prole.

Suddenly the passage from the history book that he had copied into his

diary came back into Winston's mind, and a lunatic impulse took hold of

him. He would go into the pub, he would scrape acquaintance with that old

man and question him. He would say to him: 'Tell me about your life when

you were a boy. What was it like in those days? Were things better than

they are now, or were they worse?'

Hurriedly, lest he should have time to become frightened, he descended

the steps and crossed the narrow street. It was madness of course. As

usual, there was no definite rule against talking to proles and frequenting

their pubs, but it was far too unusual an action to pass unnoticed. If the

patrols appeared he might plead an attack of faintness, but it was not

likely that they would believe him. He pushed open the door, and a hideous

cheesy smell of sour beer hit him in the face. As he entered the din of

voices dropped to about half its volume. Behind his back he could feel

everyone eyeing his blue overalls. A game of darts which was going on at

the other end of the room interrupted itself for perhaps as much as thirty

seconds. The old man whom he had followed was standing at the bar, having

some kind of altercation with the barman, a large, stout, hook-nosed young

man with enormous forearms. A knot of others, standing round with glasses

in their hands, were watching the scene.

'I arst you civil enough, didn't I?' said the old man, straightening

his shoulders pugnaciously. 'You telling me you ain't got a pint mug in the

'ole bleeding boozer?'

'And what in hell's name is a pint?' said the barman, leaning forward

with the tips of his fingers on the counter.

'Ark at 'im! Calls 'isself a barman and don't know what a pint is!

Why, a pint's the 'alf of a quart, and there's four quarts to the gallon.

'Ave to teach you the A, B, C next.'

'Never heard of 'em,' said the barman shortly. 'Litre and half litre

- that's all we serve. There's the glasses on the shelf in front of you.'

'I likes a pint,' persisted the old man. 'You could 'a drawed me off a

pint easy enough. We didn't 'ave these bleeding litres when I was a young

man.'

'When you were a young man we were all living in the treetops,' said

the barman, with a glance at the other customers.

There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused by Winston's

entry seemed to disappear. The old man's whitestubbled face had flushed

pink. He turned away, muttering to himself, and bumped into Winston.

Winston caught him gently by the arm.

'May I offer you a drink?' he said.

'You're a gent,' said the other, straightening his shoulders again. He

appeared not to have noticed Winston's blue overalls. 'Pint!' he added

aggressively to the barman. 'Pint of wallop.'

The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer into thick

glasses which he had rinsed in a bucket under the counter. Beer was the

only drink you could get in prole pubs. The proles were supposed not to

drink gin, though in practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The

game of darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar had

begun talking about lottery tickets. Winston's presence was forgotten for a

moment. There was a deal table under the window where he and the old man

could talk without fear of being overheard. It was horribly dangerous, but

at any rate there was no telescreen in the room, a point he had made sure

of as soon as he came in.

''E could 'a drawed me off a pint,' grumbled the old man as he settled

down behind a glass. 'A 'alf litre ain't enough. It don't satisfy. And a

'ole litre's too much. It starts my bladder running. Let alone the price.'

'You must have seen great changes since you were a young man,' said

Winston tentatively.

The old man's pale blue eyes moved from the darts board to the bar,

and from the bar to the door of the Gents, as though it were in the bar-

room that he expected the changes to have occurred.

'The beer was better,' he said finally. 'And cheaper! When I was a

young man, mild beer - wallop we used to call it - was fourpence a pint.

That was before the war, of course.'

'Which war was that?' said Winston.

'It's all wars,' said the old man vaguely. He took up his glass, and

his shoulders straightened again. ''Ere's wishing you the very best of

'ealth!'

In his lean throat the sharp-pointed Adam's apple made a surprisingly

rapid up-and-down movement, and the beer vanished. Winston went to the bar

and came back with two more half-litres. The old man appeared to have

forgotten his prejudice against drinking a full litre.

'You are very much older than I am,' said Winston. 'You must have been

a grown man before I was born. You can remember what it was like in the old

days, before the Revolution. People of my age don't really know anything

about those times. We can only read about them in books, and what it says

in the books may not be true. I should like your opinion on that. The

history books say that life before the Revolution was completely different

from what it is now. There was the most terrible oppression, injustice,

poverty worse than anything we can imagine. Here in London, the great mass

of the people never had enough to eat from birth to death. Half of them

hadn't even boots on their feet. They worked twelve hours a day, they left

school at nine, they slept ten in a room. And at the same time there were a

very few people, only a few thousands - the capitalists, they were called

- who were rich and powerful. They owned everything that there was to own.

They lived in great gorgeous houses with thirty servants, they rode about

in motor-cars and four-horse carriages, they drank champagne, they wore top

hats--'

The old man brightened suddenly.

'Top 'ats!' he said. 'Funny you should mention 'em. The same thing

come into my 'ead only yesterday, I dono why. I was jest thinking, I ain't

seen a top 'at in years. Gorn right out, they 'ave. The last time I wore

one was at my sister-in-law's funeral. And that was - well, I couldn't

give you the date, but it must'a been fifty years ago. Of course it was

only 'ired for the occasion, you understand.'

'It isn't very important about the top hats,' said Winston patiently.

'The point is, these capitalists - they and a few lawyers and priests and

so forth who lived on them - were the lords of the earth. Everything

existed for their benefit. You - the ordinary people, the workers - were

their slaves. They could do what they liked with you. They could ship you

off to Canada like cattle. They could sleep with your daughters if they

chose. They could order you to be flogged with something called a cat-o'-

nine tails. You had to take your cap off when you passed them. Every

capitalist went about with a gang of lackeys who--'

The old man brightened again.

'Lackeys!' he said. 'Now there's a word I ain't 'eard since ever so

long. Lackeys! That reg'lar takes me back, that does. I recollect oh,

donkey's years ago - I used to sometimes go to 'Yde Park of a Sunday

afternoon to 'ear the blokes making speeches. Salvation Army, Roman

Catholics, Jews, Indians - all sorts there was. And there was one bloke -

well, I couldn't give you 'is name, but a real powerful speaker 'e was. 'E

didn't 'alf give it 'em! "Lackeys!" 'e says, "lackeys of the bourgeoisie!

Flunkies of the ruling class!" Parasites - that was another of them. And

'yenas - 'e definitely called 'em 'yenas. Of course 'e was referring to

the Labour Party, you understand.'

Winston had the feeling that they were talking at cross-purposes.

'What I really wanted to know was this,' he said. 'Do you feel that

you have more freedom now than you had in those days? Are you treated more

like a human being? In the old days, the rich people, the people at the

top--'

'The 'Ouse of Lords,' put in the old man reminiscently.

'The House of Lords, if you like. What I am asking is, were these

people able to treat you as an inferior, simply because they were rich and

you were poor? Is it a fact, for instance, that you had to call them "Sir"

and take off your cap when you passed them?'

The old man appeared to think deeply. He drank off about a quarter of

his beer before answering.

'Yes,' he said. 'They liked you to touch your cap to 'em. It showed

respect, like. I didn't agree with it, myself, but I done it often enough.

Had to, as you might say.'

'And was it usual - I'm only quoting what I've read in history books

- was it usual for these people and their servants to push you off the

pavement into the gutter?'

'One of 'em pushed me once,' said the old man. 'I recollect it as if

it was yesterday. It was Boat Race night - terribly rowdy they used to get

on Boat Race night - and I bumps into a young bloke on Shaftesbury Avenue.

Quite a gent, 'e was - dress shirt, top 'at, black overcoat. 'E was kind

of zig-zagging across the pavement, and I bumps into 'im accidental-like.

'E says, "Why can't you look where you're going?" 'e says. I say, "Ju think

you've bought the bleeding pavement?" 'E says, "I'll twist your bloody 'ead

off if you get fresh with me." I says, "You're drunk. I'll give you in

charge in 'alf a minute," I says. An' if you'll believe me, 'e puts 'is

'and on my chest and gives me a shove as pretty near sent me under the

wheels of a bus. Well, I was young in them days, and I was going to 'ave

fetched 'im one, only--'

A sense of helplessness took hold of Winston. The old man's memory was

nothing but a rubbish-heap of details. One could question him all day

without getting any real information. The party histories might still be

true, after a fashion: they might even be completely true. He made a last

attempt.

'Perhaps I have not made myself clear,' he said. 'What I'm trying to

say is this. You have been alive a very long time; you lived half your life

before the Revolution. In 1925, for instance, you were already grown up.

Would you say from what you can remember, that life in 1925 was better than

it is now, or worse? If you could choose, would you prefer to live then or

now?'

The old man looked meditatively at the darts board. He finished up his

beer, more slowly than before. When he spoke it was with a tolerant

philosophical air, as though the beer had mellowed him.

'I know what you expect me to say,' he said. 'You expect me to say as

I'd sooner be young again. Most people'd say they'd sooner be young, if you

arst" 'em. You got your 'ealth and strength when you're young. When you get

to my time of life you ain't never well. I suffer something wicked from my

feet, and my bladder's jest terrible. Six and seven times a night it 'as me

out of bed. On the other 'and, there's great advantages in being a old man.

You ain't got the same worries. No truck with women, and that's a great

thing. I ain't 'ad a woman for near on thirty year, if you'd credit it. Nor

wanted to, what's more.'

Winston sat back against the window-sill. It was no use going on. He

was about to buy some more beer when the old man suddenly got up and

shuffled rapidly into the stinking urinal at the side of the room. The

extra half-litre was already working on him. Winston sat for a minute or

two gazing at his empty glass, and hardly noticed when his feet carried him

out into the street again. Within twenty years at the most, he reflected,

the huge and simple question, 'Was life better before the Revolution than

it is now?' would have ceased once and for all to be answerable. But in

effect it was unanswerable even now, since the few scattered survivors from

the ancient world were incapable of comparing one age with another. They

remembered a million useless things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for

a lost bicycle pump, the expression on a long-dead sister's face, the

swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but all the relevant

facts were outside the range of their vision. They were like the ant, which

can see small objects but not large ones. And when memory failed and

written records were falsified - when that happened, the claim of the

Party to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted,

because there did not exist, and never again could exist, any standard

against which it could be tested.

At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly. He halted and

looked up. He was in a narrow street, with a few dark little shops,

interspersed among dwelling-houses. Immediately above his head there hung

three discoloured metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded.

He seemed to know the place. Of course! He was standing outside the junk-

shop where he had bought the diary.

A twinge of fear went through him. It had been a sufficiently rash act

to buy the book in the beginning, and he had sworn never to come near the

place again. And yet the instant that he allowed his thoughts to wander,

his feet had brought him back here of their own accord. It was precisely

against suicidal impulses of this kind that he had hoped to guard himself

by opening the diary. At the same time he noticed that although it was

nearly twenty-one hours the shop was still open. With the feeling that he

would be less conspicuous inside than hanging about on the pavement, he

stepped through the doorway. If questioned, he could plausibly say that he

was trying to buy razor blades.

The proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp which gave off an

unclean but friendly smell. He was a man of perhaps sixty, frail and bowed,

with a long, benevolent nose, and mild eyes distorted by thick spectacles.

His hair was almost white, but his eyebrows were bushy and still black. His

spectacles, his gentle, fussy movements, and the fact that he was wearing

an aged jacket of black velvet, gave him a vague air of intellectuality, as

though he had been some kind of literary man, or perhaps a musician. His

voice was soft, as though faded, and his accent less debased than that of

the majority of proles.

'I recognized you on the pavement,' he said immediately. 'You're the

gentleman that bought the young lady's keepsake album. That was a beautiful

bit of paper, that was. Cream-laid, it used to be called. There's been no

paper like that made for - oh, I dare say fifty years.' He peered at

Winston over the top of his spectacles. 'Is there anything special I can do

for you? Or did you just want to look round?'

'I was passing,' said Winston vaguely. 'I just looked in. I don't want

anything in particular.'

'It's just as well,' said the other, 'because I don't suppose I could

have satisfied you.' He made an apologetic gesture with his softpalmed

hand. 'You see how it is; an empty shop, you might say. Between you and me,

the antique trade's just about finished. No demand any longer, and no stock

either. Furniture, china, glass it's all been broken up by degrees. And of

course the metal stuff's mostly been melted down. I haven't seen a brass

candlestick in years.'

The tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably full, but

there was almost nothing in it of the slightest value. The floorspace was

very restricted, because all round the walls were stacked innumerable dusty

picture-frames. In the window there were trays of nuts and bolts, worn-out

chisels, penknives with broken blades, tarnished watches that did not even

pretend to be in going order, and other miscellaneous rubbish. Only on a

small table in the corner was there a litter of odds and ends - lacquered

snuffboxes, agate brooches, and the like - which looked as though they

might include something interesting. As Winston wandered towards the table

his eye was caught by a round, smooth thing that gleamed softly in the

lamplight, and he picked it up.

It was a heavy lump of glass, curved on one side, flat on the other,

making almost a hemisphere. There was a peculiar softness, as of rainwater,

in both the colour and the texture of the glass. At the heart of it,

magnified by the curved surface, there was a strange, pink, convoluted

object that recalled a rose or a sea anemone.

'What is it?' said Winston, fascinated.

'That's coral, that is,' said the old man. 'It must have come from the

Indian Ocean. They used to kind of embed it in the glass. That wasn't made

less than a hundred years ago. More, by the look of it.'

'It's a beautiful thing,' said Winston.

'It is a beautiful thing,' said the other appreciatively. 'But there's

not many that'd say so nowadays.' He coughed. 'Now, if it so happened that

you wanted to buy it, that'd cost you four dollars. I can remember when a

thing like that would have fetched eight pounds, and eight pounds was -

well, I can't work it out, but it was a lot of money. But who cares about

genuine antiques nowadays even the few that's left?'

Winston immediately paid over the four dollars and slid the coveted

thing into his pocket. What appealed to him about it was not so much its

beauty as the air it seemed to possess of belonging to an age quite

different from the present one. The soft, rainwatery glass was not like any

glass that he had ever seen. The thing was doubly attractive because of its

apparent uselessness, though he could guess that it must once have been

intended as a paperweight. It was very heavy in his pocket, but fortunately

it did not make much of a bulge. It was a queer thing, even a compromising

thing, for a Party member to have in his possession. Anything old, and for

that matter anything beautiful, was always vaguely suspect. The old man had

grown noticeably more cheerful after receiving the four dollars. Winston

realized that he would have accepted three or even two.

'There's another room upstairs that you might care to take a look at,'

he said. 'There's not much in it. Just a few pieces. We'll do with a light

if we're going upstairs.'

He lit another lamp, and, with bowed back, led the way slowly up the

steep and worn stairs and along a tiny passage, into a room which did not

give on the street but looked out on a cobbled yard and a forest of

chimney-pots. Winston noticed that the furniture was still arranged as

though the room were meant to be lived in. There was a strip of carpet on

the floor, a picture or two on the walls, and a deep, slatternly arm-chair

drawn up to the fireplace. An old-fashioned glass clock with a twelve-hour

face was ticking away on the mantelpiece. Under the window, and occupying

nearly a quarter of the room, was an enormous bed with the mattress still

on it.

'We lived here till my wife died,' said the old man half

apologetically. 'I'm selling the furniture off by little and little. Now

that's a beautiful mahogany bed, or at least it would be if you could get

the bugs out of it. But I dare say you'd find it a little bit cumbersome.'

He was holdlng the lamp high up, so as to illuminate the whole room,

and in the warm dim light the place looked curiously inviting. The thought

flitted through Winston's mind that it would probably be quite easy to rent

the room for a few dollars a week, if he dared to take the risk. It was a

wild, impossible notion, to be abandoned as soon as thought of; but the

room had awakened in him a sort of nostalgia, a sort of ancestral memory.

It seemed to him that he knew exactly what it felt like to sit in a room

like this, in an arm-chair beside an open fire with your feet in the fender

and a kettle on the hob; utterly alone, utterly secure, with nobody

watching you, no voice pursuing you, no sound except the singing of the

kettle and the friendly ticking of the clock.

'There's no telescreen!' he could not help murmuring.

'Ah,' said the old man, 'I never had one of those things. Too

expensive. And I never seemed to feel the need of it, somehow. Now that's a

nice gateleg table in the corner there. Though of course you'd have to put

new hinges on it if you wanted to use the flaps.'

There was a small bookcase in the other corner, and Winston had

already gravitated towards it. It contained nothing but rubbish. The

hunting-down and destruction of books had been done with the same

thoroughness in the prole quarters as everywhere else. It was very unlikely

that there existed anywhere in Oceania a copy of a book printed earlier

than 1960. The old man, still carrying the lamp, was standing in front of a

picture in a rosewood frame which hung on the other side of the fireplace,

opposite the bed.

'Now, if you happen to be interested in old prints at all--' he began

delicately.

Winston came across to examine the picture. It was a steel engraving

of an oval building with rectangular windows, and a small tower in front.

There was a railing running round the building, and at the rear end there

was what appeared to be a statue. Winston gazed at it for some moments. It

seemed vaguely familiar, though he did not remember the statue.

'The frame's fixed to the wall,' said the old man, 'but I could

unscrew it for you, I dare say.'

'I know that building,' said Winston finally. 'It's a ruin now. It's

in the middle of the street outside the Palace of Justice.'

'That's right. Outside the Law Courts. It was bombed in - oh, many

years ago. It was a church at one time, St. Clement's Danes, its name was.'

He smiled apologetically, as though conscious of saying something slightly

ridiculous, and added: '"Oranges and lemons," say the bells of St.

Clement's!'

'What's that?' said Winston.

'Oh - "'Oranges and lemons,' say the bells of St. Clement's." That

was a rhyme we had when I was a little boy. How it goes on I don't

remember, but I do know it ended up, "Here comes a candle to light you to

bed, Here comes a chopper to chop off your head." It was a kind of a dance.

They held out their arms for you to pass under, and when they came to "Here

comes a chopper to chop off your head" they brought their arms down and

caught you. It was just names of churches. All the London churches were in

it - all the principal ones, that is.'

Winston wondered vaguely to what century the church belonged. It was

always difficult to determine the age of a London building. Anything large

and impressive, if it was reasonably new in appearance, was automatically

claimed as having been built since the Revolution, while anything that was

obviously of earlier date was ascribed to some dim period called the Middle

Ages. The centuries of capitalism were held to have produced nothing of any

value. One could not learn history from architecture any more than one

could learn it from books. Statues, inscriptions, memorial stones, the

names of streets - anything that might throw light upon the past had been

systematically altered.

'I never knew it had been a church,' he said.

'There's a lot of them left, really,' said the old man, 'though

they've been put to other uses. Now, how did that rhyme go? Ah! I've got

it!

'Oranges and lemons,' say the bells of St. Clement's,

'You owe me three farthings,' say the bells of St. Martin's--

there, now, that's as far as I can get. A farthing, that was a small copper

coin, looked something like a cent.'

'Where was St. Martin's?' said Winston.

'St. Martin's? That's still standing. It's in Victory Square,

alongside the picture gallery. A building with a kind of a triangular porch

and pillars in front, and a big flight of steps.'

Winston knew the place well. It was a museum used for propaganda

displays of various kinds - scale models of rocket bombs and Floating

Fortresses, waxwork tableaux illustrating enemy atrocities, and the like.

'St. Martin's-in-the-Fields it used to be called,' supplemented the

old man, 'though I don't recollect any fields anywhere in those parts.'

Winston did not buy the picture. It would have been an even more

incongruous possession than the glass paperweight, and impossible to carry

home, unless it were taken out of its frame. But he lingered for some

minutes more, talking to the old man, whose name, he discovered, was not

Weeks - as one might have gathered from the inscription over the shop-

front - but Charrington. Mr. Charrington, it seemed, was a widower aged

sixty-three and had inhabited this shop for thirty years. Throughout that

time he had been intending to alter the name over the window, but had never

quite got to the point of doing it. All the while that they were talking

the half-remembered rhyme kept running through Winston's head. Oranges and

lemons say the bells of St. Clement's, You owe me three farthings, say the

bells of St. Martin's! It was curious, but when you said it to yourself you

had the illusion of actually hearing bells, the bells of a lost London that

still existed somewhere or other, disguised and forgotten. From one ghostly

steeple after another he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so far as

he could remember he had never in real life heard church bells ringing.

He got away from Mr. Charrington and went down the stairs alone, so as

not to let the old man see him reconnoitring the street before stepping out

of the door. He had already made up his mind that after a suitable interval

- a month, say - he would take the risk of visiting the shop again. It

was perhaps not more dangerous than shirking an evening at the Centre. The

serious piece of folly had been to come back here in the first place, after

buying the diary and without knowing whether the proprietor of the shop

could be trusted. However--!

Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He would buy further scraps

of beautiful rubbish. He would buy the engraving of St. Clement's Danes,

take it out of its frame, and carry it home concealed under the jacket of

his overalls. He would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr. Charrington's

memory. Even the lunatic project of renting the room upstairs flashed

momentarily through his mind again. For perhaps five seconds exaltation

made him careless, and he stepped out on to the pavement without so much as

a preliminary glance through the window. He had even started humming to an

improvised tune--

'Oranges and lemons,' say the bells of St. Clement's,

'You owe me three farthings,' say the--

Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bowels to water. A

figure in blue overalls was coming down the pavement, not ten metres away.

It was the girl from the Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The

light was failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She

looked him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as though she had

not seen him.

For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. Then he turned to

the right and walked heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he was

going in the wrong direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There

was no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She must have

followed him here, because it was not credible that by pure chance she

should have happened to be walking on the same evening up the same obscure

backstreet, kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members lived.

It was too great a coincidence. Whether she was really an agent of the

Thought Police, or simply an amateur spy actuated by officiousness, hardly

mattered. It was enough that she was watching him. Probably she had seen

him go into the pub as well.

It was an effort to walk. The lump of glass in his pocket banged

against his thigh at each step, and he was half minded to take it out and

throw it away. The worst thing was the pain in his belly. For a couple of

minutes he had the feeling that he would die if he did not reach a lavatory

soon. But there would be no public lavatories in a quarter like this. Then

the spasm passed, leaving a dull ache behind.

The street was a blind alley. Winston halted, stood for several

seconds wondering vaguely what to do, then turned round and began to

retrace his steps. As he turned it occurred to him that the girl had only

passed him three minutes ago and that by running he could probably catch up

with her. He could keep on her track till they were in some quiet place,

and then smash her skull in with a cobblestone. The piece of glass in his

pocket would be heavy enough for the job. But he abandoned the idea

immediately, because even the thought of making any physical effort was

unbearable. He could not run, he could not strike a blow. Besides, she was

young and lusty and would defend herself. He thought also of hurrying to

the Community Centre and staying there till the place closed, so as to

establish a partial alibi for the evening. But that too was impossible. A

deadly lassitude had taken hold of him. All he wanted was to get home

quickly and then sit down and be quiet.

It was after twenty-two hours when he got back to the flat. The lights

would be switched off at the main at twenty-three thirty. He went into the

kitchen and swallowed nearly a teacupful of Victory Gin. Then he went to

the table in the alcove, sat down, and took the diary out of the drawer.

But he did not open it at once. From the telescreen a brassy female voice

was squalling a patriotic song. He sat staring at the marbled cover of the

book, trying without success to shut the voice out of his consciousness.

It was at night that they came for you, always at night. The proper

thing was to kill yourself before they got you. Undoubtedly some people did

so. Many of the disappearances were actually suicides. But it needed

desperate courage to kill yourself in a world where firearms, or any quick

and certain poison, were completely unprocurable. He thought with a kind of

astonishment of the biological uselessness of pain and fear, the treachery

of the human body which always freezes into inertia at exactly the moment

when a special effort is needed. He might have silenced the dark-haired

girl if only he had acted quickly enough: but precisely because of the

extremity of his danger he had lost the power to act. It struck him that in

moments of crisis one is never fighting against an external enemy, but

always against one's own body. Even now, in spite of the gin, the dull ache

in his belly made consecutive thought impossible. And it is the same, he

perceived, in all seemingly heroic or tragic situations. On the

battlefield, in the torture chamber, on a sinking ship, the issues that you

are fighting for are always forgotten, because the body swells up until it

fills the universe, and even when you are not paralysed by fright or

screaming with pain, life is a moment-to-moment struggle against hunger or

cold or sleeplessness, against a sour stomach or an aching tooth.

He opened the diary. It was important to write something down. The

woman on the telescreen had started a new song. Her voice seemed to stick

into his brain like jagged splinters of glass. He tried to think of

O'Brien, for whom, or to whom, the diary was written, but instead he began

thinking of the things that would happen to him after the Thought Police

took him away. It would not matter if they killed you at once. To be killed

was what you expected. But before death (nobody spoke of such things, yet

everybody knew of them) there was the routine of confession that had to be

gone through: the grovelling on the floor and screaming for mercy, the

crack of broken bones, the smashed teeth, and bloody clots of hair.

Why did you have to endure it, since the end was always the same? Why

was it not possible to cut a few days or weeks out of your life? Nobody

ever escaped detection, and nobody ever failed to confess. When once you

had succumbed to thoughtcrime it was certain that by a given date you would

be dead. Why then did that horror, which altered nothing, have to lie

embedded in future time?

He tried with a little more success than before to summon up the image

of O'Brien. 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,'

O'Brien had said to him. He knew what it meant, or thought he knew. The

place where there is no darkness was the imagined future, which one would

never see, but which, by foreknowledge, one could mystically share in. But

with the voice from the telescreen nagging at his ears he could not follow

the train of thought further. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Half the

tobacco promptly fell out on to his tongue, a bitter dust which was

difficult to spit out again. The face of Big Brother swam into his mind,

displacing that of O'Brien. Just as he had done a few days earlier, he slid

a coin out of his pocket and looked at it. The face gazed up at him, heavy,

calm, protecting: but what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark

moustache? Like a leaden knell the words came back at him:

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

  • * *

=PART II=

==I==

It was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left the cubicle to

go to the lavatory.

A solitary figure was coming towards him from the other end of the

long, brightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair. Four days had

gone past since the evening when he had run into her outside the junk-shop.

As she came nearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling, not noticeable

at a distance because it was of the same colour as her overalls. Probably

she had crushed her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes

on which the plots of novels were 'roughed in'. It was a common accident in

the Fiction Department.

They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and fell

almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was wrung out of her. She must

have fallen right on the injured arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had

risen to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which

her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his, with an

appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain.

A curious emotion stirred in Winston's heart. In front of him was an

enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of him, also, was a human

creature, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had

instinctively started forward to help her. In the moment when he had seen

her fall on the bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his

own body.

'You're hurt?' he said.

'It's nothing. My arm. It'll be all right in a second.'

She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly

turned very pale.

'You haven't broken anything?'

'No, I'm all right. It hurt for a moment, that's all.'

She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had

regained some of her colour, and appeared very much better.

'It's nothing,' she repeated shortly. 'I only gave my wrist a bit of a

bang. Thanks, comrade!'

And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been

going, as briskly as though it had really been nothing. The whole incident

could not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one's feelings

appear in one's face was a habit that had acquired the status of an

instinct, and in any case they had been standing straight in front of a

telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult

not to betray a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while

he was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There

was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was something small

and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his

pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper

folded into a square.

While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little more fingering,

to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some kind written

on it. For a moment he was tempted to take it into one of the water-closets

and read it at once. But that would be shocking folly, as he well knew.

There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens

were watched continuously.

He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper

casually among the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles and

hitched the speakwrite towards him. 'five minutes,' he told himself, 'five

minutes at the very least!' His heart bumped in his breast with frightening

loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on was mere routine,

the rectification of a long list of figures, not needing close attention.

Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political

meaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One, much the

more likely, was that the girl was an agent of the Thought Police, just as

he had feared. He did not know why the Thought Police should choose to

deliver their messages in such a fashion, but perhaps they had their

reasons. The thing that was written on the paper might be a threat, a

summons, an order to commit suicide, a trap of some description. But there

was another, wilder possibility that kept raising its head, though he tried

vainly to suppress it. This was, that the message did not come from the

Thought Police at all, but from some kind of underground organization.

Perhaps the Brotherhood existed after all! Perhaps the girl was part of it!

No doubt the idea was absurd, but it had sprung into his mind in the very

instant of feeling the scrap of paper in his hand. It was not till a couple

of minutes later that the other, more probable explanation had occurred to

him. And even now, though his intellect told him that the message probably

meant death - still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable

hope persisted, and his heart banged, and it was with difficulty that he

kept his voice from trembling as he murmured his figures into the

speakwrite.

He rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it into the

pneumatic tube. Eight minutes had gone by. He re-adjusted his spectacles on

his nose, sighed, and drew the next batch of work towards him, with the

scrap of paper on top of it. He flattened it out. On it was written, in a

large unformed handwriting:

I love you.

For several seconds he was too stunned even to throw the incriminating

thing into the memory hole. When he did so, although he knew very well the

danger of showing too much interest, he could not resist reading it once

again, just to make sure that the words were really there.

For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. What was

even worse than having to focus his mind on a series of niggling jobs was

the need to conceal his agitation from the telescreen. He felt as though a

fire were burning in his belly. Lunch in the hot, crowded, noise-filled

canteen was torment. He had hoped to be alone for a little while during the

lunch hour, but as bad luck would have it the imbecile Parsons flopped down

beside him, the tang of his sweat almost defeating the tinny smell of stew,

and kept up a stream of talk about the preparations for Hate Week. He was

particularly enthusiastic about a papier-mache model of Big Brother's head,

two metres wide, which was being made for the occasion by his daughter's

troop of Spies. The irritating thing was that in the racket of voices

Winston could hardly hear what Parsons was saying, and was constantly

having to ask for some fatuous remark to be repeated. Just once he caught a

glimpse of the girl, at a table with two other girls at the far end of the

room. She appeared not to have seen him, and he did not look in that

direction again.

The afternoon was more bearable. Immediately after lunch there arrived

a delicate, difficult piece of work which would take several hours and

necessitated putting everything else aside. It consisted in falsifying a

series of production reports of two years ago, in such a way as to cast

discredit on a prominent member of the Inner Party, who was now under a

cloud. This was the kind of thing that Winston was good at, and for more

than two hours he succeeded in shutting the girl out of his mind

altogether. Then the memory of her face came back, and with it a raging,

intolerable desire to be alone. Until he could be alone it was impossible

to think this new development out. Tonight was one of his nights at the

Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal in the canteen, hurried

off to the Centre, took part in the solemn foolery of a 'discussion group',

played two games of table tennis, swallowed several glasses of gin, and sat

for half an hour through a lecture entitled 'Ingsoc in relation to chess'.

His soul writhed with boredom, but for once he had had no impulse to shirk

his evening at the Centre. At the sight of the words I love you the desire

to stay alive had welled up in him, and the taking of minor risks suddenly

seemed stupid. It was not till twenty-three hours, when he was home and in

bed - in the darkness, where you were safe even from the telescreen so

long as you kept silent - that he was able to think continuously.

It was a physical problem that had to be solved: how to get in touch

with the girl and arrange a meeting. He did not consider any longer the

possibility that she might be laying some kind of trap for him. He knew

that it was not so, because of her unmistakable agitation when she handed

him the note. Obviously she had been frightened out of her wits, as well

she might be. Nor did the idea of refusing her advances even cross his

mind. Only five nights ago he had contemplated smashing her skull in with a

cobblestone, but that was of no importance. He thought of her naked,

youthful body, as he had seen it in his dream. He had imagined her a fool

like all the rest of them, her head stuffed with lies and hatred, her belly

full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at the thought that he might lose

her, the white youthful body might slip away from him! What he feared more

than anything else was that she would simply change her mind if he did not

get in touch with her quickly. But the physical difficulty of meeting was

enormous. It was like trying to make a move at chess when you were already

mated. Whichever way you turned, the telescreen faced you. Actually, all

the possible ways of communicating with her had occurred to him within five

minutes of reading the note; but now, with time to think, he went over them

one by one, as though laying out a row of instruments on a table.

Obviously the kind of encounter that had happened this morning could

not be repeated. If she had worked in the Records Department it might have

been comparatively simple, but he had only a very dim idea whereabouts in

the building the Fiction Departrnent lay, and he had no pretext for going

there. If he had known where she lived, and at what time she left work, he

could have contrived to meet her somewhere on her way home; but to try to

follow her home was not safe, because it would mean loitering about outside

the Ministry, which was bound to be noticed. As for sending a letter

through the mails, it was out of the question. By a routine that was not

even secret, all letters were opened in transit. Actually, few people ever

wrote letters. For the messages that it was occasionally necessary to send,

there were printed postcards with long lists of phrases, and you struck out

the ones that were inapplicable. In any case he did not know the girl's

name, let alone her address. Finally he decided that the safest place was

the canteen. If he could get her at a table by herself, somewhere in the

middle of the room, not too near the telescreens, and with a sufficient

buzz of conversation all round - if these conditions endured for, say,

thirty seconds, it might be possible to exchange a few words.

For a week after this, life was like a restless dream. On the next day

she did not appear in the canteen until he was leaving it, the whistle

having already blown. Presumably she had been changed on to a later shift.

They passed each other without a glance. On the day after that she was in

the canteen at the usual time, but with three other girls and immediately

under a telescreen. Then for three dreadful days she did not appear at all.

His whole mind and body seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable

sensitivity, a sort of transparency, which made every movement, every

sound, every contact, every word that he had to speak or listen to, an

agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from her image. He did

not touch the diary during those days. If there was any relief, it was in

his work, in which he could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at a

stretch. He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her. There

was no enquiry he could make. She might have been vaporized, she might have

committed suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end of

Oceania: worst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind

and decided to avoid him.

The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and she had

a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief of seeing her was so

great that he could not resist staring directly at her for several seconds.

On the following day he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he

came into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the wall,

and was quite alone. It was early, and the place was not very full. The

queue edged forward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was held

up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that he had not

received his tablet of saccharine. But the girl was still alone when

Winston secured his tray and began to make for her table. He walked

casually towards her, his eyes searching for a place at some table beyond

her. She was perhaps three metres away from him. Another two seconds would

do it. Then a voice behind him called, 'Smith!' He pretended not to hear.

'Smith!' repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no use. He turned round. A

blond-headed, silly-faced young man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, was

inviting him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was not safe

to refuse. After having been recognized, he could not go and sit at a table

with an unattended girl. It was too noticeable. He sat down with a friendly

smile. The silly blond face beamed into his. Winston had a hallucination of

himself smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it. The girl's table

filled up a few minutes later.

But she must have seen him coming towards her, and perhaps she would

take the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early. Surely enough, she

was at a table in about the same place, and again alone. The person

immediately ahead of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-

like man with a flat face and tiny, suspicious eyes. As Winston turned away

from the counter with his tray, he saw that the little man was making

straight for the girl's table. His hopes sank again. There was a vacant

place at a table further away, but something in the little man's appearance

suggested that he would be sufficiently attentive to his own comfort to

choose the emptiest table. With ice at his heart Winston followed. It was

no use unless he could get the girl alone. At this moment there was a

tremendous crash. The little man was sprawling on all fours, his tray had

gone flying, two streams of soup and coffee were flowing across the floor.

He started to his feet with a malignant glance at Winston, whom he

evidently suspected of having tripped him up. But it was all right. Five

seconds later, with a thundering heart, Winston was sitting at the girl's

table.

He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began

eating. It was all-important to speak at once, before anyone else came, but

now a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since

she had first approached him. She would have changed her mind, she must

have changed her mind! It was impossible that this affair should end

successfully; such things did not happen in real life. He might have

flinched altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen

Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering limply round the room with a

tray, looking for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth was

attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his table if he caught

sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act. Both Winston and

the girl were eating steadily. The stuff they were eating was a thin stew,

actually a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began speaking.

Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned the watery stuff into

their mouths, and between spoonfuls exchanged the few necessary words in

low expressionless voices.

'What time do you leave work?'

'Eighteen-thirty.'

'Where can we meet?'

'Victory Square, near the monument.'

'It's full of telescreens.'

'It doesn't matter if there's a crowd.'

'Any signal?'

'No. Don't come up to me until you see me among a lot of people. And

don't look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.'

'What time?'

'Nineteen hours.'

'All right.'

Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table. They

did not speak again, and, so far as it was possible for two people sitting

on opposite sides of the same table, they did not look at one another. The

girl finished her lunch quickly and made off, while Winston stayed to smoke

a cigarette.

Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed time. He wandered

round the base of the enormous fluted column, at the top of which Big

Brother's statue gazed southward towards the skies where he had vanquished

the Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been, a few years

ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One. In the street in front of it there was

a statue of a man on horseback which was supposed to represent Oliver

Cromwell. At five minutes past the hour the girl had still not appeared.

Again the terrible fear seized upon Winston. She was not coming, she had

changed her mind! He walked slowly up to the north side of the square and

got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure from identifying St. Martin's Church,

whose bells, when it had bells, had chimed 'You owe me three farthings.'

Then he saw the girl standing at the base of the monument, reading or

pretending to read a poster which ran spirally up the column. It was not

safe to go near her until some more people had accumulated. There were

telescreens all round the pediment. But at this moment there was a din of

shouting and a zoom of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left. Suddenly

everyone seemed to be running across the square. The girl nipped nimbly

round the lions at the base of the monument and joined in the rush. Winston

followed. As he ran, he gathered from some shouted remarks that a convoy of

Eurasian prisoners was passing.

Already a dense mass of people was blocking the south side of the

square. Winston, at normal times the kind of person who gravitates to the

outer edge of any kind of scrimmage, shoved, butted, squirmed his way

forward into the heart of the crowd. Soon he was within arm's length of the

girl, but the way was blocked by an enormous prole and an almost equally

enormous woman, presumably his wife, who seemed to form an impenetrable

wall of flesh. Winston wriggled himself sideways, and with a violent lunge

managed to drive his shoulder between them. For a moment it felt as though

his entrails were being ground to pulp between the two muscular hips, then

he had broken through, sweating a little. He was next to the girl. They

were shoulder to shoulder, both staring fixedly in front of them.

A long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed with sub-machine

guns standing upright in each corner, was passing slowly down the street.

In the trucks little yellow men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting,

jammed close together. Their sad, Mongolian faces gazed out over the sides

of the trucks utterly incurious. Occasionally when a truck jolted there was

a clank-clank of metal: all the prisoners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-

load after truck-load of the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there

but he saw them only intermittently. The girl's shoulder, and her arm right

down to the elbow, were pressed against his. Her cheek was almost near

enough for him to feel its warmth. She had immediately taken charge of the

situation, just as she had done in the canteen. She began speaking in the

same expressionless voice as before, with lips barely moving, a mere murmur

easily drowned by the din of voices and the rumbling of the trucks.

'Can you hear me?'

'Yes.'

'Can you get Sunday afternoon off?'

'Yes.'

'Then listen carefully. You'll have to remember this. Go to Paddington

Station--'

With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she outlined

the route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway journey; turn left

outside the station; two kilometres along the road: a gate with the top bar

missing; a path across a field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes;

a dead tree with moss on it. It was as though she had a map inside her

head. 'Can you remember all that?' she murmured finally.

'Yes.'

'You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate's got no top

bar.'

'Yes. What time?'

'About fifteen. You may have to wait. I'll get there by another way.

Are you sure you remember everything?'

'Yes.'

'Then get away from me as quick as you can.'

She need not have told him that. But for the moment they could not

extricate themselves from the crowd. The trucks were still filing post, the

people still insatiably gaping. At the start there had been a few boos and

hisses, but it came only from the Party members among the crowd, and had

soon stopped. The prevailing emotion was simply curiosity. Foreigners,

whether from Eurasia or from Eastasia, were a kind of strange animal. One

literally never saw them except in the guise of prisoners, and even as

prisoners one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them. Nor did one

know what became of them, apart from the few who were hanged as war-

criminals: the others simply vanished, presumably into forced-labour camps.

The round Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more European type,

dirty, bearded and exhausted. From over scrubby cheekbones eyes looked into

Winston's, sometimes with strange intensity, and flashed away again. The

convoy was drawing to an end. In the last truck he could see an aged man,

his face a mass of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists crossed in

front of him, as though he were used to having them bound together. It was

almost time for Winston and the girl to part. But at the last moment, while

the crowd still hemmed them in, her hand felt for his and gave it a

fleeting squeeze.

It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a long time that

their hands were clasped together. He had time to learn every detail of her

hand. He explored the long fingers, the shapely nails, the work-hardened

palm with its row of callouses, the smooth flesh under the wrist. Merely

from feeling it he would have known it by sight. In the same instant it

occurred to him that he did not know what colour the girl's eyes were. They

were probably brown, but people with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To

turn his head and look at her would have been inconceivable folly. With

hands locked together, invisible among the press of bodies, they stared

steadily in front of them, and instead of the eyes of the girl, the eyes of

the aged prisoner gazed mournfully at Winston out of nests of hair.

==II==

Winston picked his way up the lane through dappled light and shade,

stepping out into pools of gold wherever the boughs parted. Under the trees

to the left of him the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to

kiss one's skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deeper in the

heart of the wood came the droning of ring doves.

He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about the journey,

and the girl was so evidently experienced that he was less frightened than

he would normally have been. Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe

place. In general you could not assume that you were much safer in the

country than in London. There were no telescreens, of course, but there was

always the danger of concealed microphones by which your voice might be

picked up and recognized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey by

yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less than 100

kilometres it was not necessary to get your passport endorsed, but

sometimes there were patrols hanging about the railway stations, who

examined the papers of any Party member they found there and asked awkward

questions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk from the

station he had made sure by cautious backward glances that he was not being

followed. The train was full of proles, in holiday mood because of the

summery weather. The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was

filled to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from a toothless

great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going out to spend an afternoon with

'in-laws' in the country, and, as they freely explained to Winston, to get

hold of a little blackmarket butter.

The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the footpath she had told

him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged between the bushes. He had no

watch, but it could not be fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick

underfoot that it was impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and

began picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from a vague idea

that he would like to have a bunch of flowers to offer to the girl when

they met. He had got together a big bunch and was smelling their faint

sickly scent when a sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle

of a foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best thing to

do. It might be the girl, or he might have been followed after all. To look

round was to show guilt. He picked another and another. A hand fell lightly

on his shoulder.

He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evidently as a

warning that he must keep silent, then parted the bushes and quickly led

the way along the narrow track into the wood. Obviously she had been that

way before, for she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston

followed, still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling was

relief, but as he watched the strong slender body moving in front of him,

with the scarlet sash that was just tight enough to bring out the curve of

her hips, the sense of his own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it

seemed quite likely that when she turned round and looked at him she would

draw back after all. The sweetness of the air and the greenness of the

leaves daunted him. Already on the walk from the station the May sunshine

had made him feel dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors, with the

sooty dust of London in the pores of his skin. It occurred to him that till

now she had probably never seen him in broad daylight in the open. They

came to the fallen tree that she had spoken of. The girl hopped over and

forced apart the bushes, in which there did not seem to be an opening. When

Winston followed her, he found that they were in a natural clearing, a tiny

grassy knoll surrounded by tall saplings that shut it in completely. The

girl stopped and turned.

'Here we are,' she said.

He was facing her at several paces" distance. As yet he did not dare

move nearer to her.

'I didn't want to say anything in the lane,' she went on, 'in case

there's a mike hidden there. I don't suppose there is, but there could be.

There's always the chance of one of those swine recognizing your voice.

We're all right here.'

He still had not the courage to approach her. 'We're all right here?'

he repeated stupidly.

'Yes. Look at the trees.' They were small ashes, which at some time

had been cut down and had sprouted up again into a forest of poles, none of

them thicker than one's wrist. 'There's nothing big enough to hide a mike

in. Besides, I've been here before.'

They were only making conversation. He had managed to move closer to

her now. She stood before him very upright, with a smile on her face that

looked faintly ironical, as though she were wondering why he was so slow to

act. The bluebells had cascaded on to the ground. They seemed to have

fallen of their own accord. He took her hand.

'Would you believe,' he said, 'that till this moment I didn't know

what colour your eyes were?' They were brown, he noted, a rather light

shade of brown, with dark lashes. 'Now that you've seen what I'm really

like, can you still bear to look at me?'

'Yes, easily.'

'I'm thirty-nine years old. I've got a wife that I can't get rid of.

I've got varicose veins. I've got five false teeth.'

'I couldn't care less,' said the girl.

The next moment, it was hard to say by whose act, she was in his his

arms. At the beginning he had no feeling except sheer incredulity. The

youthful body was strained against his own, the mass of dark hair was

against his face, and yes! actually she had turned her face up and he was

kissing the wide red mouth. She had clasped her arms about his neck, she

was calling him darling, precious one, loved one. He had pulled her down on

to the ground, she was utterly unresisting, he could do what he liked with

her. But the truth was that he had no physical sensation, except that of

mere contact. All he felt was incredulity and pride. He was glad that this

was happening, but he had no physical desire. It was too soon, her youth

and prettiness had frightened him, he was too much used to living without

women - he did not know the reason. The girl picked herself up and pulled

a bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him, putting her arm round his

waist.

'Never mind, dear. There's no hurry. We've got the whole afternoon.

Isn't this a splendid hide-out? I found it when I got lost once on a

community hike. If anyone was coming you could hear them a hundred metres

away.'

'What is your name?' said Winston.

'Julia. I know yours. It's Winston - Winston Smith.'

'How did you find that out?'

'I expect I'm better at finding things out than you are, dear. Tell

me, what did you think of me before that day I gave you the note?'

He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was even a sort

of love-offering to start off by telling the worst.

'I hated the sight of you,' he said. 'I wanted to rape you and then

murder you afterwards. Two weeks ago I thought seriously of smashing your

head in with a cobblestone. If you really want to know, I imagined that you

had something to do with the Thought Police.'

The girl laughed delightedly, evidently taking this as a tribute to

the excellence of her disguise.

'Not the Thought Police! You didn't honestly think that?'

'Well, perhaps not exactly that. But from your general appearance -

merely because you're young and fresh and healthy, you understand - I

thought that probably--'

'You thought I was a good Party member. Pure in word and deed.

Banners, processions, slogans, games, community hikes all that stuff. And

you thought that if I had a quarter of a chance I'd denounce you as a

thought-criminal and get you killed off?'

'Yes, something of that kind. A great many young girls are like that,

you know.'

'It's this bloody thing that does it,' she said, ripping off the

scarlet sash of the Junior Anti-Sex League and flinging it on to a bough.

Then, as though touching her waist had reminded her of something, she felt

in the pocket of her overalls and produced a small slab of chocolate. She

broke it in half and gave one of the pieces to Winston. Even before he had

taken it he knew by the smell that it was very unusual chocolate. It was

dark and shiny, and was wrapped in silver paper. Chocolate normally was

dull-brown crumbly stuff that tasted, as nearly as one could describe it,

like the smoke of a rubbish fire. But at some time or another he had tasted

chocolate like the piece she had given him. The first whiff of its scent

had stirred up some memory which he could not pin down, but which was

powerful and troubling.

'Where did you get this stuff?' he said.

'Black market,' she said indifferently. 'Actually I am that sort of

girl, to look at. I'm good at games. I was a troop-leader in the Spies. I

do voluntary work three evenings a week for the Junior Anti-Sex League.

Hours and hours I've spent pasting their bloody rot all over London. I

always carry one end of a banner in the processions. I always Iook cheerful

and I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd, that's what I say.

It's the only way to be safe.'

The first fragment of chocolate had melted on Winston's tongue. The

taste was delightful. But there was still that memory moving round the

edges of his consciousness, something strongly felt but not reducible to

definite shape, like an object seen out of the corner of one's eye. He

pushed it away from him, aware only that it was the memory of some action

which he would have liked to undo but could not.

'You are very young,' he said. 'You are ten or fifteen years younger

than I am. What could you see to attract you in a man like me?'

'It was something in your face. I thought I'd take a chance. I'm good

at spotting people who don't belong. As soon as I saw you I knew you were

against them.'

Them, it appeared, meant the Party, and above all the Inner Party,

about whom she talked with an open jeering hatred which made Winston feel

uneasy, although he knew that they were safe here if they could be safe

anywhere. A thing that astonished him about her was the coarseness of her

language. Party members were supposed not to swear, and Winston himself

very seldom did swear, aloud, at any rate. Julia, however, seemed unable to

mention the Party, and especially the Inner Party, without using the kind

of words that you saw chalked up in dripping alley-ways. He did not dislike

it. It was merely one symptom of her revolt against the Party and all its

ways, and somehow it seemed natural and healthy, like the sneeze of a horse

that smells bad hay. They had left the clearing and were wandering again

through the chequered shade, with their arms round each other's waists

whenever it was wide enough to walk two abreast. He noticed how much softer

her waist seemed to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not speak

above a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was better to go

quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the little wood. She

stopped him.

'Don't go out into the open. There might be someone watching. We're

all right if we keep behind the boughs.'

They were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The sunlight,

filtering through innumerable leaves, was still hot on their faces. Winston

looked out into the field beyond, and underwent a curious, slow shock of

recognition. He knew it by sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a

footpath wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged

hedge on the opposite side the boughs of the elm trees swayed just

perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves stirred faintly in dense masses

like women's hair. Surely somewhere nearby, but out of sight, there must be

a stream with green pools where dace were swimming?

'Isn't there a stream somewhere near here?' he whispered.

'That's right, there is a stream. It's at the edge of the next field,

actually. There are fish in it, great big ones. You can watch them lying in

the pools under the willow trees, waving their tails.'

'It's the Golden Country - almost,' he murmured.

'The Golden Country?'

'It's nothing, really. A landscape I've seen sometimes in a dream.'

'Look!' whispered Julia.

A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away, almost at the

level of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen them. It was in the sun, they

in the shade. It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place

again, ducked its head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance

to the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In the

afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Winston and Julia clung

together, fascinated. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with

astonishing variations, never once repeating itself, almost as though the

bird were deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped for

a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then swelled its

speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston watched it with a sort

of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, no

rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and

pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether after all there was a

microphone hidden somewhere near. He and Julia had spoken only in low

whispers, and it would not pick up what they had said, but it would pick up

the thrush. Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, beetle-

like man was listening intently - listening to that. But by degrees the

flood of music drove all speculations out of his mind. It was as though it

were a kind of liquid stuff that poured all over him and got mixed up with

the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and

merely felt. The girl's waist in the bend of his arm was soft and warm. He

pulled her round so that they were breast to breast; her body seemed to

melt into his. Wherever his hands moved it was all as yielding as water.

Their mouths clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses

they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces apart again both of

them sighed deeply. The bird took fright and fled with a clatter of wings.

Winston put his lips against her ear. 'Now,' he whispered.

'Not here,' she whispered back. 'Come back to the hideout. It's

safer.'

Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they threaded their way

back to the clearing. When they were once inside the ring of saplings she

turned and faced him. They were both breathing fast. but the smile had

reappeared round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him for an

instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And, yes! it was almost

as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he had imagined it, she had torn her

clothes off, and when she flung them aside it was with that same

magnificent gesture by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated.

Her body gleamed white in the sun. But for a moment he did not look at her

body; his eyes were anchored by the freckled face with its faint, bold

smile. He knelt down before her and took her hands in his.

'Have you done this before?'

'Of course. Hundreds of times - well, scores of times anyway.'

'With Party members?'

'Yes, always with Party members.'

'With members of the Inner Party?'

'Not with those swine, no. But there's plenty that would if they got

half a chance. They're not so holy as they make out.'

His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: he wished it had

been hundreds - thousands. Anything that hinted at corruption always

filled him with a wild hope. Who knew, perhaps the Party was rotten under

the surface, its cult of strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham

concealing iniquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with

leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Anything to rot, to

weaken, to undermine! He pulled her down so that they were kneeling face to

face.

'Listen. The more men you've had, the more I love you. Do you

understand that?'

'Yes, perfectly.'

'I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want any virtue to exist

anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.'

'Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to the bones.'

'You like doing this? I don't mean simply me: I mean the thing in

itself?'

'I adore it.'

That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the love of one

person but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that

was the force that would tear the Party to pieces. He pressed her down upon

the grass, among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no difficulty.

Presently the rising and falling of their breasts slowed to normal speed,

and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they fell apart. The sun seemed to

have grown hotter. They were both sleepy. He reached out for the discarded

overalls and pulled them partly over her. Almost immediately they fell

asleep and slept for about half an hour.

Winston woke first. He sat up and watched the freckled face, still

peacefully asleep, pillowed on the palm of her hand. Except for her mouth,

you could not call her beautiful. There was a line or two round the eyes,

if you looked closely. The short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and

soft. It occurred to him that he still did not know her surname or where

she lived.

The young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in him a pitying,

protecting feeling. But the mindless tenderness that he had felt under the

hazel tree, while the thrush was singing, had not quite come back. He

pulled the overalls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the old

days, he thought, a man looked at a girl's body and saw that it was

desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you could not have pure

love or pure lust nowadays. No emotion was pure, because everything was

mixed up with fear and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax

a victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act.

==III==

'We can come here once again,' said Julia. 'It's generally safe to use

any hide-out twice. But not for another month or two, of course.'

As soon as she woke up her demeanour had changed. She became alert and

business-like, put her clothes on, knotted the scarlet sash about her

waist, and began arranging the details of the journey home. It seemed

natural to leave this to her. She obviously had a practical cunning which

Winston lacked, and she seemed also to have an exhaustive knowledge of the

countryside round London, stored away from innumerable community hikes. The

route she gave him was quite different from the one by which he had come,

and brought him out at a different railway station. 'Never go home the same

way as you went out,' she said, as though enunciating an important general

principle. She would leave first, and Winston was to wait half an hour

before following her.

She had named a place where they could meet after work, four evenings

hence. It was a street in one of the poorer quarters, where there was an

open market which was generally crowded and noisy. She would be hanging

about among the stalls, pretending to be in search of shoelaces or sewing-

thread. If she judged that the coast was clear she would blow her nose when

he approached; otherwise he was to walk past her without recognition. But

with luck, in the middle of the crowd, it would be safe to talk for a

quarter of an hour and arrange another meeting.

'And now I must go,' she said as soon as he had mastered his

instructions. 'I'm due back at nineteen-thirty. I've got to put in two

hours for the Junior Anti-Sex League, handing out leaflets, or something.

Isn't it bloody? Give me a brush-down, would you? Have I got any twigs in

my hair? Are you sure? Then good-bye, my love, good-bye!'

She flung herself into his arms, kissed him almost violently, and a

moment later pushed her way through the saplings and disappeared into the

wood with very little noise. Even now he had not found out her surname or

her address. However, it made no difference, for it was inconceivable that

they could ever meet indoors or exchange any kind of written communication.

As it happened, they never went back to the clearing in the wood.

During the month of May there was only one further occasion on which they

actually succeeded in making love. That was in another hidlng-place known

to Julia, the belfry of a ruinous church in an almost-deserted stretch of

country where an atomic bomb had fallen thirty years earlier. It was a good

hiding-place when once you got there, but the getting there was very

dangerous. For the rest they could meet only in the streets, in a different

place every evening and never for more than half an hour at a time. In the

street it was usually possible to talk, after a fashion. As they drifted

down the crowded pavements, not quite abreast and never looking at one

another, they carried on a curious, intermittent conversation which flicked

on and off like the beams of a lighthouse, suddenly nipped into silence by

the approach of a Party uniform or the proximity of a telescreen, then

taken up again minutes later in the middle of a sentence, then abruptly cut

short as they parted at the agreed spot, then continued almost without

introduction on the following day. Julia appeared to be quite used to this

kind of conversation, which she called 'talking by instalments'. She was

also surprisingly adept at speaking without moving her lips. Just once in

almost a month of nightly meetings they managed to exchange a kiss. They

were passing in silence down a side-street (Julia would never speak when

they were away from the main streets) when there was a deafening roar, the

earth heaved, and the air darkened, and Winston found himself lying on his

side, bruised and terrified. A rocket bomb must have dropped quite near at

hand. Suddenly he became aware of Julia's face a few centimetres from his

own, deathly white, as white as chalk. Even her lips were white. She was

dead! He clasped her against him and found that he was kissing a live warm

face. But there was some powdery stuff that got in the way of his lips.

Both of their faces were thickly coated with plaster.

There were evenings when they reached their rendezvous and then had to

walk past one another without a sign, because a patrol had just come round

the corner or a helicopter was hovering overhead. Even if it had been less

dangerous, it would still have been difficult to find time to meet.

Winston's working week was sixty hours, Julia's was even longer, and their

free days varied according to the pressure of work and did not often

coincide. Julia, in any case, seldom had an evening completely free. She

spent an astonishing amount of time in attending lectures and

demonstrations, distributing literature for the junior Anti-Sex League,

preparing banners for Hate Week, making collections for the savings

campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said, it was camouflage.

If you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones. She even induced

Winston to mortgage yet another of his evenings by enrolling himself for

the part-time munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Party

members. So, one evening every week, Winston spent four hours of paralysing

boredom, screwing together small bits of metal which were probably parts of

bomb fuses, in a draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers

mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens.

When they met in the church tower the gaps in their fragmentary

conversation were filled up. It was a blazing afternoon. The air in the

little square chamber above the bells was hot and stagnant, and smelt

overpoweringly of pigeon dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty,

twig-littered floor, one or other of them getting up from time to time to

cast a glance through the arrowslits and make sure that no one was coming.

Julia was twenty-six years old. She lived in a hostel with thirty

other girls ('Always in the stink of women! How I hate women!' she said

parenthetically), and she worked, as he had guessed, on the novel-writing

machines in the Fiction Department. She enjoyed her work, which consisted

chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky electric motor. She

was 'not clever', but was fond of using her hands and felt at home with

machinery. She could describe the whole process of composing a novel, from

the general directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the final

touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not interested in the

finished product. She 'didn't much care for reading,' she said. Books were

just a commodity that had to be produced, like jam or bootlaces.

She had no memories of anything before the early 'sixties and the only

person she had ever known who talked frequently of the days before the

Revolution was a grandfather who had disappeared when she was eight. At

school she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the gymnastics

trophy two years running. She had been a troop-leader in the Spies and a

branch secretary in the Youth League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex

League. She had always borne an excellent character. She had even (an

infallible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in Pornosec,

the sub-section of the Fiction Department which turned out cheap

pornography for distribution among the proles. It was nicknamed Muck House

by the people who worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for a

year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with titles like

Spanking Stories or One Night in a Girls" School, to be bought furtively by

proletarian youths who were under the impression that they were buying

something illegal.

'What are these books like?' said Winston curiously.

'Oh, ghastly rubbish. They're boring, really. They only have six

plots, but they swap them round a bit. Of course I was only on the

kaleidoscopes. I was never in the Rewrite Squad. I'm not literary, dear -

not even enough for that.'

He learned with astonishment that all the workers in Pornosec, except

the heads of the departments, were girls. The theory was that men, whose

sex instincts were less controllable than those of women, were in greater

danger of being corrupted by the filth they handled.

'They don't even like having married women there,' she added. Girls

are always supposed to be so pure. Here's one who isn't, anyway.

She had had her first love-affair when she was sixteen, with a Party

member of sixty who later committed suicide to avoid arrest. 'And a good

job too,' said Julia, 'otherwise they'd have had my name out of him when he

confessed.' Since then there had been various others. Life as she saw it

was quite simple. You wanted a good time; 'they', meaning the Party, wanted

to stop you having it; you broke the rules as best you could. She seemed to

think it just as natural that 'they' should want to rob you of your

pleasures as that you should want to avoid being caught. She hated the

Party, and said so in the crudest words, but she made no general criticism

of it. Except where it touched upon her own life she had no interest in

Party doctrine. He noticed that she never used Newspeak words except the

ones that had passed into everyday use. She had never heard of the

Brotherhood, and refused to believe in its existence. Any kind of organized

revolt against the Party, which was bound to be a failure, struck her as

stupid. The clever thing was to break the rules and stay alive all the

same. He wondered vaguely how many others like her there might be in the

younger generation people who had grown up in the world of the Revolution,

knowing nothing else, accepting the Party as something unalterable, like

the sky, not rebelling against its authority but simply evading it, as a

rabbit dodges a dog.

They did not discuss the possibility of getting married. It was too

remote to be worth thinking about. No imaginable committee would ever

sanction such a marriage even if Katharine, Winston's wife, could somehow

have been got rid of. It was hopeless even as a daydream.

'What was she like, your wife?' said Julia.

'She was - do you know the Newspeak word goodthinkful? Meaning

naturally orthodox, incapable of thinking a bad thought?'

'No, I didn't know the word, but I know the kind of person, right

enough.'

He began telling her the story of his married life, but curiously

enough she appeared to know the essential parts of it already. She

described to him, almost as though she had seen or felt it, the stiffening

of Katharine's body as soon as he touched her, the way in which she still

seemed to be pushing him from her with all her strength, even when her arms

were clasped tightly round him. With Julia he felt no difficulty in talking

about such things: Katharine, in any case, had long ceased to be a painful

memory and became merely a distasteful one.

'I could have stood it if it hadn't been for one thing,' he said. He

told her about the frigid little ceremony that Katharine had forced him to

go through on the same night every week. 'She hated it, but nothing would

make her stop doing it. She used to call it - but you'll never guess.'

'Our duty to the Party,' said Julia promptly.

'How did you know that?'

'I've been at school too, dear. Sex talks once a month for the over-

sixteens. And in the Youth Movement. They rub it into you for years. I dare

say it works in a lot of cases. But of course you can never tell; people

are such hypocrites.'

She began to enlarge upon the subject. With Julia, everything came

back to her own sexuality. As soon as this was touched upon in any way she

was capable of great acuteness. Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner

meaning of the Party's sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex

instinct created a world of its own which was outside the Party's control

and which therefore had to be destroyed if possible. What was more

important was that sexual privation induced hysteria, which was desirable

because it could be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship. The way

she put it was:

'When you make love you're using up energy; and afterwards you feel

happy and don't give a damn for anything. They can't bear you to feel like

that. They want you to be bursting with energy all the time. All this

marching up and down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour.

If you're happy inside yourself, why should you get excited about Big

Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two Minutes Hate and all the rest

of their bloody rot?'

That was very true, he thought. There was a direct intimate connexion

between chastity and political orthodoxy. For how could the fear, the

hatred, and the lunatic credulity which the Party needed in its members be

kept at the right pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and

using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to the Party,

and the Party had turned it to account. They had played a similar trick

with the instinct of parenthood. The family could not actually be

abolished, and, indeed, people were encouraged to be fond of their

children, in almost the old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand,

were systematically turned against their parents and taught to spy on them

and report their deviations. The family had become in effect an extension

of the Thought Police. It was a device by means of which everyone could be

surrounded night and day by informers who knew him intimately.

Abruptly his mind went back to Katharine. Katharine would

unquestionably have denounced him to the Thought Police if she had not

happened to be too stupid to detect the unorthodoxy of his opinions. But

what really recalled her to him at this moment was the stifling heat of the

afternoon, which had brought the sweat out on his forehead. He began

telling Julia of something that had happened, or rather had failed to

happen, on another sweltering summer afternoon, eleven years ago.

It was three or four months after they were married. They had lost

their way on a community hike somewhere in Kent. They had only lagged

behind the others for a couple of minutes, but they took a wrong turning,

and presently found themselves pulled up short by the edge of an old chalk

quarry. It was a sheer drop of ten or twenty metres, with boulders at the

bottom. There was nobody of whom they could ask the way. As soon as she

realized that they were lost Katharine became very uneasy. To be away from

the noisy mob of hikers even for a moment gave her a feeling of wrong-

doing. She wanted to hurry back by the way they had come and start

searching in the other direction. But at this moment Winston noticed some

tufts of loosestrife growing in the cracks of the cliff beneath them. One

tuft was of two colours, magenta and brick-red, apparently growing on the

same root. He had never seen anything of the kind before, and he called to

Katharine to come and look at it.

'Look, Katharine! Look at those flowers. That clump down near the

bottom. Do you see they're two different colours?'

She had already turned to go, but she did rather fretfully come back

for a moment. She even leaned out over the cliff face to see where he was

pointing. He was standing a little behind her, and he put his hand on her

waist to steady her. At this moment it suddenly occurred to him how

completely alone they were. There was not a human creature anywhere, not a

leaf stirring, not even a bird awake. In a place like this the danger that

there would be a hidden microphone was very small, and even if there was a

microphone it would only pick up sounds. It was the hottest sleepiest hour

of the afternoon. The sun blazed down upon them, the sweat tickled his

face. And the thought struck him...

'Why didn't you give her a good shove?' said Julia. 'I would have.'

'Yes, dear, you would have. I would, if I'd been the same person then

as I am now. Or perhaps I would - I'm not certain.'

'Are you sorry you didn't?'

'Yes. On the whole I'm sorry I didn't.'

They were sitting side by side on the dusty floor. He pulled her

closer against him. Her head rested on his shoulder, the pleasant smell of

her hair conquering the pigeon dung. She was very young, he thought, she

still expected something from life, she did not understand that to push an

inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing.

'Actually it would have made no difference,' he said.

'Then why are you sorry you didn't do it?'

'Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this game that

we're playing, we can't win. Some kinds of failure are better than other

kinds, that's all.'

He felt her shoulders give a wriggle of dissent. She always

contradicted him when he said anything of this kind. She would not accept

it as a law of nature that the individual is always defeated. In a way she

realized that she herself was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought

Police would catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind she

believed that it was somehow possible to construct a secret world in which

you could live as you chose. All you needed was luck and cunning and

boldness. She did not understand that there was no such thing as happiness,

that the only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead, that

from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was better to think of

yourself as a corpse.

'We are the dead,' he said.

'We're not dead yet,' said Julia prosaically.

'Not physically. Six months, a year - five years, conceivably. I am

afraid of death. You are young, so presumably you're more afraid of it than

I am. Obviously we shall put it off as long as we can. But it makes very

little difference. So long as human beings stay human, death and life are

the same thing.'

'Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or a skeleton?

Don't you enjoy being alive? Don't you like feeling: This is me, this is my

hand, this is my leg, I'm real, I'm solid, I'm alive! Don't you like this?'

She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against him. He could

feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her overalls. Her body seemed to

be pouring some of its youth and vigour into his.

'Yes, I like that,' he said.

'Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear, we've got to fix

up about the next time we meet. We may as well go back to the place in the

wood. We've given it a good long rest. But you must get there by a

different way this time. I've got it all planned out. You take the train -

but look, I'll draw it out for you.'

And in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust,

and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began drawing a map on the floor.

==IV==

Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr. Charrington's

shop. Beside the window the enormous bed was made up, with ragged blankets

and a coverless bolster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face

was ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gateleg table,

the glass paperweight which he had bought on his last visit gleamed softly

out of the half-darkness.

In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and two cups,

provided by Mr. Charrington. Winston lit the burner and set a pan of water

to boil. He had brought an envelope full of Victory Coffee and some

saccharine tablets. The clock's hands said seventeen-twenty: it was

nineteen-twenty really. She was coming at nineteen-thirty.

Folly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous, suicidal

folly. Of all the crimes that a Party member could commit, this one was the

least possible to conceal. Actually the idea had first floated into his

head in the form of a vision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the

surface of the gateleg table. As he had foreseen, Mr. Charrington had made

no difficulty about letting the room. He was obviously glad of the few

dollars that it would bring him. Nor did he seem shocked or become

offensively knowing when it was made clear that Winston wanted the room for

the purpose of a love-affair. Instead he looked into the middle distance

and spoke in generalities, with so delicate an air as to give the

impression that he had become partly invisible. Privacy, he said, was a

very valuable thing. Everyone wanted a place where they could be alone

occasionally. And when they had such a place, it was only common courtesy

in anyone else who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even,

seeming almost to fade out of existence as he did so, added that there were

two entries to the house, one of them through the back yard, which gave on

an alley.

Under the window somebody was singing. Winston peeped out, secure in

the protection of the muslin curtain. The June sun was still high in the

sky, and in the sun-filled court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a

Norman pillar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped about

her middle, was stumping to and fro between a washtub and a clothes line,

pegging out a series of square white things which Winston recognized as

babies" diapers. Whenever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she

was singing in a powerful contralto:

It was only an 'opeless fancy.

It passed like an Ipril dye,

But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred

They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye!

The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of

countless similar songs published for the benefit of the proles by a sub-

section of the Music Department. The words of these songs were composed

without any human intervention whatever on an instrument known as a

versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the dreadful

rubbish into an almost pleasant sound. He could hear the woman singing and

the scrape of her shoes on the flagstones, and the cries of the children in

the street, and somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and

yet the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of a

telescreen.

Folly, folly, folly! he thought again. It was inconceivable that they

could frequent this place for more than a few weeks without being caught.

But the temptation of having a hiding-place that was truly their own,

indoors and near at hand, had been too much for both of them. For some time

after their visit to the church belfry it had been impossible to arrange

meetings. Working hours had been drastically increased in anticipation of

Hate Week. It was more than a month distant, but the enormous, complex

preparations that it entailed were throwing extra work on to everybody.

Finally both of them managed to secure a free afternoon on the same day.

They had agreed to go back to the clearing in the wood. On the evening

beforehand they met briefly in the street. As usual, Winston hardly looked

at Julia as they drifted towards one another in the crowd, but from the

short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was paler than usual.

'It's all off,' she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to speak.

'Tomorrow, I mean.'

'What?'

'Tomorrow afternoon. I can't come.'

'Why not?'

'Oh, the usual reason. It's started early this time.'

For a moment he was violently angry. During the month that he had

known her the nature of his desire for her had changed. At the beginning

there had been little true sensuality in it. Their first love-making had

been simply an act of the will. But after the second time it was different.

The smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her skin

seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round him. She had

become a physical necessity, something that he not only wanted but felt

that he had a right to. When she said that she could not come, he had the

feeling that she was cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd

pressed them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave the tips

of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to invite not desire but

affection. It struck him that when one lived with a woman this particular

disappointment must be a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness,

such as he had not felt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He

wished that they were a married couple of ten years" standing. He wished

that he were walking through the streets with her just as they were doing

now but openly and without fear, talking of trivialities and buying odds

and ends for the household. He wished above all that they had some place

where they could be alone together without feeling the obligation to make

love every time they met. It was not actually at that moment, but at some

time on the following day, that the idea of renting Mr. Charrington's room

had occurred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed with

unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was lunacy. It was as

though they were intentionally stepping nearer to their graves. As he sat

waiting on the edge of the bed he thought again of the cellars of the

Ministry of Love. It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and

out of one's consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times, preceding

death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not avoid it, but one could

perhaps postpone it: and yet instead, every now and again, by a conscious,

wilful act, one chose to shorten the interval before it happened.

At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia burst into

the room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse brown canvas, such as he

had sometimes seen her carrying to and fro at the Ministry. He started

forward to take her in his arms, but she disengaged herself rather

hurriedly, partly because she was still holding the tool-bag.

'Half a second,' she said. 'Just let me show you what I've brought.

Did you bring some of that filthy Victory Coffee? I thought you would. You

can chuck it away again, because we shan't be needing it. Look here.'

She fell on her knees, threw open the bag, and tumbled out some

spanners and a screwdriver that filled the top part of it. Underneath were

a number of neat paper packets. The first packet that she passed to Winston

had a strange and yet vaguely familiar feeling. It was filled with some

kind of heavy, sand-like stuff which yielded wherever you touched it.

'It isn't sugar?' he said.

'Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here's a loaf of bread -

proper white bread, not our bloody stuff - and a little pot of jam. And

here's a tin of milk - but look! This is the one I'm really proud of. I

had to wrap a bit of sacking round it, because--'

But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it up. The smell

was already filling the room, a rich hot smell which seemed like an

emanation from his early childhood, but which one did occasionally meet

with even now, blowing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or

diffusing itself mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant

and then lost again.

'It's coffee,' he murmured, 'real coffee.'

'It's Inner Party coffee. There's a whole kilo here,' she said.

'How did you manage to get hold of all these things?'

'It's all Inner Party stuff. There's nothing those swine don't have,

nothing. But of course waiters and servants and people pinch things, and -

look, I got a little packet of tea as well.'

Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a corner of the

packet.

'It's real tea. Not blackberry leaves.'

'There's been a lot of tea about lately. They've captured India, or

something,' she said vaguely. 'But listen, dear. I want you to turn your

back on me for three minutes. Go and sit on the other side of the bed.

Don't go too near the window. And don't turn round till I tell you.'

Winston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain. Down in the

yard the red-armed woman was still marching to and fro between the washtub

and the line. She took two more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep

feeling:

They sye that time 'eals all things,

They sye you can always forget;

But the smiles an' the tears acrorss the years

They twist my 'eart-strings yet!

She knew the whole drivelling song by heart, it seemed. Her voice

floated upward with the sweet summer air, very tuneful, charged with a sort

of happy melancholy. One had the feeling that she would have been perfectly

content, if the June evening had been endless and the supply of clothes

inexhaustible, to remain there for a thousand years, pegging out diapers

and singing rubbish. It struck him as a curious fact that he had never

heard a member of the Party singing alone and spontaneously. It would even

have seemed slightly unorthodox, a dangerous eccentricity, like talking to

oneself. Perhaps it was only when people were somewhere near the starvation

level that they had anything to sing about.

'You can turn round now,' said Julia.

He turned round, and for a second almost failed to recognize her. What

he had actually expected was to see her naked. But she was not naked. The

transformation that had happened was much more surprising than that. She

had painted her face.

She must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian quarters and

bought herself a complete set of make-up materials. Her lips were deeply

reddened, her cheeks rouged, her nose powdered; there was even a touch of

something under the eyes to make them brighter. It was not very skilfully

done, but Winston's standards in such matters were not high. He had never

before seen or imagined a woman of the Party with cosmetics on her face.

The improvement in her appearance was startling. With just a few dabs of

colour in the right places she had become not only very much prettier, but,

above all, far more feminine. Her short hair and boyish overalls merely

added to the effect. As he took her in his arms a wave of synthetic violets

flooded his nostrils. He remembered the half-darkness of a basement

kitchen, and a woman's cavernous mouth. It was the very same scent that she

had used; but at the moment it did not seem to matter.

'Scent too!' he said.

'Yes, dear, scent too. And do you know what I'm going to do next? I'm

going to get hold of a real woman's frock from somewhere and wear it

instead of these bloody trousers. I'll wear silk stockings and high-heeled

shoes! In this room I'm going to be a woman, not a Party comrade.'

They flung their clothes off and climbed into the huge mahogany bed.

It was the first time that he had stripped himself naked in her presence.

Until now he had been too much ashamed of his pale and meagre body, with

the varicose veins standing out on his calves and the discoloured patch

over his ankle. There were no sheets, but the blanket they lay on was

threadbare and smooth, and the size and springiness of the bed astonished

both of them. 'It's sure to be full of bugs, but who cares?' said Julia.

One never saw a double bed nowadays, except in the homes of the proles.

Winston had occasionally slept in one in his boyhood: Julia had never been

in one before, so far as she could remember.

Presently they fell asleep for a little while. When Winston woke up

the hands of the clock had crept round to nearly nine. He did not stir,

because Julia was sleeping with her head in the crook of his arm. Most of

her make-up had transferred itself to his own face or the bolster, but a

light stain of rouge still brought out the beauty of her cheekbone. A

yellow ray from the sinking sun fell across the foot of the bed and lighted

up the fireplace, where the water in the pan was boiling fast. Down in the

yard the woman had stopped singing, but the faint shouts of children

floated in from the street. He wondered vaguely whether in the abolished

past it had been a normal experience to lie in bed like this, in the cool

of a summer evening, a man and a woman with no clothes on, making love when

they chose, talking of what they chose, not feeling any compulsion to get

up, simply lying there and listening to peaceful sounds outside. Surely

there could never have been a time when that seemed ordinary? Julia woke

up, rubbed her eyes, and raised herself on her elbow to look at the

oilstove.

'Half that water's boiled away,' she said. 'I'll get up and make some

coffee in another moment. We've got an hour. What time do they cut the

lights off at your flats?'

'Twenty-three thirty.'

'It's twenty-three at the hostel. But you have to get in earlier than

that, because - Hi! Get out, you filthy brute!'

She suddenly twisted herself over in the bed, seized a shoe from the

floor, and sent it hurtling into the corner with a boyish jerk of her arm,

exactly as he had seen her fling the dictionary at Goldstein, that morning

during the Two Minutes Hate.

'What was it?' he said in surprise.

'A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wainscoting.

There's a hole down there. I gave him a good fright, anyway.'

'Rats!' murmured Winston. 'In this room!'

'They're all over the place,' said Julia indifferently as she lay down

again. 'We've even got them in the kitchen at the hostel. Some parts of

London are swarming with them. Did you know they attack children? Yes, they

do. In some of these streets a woman daren't leave a baby alone for two

minutes. It's the great huge brown ones that do it. And the nasty thing is

that the brutes always--'

'Don't go on!' said Winston, with his eyes tightly shut.

'Dearest! You've gone quite pale. What's the matter? Do they make you

feel sick?'

'Of all horrors in the world - a rat!'

She pressed herself against him and wound her limbs round him, as

though to reassure him with the warmth of her body. He did not reopen his

eyes immediately. For several moments he had had the feeling of being back

in a nightmare which had recurred from time to time throughout his life. It

was always very much the same. He was standing in front of a wall of

darkness, and on the other side of it there was something unendurable,

something too dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was

always one of self-deception, because he did in fact know what was behind

the wall of darkness. With a deadly effort, like wrenching a piece out of

his own brain, he could even have dragged the thing into the open. He

always woke up without discovering what it was: but somehow it was

connected with what Julia had been saying when he cut her short.

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'it's nothing. I don't like rats, that's all.'

'Don't worry, dear, we're not going to have the filthy brutes in here.

I'll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before we go. And next time we

come here I'll bring some plaster and bung it up properly.'

Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten. Feeling

slightly ashamed of himself, he sat up against the bedhead. Julia got out

of bed, pulled on her overalls, and made the coffee. The smell that rose

from the saucepan was so powerful and exciting that they shut the window

lest anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive. What was even

better than the taste of the coffee was the silky texture given to it by

the sugar, a thing Winston had almost forgotten after years of saccharine.

With one hand in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other,

Julia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the bookcase,

pointing out the best way of repairing the gateleg table, plumping herself

down in the ragged arm-chair to see if it was comfortable, and examining

the absurd twelve-hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought

the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a better

light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always, by the soft,

rainwatery appearance of the glass.

'What is it, do you think?' said Julia.

'I don't think it's anything - I mean, I don't think it was ever put

to any use. That's what I like about it. It's a little chunk of history

that they've forgotten to alter. It's a message from a hundred years ago,

if one knew how to read it.'

'And that picture over there' - she nodded at the engraving on the

opposite wall - 'would that be a hundred years old?'

'More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can't tell. It's impossible to

discover the age of anything nowadays.'

She went over to look at it. 'Here's where that brute stuck his nose

out,' she said, kicking the wainscoting immediately below the picture.

'What is this place? I've seen it before somewhere.'

'It's a church, or at least it used to be. St. Clement's Danes its

name was.' The fragment of rhyme that Mr. Charrington had taught him came

back into his head, and he added half-nostalgically: "Oranges and lemons,"

say the bells of St. Clement's!'

To his astonishment she capped the line:

'You owe me three farthings,' say the bells of St. Martin's,

'When will you pay me?' say the bells of Old Bailey--

'I can't remember how it goes on after that. But anyway I remember it

ends up, "Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to

chop off your head!"'

It was like the two halves of a countersign. But there must be another

line after 'the bells of Old Bailey'. Perhaps it could be dug out of Mr.

Charrington's memory, if he were suitably prompted.

'Who taught you that?' he said.

'My grandfather. He used to say it to me when I was a little girl. He

was vaporized when I was eight - at any rate, he disappeared. I wonder

what a lemon was,' she added inconsequently. 'I've seen oranges. They're a

kind of round yellow fruit with a thick skin.'

'I can remember lemons,' said Winston. 'They were quite common in the

fifties. They were so sour that it set your teeth on edge even to smell

them.'

'I bet that picture's got bugs behind it,' said Julia. 'I'll take it

down and give it a good clean some day. I suppose it's almost time we were

leaving. I must start washing this paint off. What a bore! I'll get the

lipstick off your face afterwards.'

Winston did not get up for a few minutes more. The room was darkening.

He turned over towards the light and lay gazing into the glass paperweight.

The inexhaustibly interesting thing was not the fragment of coral but the

interior of the glass itself. There was such a depth of it, and yet it was

almost as transparent as air. It was as though the surface of the glass had

been the arch of the sky, enclosing a tiny world with its atmosphere

complete. He had the feeling that he could get inside it, and that in fact

he was inside it, along with the mahogany bed and the gateleg table, and

the clock and the steel engraving and the paperweight itself. The

paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was Julia's life and his

own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal.

==V==

Syme had vanished. A morning came, and he was missing from work: a few

thoughtless people commented on his absence. On the next day nobody

mentioned him. On the third day Winston went into the vestibule of the

Records Department to look at the notice-board. One of the notices carried

a printed list of the members of the Chess Committee, of whom Syme had been

one. It looked almost exactly as it had looked before - nothing had been

crossed out - but it was one name shorter. It was enough. Syme had ceased

to exist: he had never existed.

The weather was baking hot. In the labyrinthine Ministry the

windowless, air-conditioned rooms kept their normal temperature, but

outside the pavements scorched one's feet and the stench of the Tubes at

the rush hours was a horror. The preparations for Hate Week were in full

swing, and the staffs of all the Ministries were working overtime.

Processions, meetings, military parades, lectures, waxworks, displays, film

shows, telescreen programmes all had to be organized; stands had to be

erected, effigies built, slogans coined, songs written, rumours circulated,

photographs faked. Julia's unit in the Fiction Department had been taken

off the production of novels and was rushing out a series of atrocity

pamphlets. Winston, in addition to his regular work, spent long periods

every day in going through back files of the Times and altering and

embellishing news items which were to be quoted in speeches. Late at night,

when crowds of rowdy proles roamed the streets, the town had a curiously

febrile air. The rocket bombs crashed oftener than ever, and sometimes in

the far distance there were enormous explosions which no one could explain

and about which there were wild rumours.

The new tune which was to be the theme-song of Hate Week (the Hate

Song, it was called) had already been composed and was being endlessly

plugged on the telescreens. It had a savage, barking rhythm which could not

exactly be called music, but resembled the beating of a drum. Roared out by

hundreds of voices to the tramp of marching feet, it was terrifying. The

proles had taken a fancy to it, and in the midnight streets it competed

with the still-popular 'It was only a hopeless fancy'. The Parsons children

played it at all hours of the night and day, unbearably, on a comb and a

piece of toilet paper. Winston's evenings were fuller than ever. Squads of

volunteers, organized by Parsons, were preparing the street for Hate Week,

stitching banners, painting posters, erecting flagstaffs on the roofs, and

perilously slinging wires across the street for the reception of streamers.

Parsons boasted that Victory Mansions alone would display four hundred

metres of bunting. He was in his native element and as happy as a lark. The

heat and the manual work had even given him a pretext for reverting to

shorts and an open shirt in the evenings. He was everywhere at once,

pushing, pulling, sawing, hammering, improvising, jollying everyone along

with comradely exhortations and giving out from every fold of his body what

seemed an inexhaustible supply of acrid-smelling sweat.

A new poster had suddenly appeared all over London. It had no caption,

and represented simply the monstrous figure of a Eurasian soldier, three or

four metres high, striding forward with expressionless Mongolian face and

enormous boots, a submachine gun pointed from his hip. From whatever angle

you looked at the poster, the muzzle of the gun, magnified by the

foreshortening, seemed to be pointed straight at you. The thing had been

plastered on every blank space on every wall, even outnumbering the

portraits of Big Brother. The proles, normally apathetic about the war,

were being lashed into one of their periodical frenzies of patriotism. As

though to harmonize with the general mood, the rocket bombs had been

killing larger numbers of people than usual. One fell on a crowded film

theatre in Stepney, burying several hundred victims among the ruins. The

whole population of the neighbourhood turned out for a long, trailing

funeral which went on for hours and was in effect an indignation meeting.

Another bomb fell on a piece of waste ground which was used as a playground

and several dozen children were blown to pieces. There were further angry

demonstrations, Goldstein was burned in effigy, hundreds of copies of the

poster of the Eurasian soldier were torn down and added to the flames, and

a number of shops were looted in the turmoil; then a rumour flew round that

spies were directing the rocket bombs by means of wireless waves, and an

old couple who were suspected of being of foreign extraction had their

house set on fire and perished of suffocation.

In the room over Mr. Charrington's shop, when they could get there,

Julia and Winston lay side by side on a stripped bed under the open window,

naked for the sake of coolness. The rat had never come back, but the bugs

had multiplied hideously in the heat. It did not seem to matter. Dirty or

clean, the room was paradise. As soon as they arrived they would sprinkle

everything with pepper bought on the black market, tear off their clothes,

and make love with sweating bodies, then fall asleep and wake to find that

the bugs had rallied and were massing for the counter-attack.

Four, five, six - seven times they met during the month of June.

Winston had dropped his habit of drinking gin at all hours. He seemed to

have lost the need for it. He had grown fatter, his varicose ulcer had

subsided, leaving only a brown stain on the skin above his ankle, his fits

of coughing in the early morning had stopped. The process of life had

ceased to be intolerable, he had no longer any impulse to make faces at the

telescreen or shout curses at the top of his voice. Now that they had a

secure hiding-place, almost a home, it did not even seem a hardship that

they could only meet infrequently and for a couple of hours at a time. What

mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist. To know that it

was there, inviolate, was almost the same as being in it. The room was a

world, a pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk. Mr.

Charrington, thought Winston, was another extinct animal. He usually

stopped to talk with Mr. Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs.

The old man seemed seldom or never to go out of doors, and on the other

hand to have almost no customers. He led a ghostlike existence between the

tiny, dark shop, and an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his

meals and which contained, among other things, an unbelievably ancient

gramophone with an enormous horn. He seemed glad of the opportunity to

talk. Wandering about among his worthless stock, with his long nose and

thick spectacles and his bowed shoulders in the velvet jacket, he had

always vaguely the air of being a collector rather than a tradesman. With a

sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this scrap of rubbish or that - a

china bottle-stopper, the painted lid of a broken snuffbox, a pinchbeck

locket containing a strand of some long-dead baby's hair - never asking

that Winston should buy it, merely that he should admire it. To talk to him

was like listening to the tinkling of a worn-out musical-box. He had

dragged out from the corners of his memory some more fragments of forgotten

rhymes. There was one about four and twenty blackbirds, and another about a

cow with a crumpled horn, and another about the death of poor Cock Robin.

'It just occurred to me you might be interested,' he would say with a

deprecating little laugh whenever he produced a new fragment. But he could

never recall more than a few lines of any one rhyme.

Both of them knew - in a way, it was never out of their minds that

what was now happening could not last long. There were times when the fact

of impending death seemed as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they

would cling together with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned

soul grasping at his last morsel of pleasure when the clock is within five

minutes of striking. But there were also times when they had the illusion

not only of safety but of permanence. So long as they were actually in this

room, they both felt, no harm could come to them. Getting there was

difficult and dangerous, but the room itself was sanctuary. It was as when

Winston had gazed into the heart of the paperweight, with the feeling that

it would be possible to get inside that glassy world, and that once inside

it time could be arrested. Often they gave themselves up to daydreams of

escape. Their luck would hold indefinitely, and they would carry on their

intrigue, just like this, for the remainder of their natural lives. Or

Katharine would die, and by subtle manoeuvrings Winston and Julia would

succeed in getting married. Or they would commit suicide together. Or they

would disappear, alter themselves out of recognition, learn to speak with

proletarian accents, get jobs in a factory and live out their lives

undetected in a back-street. It was all nonsense, as they both knew. In

reality there was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable,

suicide, they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day

and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed an

unconquerable instinct, just as one's lungs will always draw the next

breath so long as there is air available.

Sometimes, too, they talked of engaging in active rebellion against

the Party, but with no notion of how to take the first step. Even if the

fabulous Brotherhood was a reality, there still remained the difficulty of

finding one's way into it. He told her of the strange intimacy that

existed, or seemed to exist, between himself and O'Brien, and of the

impulse he sometimes felt, simply to walk into O'Brien's presence, announce

that he was the enemy of the Party, and demand his help. Curiously enough,

this did not strike her as an impossibly rash thing to do. She was used to

judging people by their faces, and it seemed natural to her that Winston

should believe O'Brien to be trustworthy on the strength of a single flash

of the eyes. Moreover she took it for granted that everyone, or nearly

everyone, secretly hated the Party and would break the rules if he thought

it safe to do so. But she refused to believe that widespread, organized

opposition existed or could exist. The tales about Goldstein and his

underground army, she said, were simply a lot of rubbish which the Party

had invented for its own purposes and which you had to pretend to believe

in. Times beyond number, at Party rallies and spontaneous demonstrations,

she had shouted at the top of her voice for the execution of people whose

names she had never heard and in whose supposed crimes she had not the

faintest belief. When public trials were happening she had taken her place

in the detachments from the Youth League who surrounded the courts from

morning to night, chanting at intervals 'Death to the traitors!' During the

Two Minutes Hate she always excelled all others in shouting insults at

Goldstein. Yet she had only the dimmest idea of who Goldstein was and what

doctrines he was supposed to represent. She had grown up since the

Revolution and was too young to remember the ideological battles of the

fifties and sixties. Such a thing as an independent political movement was

outside her imagination: and in any case the Party was invincible. It would

always exist, and it would always be the same. You could only rebel against

it by secret disobedience or, at most, by isolated acts of violence such as

killing somebody or blowing something up.

In some ways she was far more acute than Winston, and far less

susceptible to Party propaganda. Once when he happened in some connexion to

mention the war against Eurasia, she startled him by saying casually that

in her opinion the war was not happening. The rocket bombs which fell daily

on London were probably fired by the Government of Oceania itself, 'just to

keep people frightened'. This was an idea that had literally never occurred

to him. She also stirred a sort of envy in him by telling him that during

the Two Minutes Hate her great difficulty was to avoid bursting out

laughing. But she only questioned the teachings of the Party when they in

some way touched upon her own life. Often she was ready to accept the

official mythology, simply because the difference between truth and

falsehood did not seem important to her. She believed, for instance, having

learnt it at school, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. (In his own

schooldays, Winston remembered, in the late fifties, it was only the

helicopter that the Party claimed to have invented; a dozen years later,

when Julia was at school, it was already claiming the aeroplane; one

generation more, and it would be claiming the steam engine.) And when he

told her that aeroplanes had been in existence before he was born and long

before the Revolution, the fact struck her as totally uninteresting. After

all, what did it matter who had invented aeroplanes? It was rather more of

a shock to him when he discovered from some chance remark that she did not

remember that Oceania, four years ago, had been at war with Eastasia and at

peace with Eurasia. It was true that she regarded the whole war as a sham:

but apparently she had not even noticed that the name of the enemy had

changed. 'I thought we'd always been at war with Eurasia,' she said

vaguely. It frightened him a little. The invention of aeroplanes dated from

long before her birth, but the switchover in the war had happened only four

years ago, well after she was grown up. He argued with her about it for

perhaps a quarter of an hour. In the end he succeeded in forcing her memory

back until she did dimly recall that at one time Eastasia and not Eurasia

had been the enemy. But the issue still struck her as unimportant. 'Who

cares?' she said impatiently. 'It's always one bloody war after another,

and one knows the news is all lies anyway.'

Sometimes he talked to her of the Records Department and the impudent

forgeries that he committed there. Such things did not appear to horrify

her. She did not feel the abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought of

lies becoming truths. He told her the story of Jones, Aaronson, and

Rutherford and the momentous slip of paper which he had once held between

his fingers. It did not make much impression on her. At first, indeed, she

failed to grasp the point of the story.

'Were they friends of yours?' she said.

'No, I never knew them. They were Inner Party members. Besides, they

were far older men than I was. They belonged to the old days, before the

Revolution. I barely knew them by sight.'

'Then what was there to worry about? People are being killed off all

the time, aren't they?'

He tried to make her understand. 'This was an exceptional case. It

wasn't just a question of somebody being killed. Do you realize that the

past, starting from yesterday, has been actually abolished? If it survives

anywhere, it's in a few solid objects with no words attached to them, like

that lump of glass there. Already we know almost literally nothing about

the Revolution and the years before the Revolution. Every record has been

destroyed or falsified, every book has been rewritten, every picture has

been repainted, every statue and street and building has been renamed,

every date has been altered. And that process is continuing day by day and

minute by minute. History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless

present in which the Party is always right. I know, of course, that the

past is falsified, but it would never be possible for me to prove it, even

when I did the falsification myself. After the thing is done, no evidence

ever remains. The only evidence is inside my own mind, and I don't know

with any certainty that any other human being shares my memories. Just in

that one instance, in my whole life, I did possess actual concrete evidence

after the event - years after it.'

'And what good was that?'

'It was no good, because I threw it away a few minutes later. But if

the same thing happened today, I should keep it.'

'Well, I wouldn't!' said Julia. 'I'm quite ready to take risks, but

only for something worth while, not for bits of old newspaper. What could

you have done with it even if you had kept it?'

'Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have planted a few

doubts here and there, supposing that I'd dared to show it to anybody. I

don't imagine that we can alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can

imagine little knots of resistance springing up here and there - small

groups of people banding themselves together, and gradually growing, and

even leaving a few records behind, so that the next generations can carry

on where we leave off.'

'I'm not interested in the next generation, dear. I'm interested in

us.'

'You're only a rebel from the waist downwards,' he told her.

She thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms round him in

delight.

In the ramifications of party doctrine she had not the faintest

interest. Whenever he began to talk of the principles of Ingsoc,

doublethink, the mutability of the past, and the denial of objective

reality, and to use Newspeak words, she became bored and confused and said

that she never paid any attention to that kind of thing. One knew that it

was all rubbish, so why let oneself be worried by it? She knew when to

cheer and when to boo, and that was all one needed. If he persisted in

talking of such subjects, she had a disconcerting habit of falling asleep.

She was one of those people who can go to sleep at any hour and in any

position. Talking to her, he realized how easy it was to present an

appearance of orthodoxy while having no grasp whatever of what orthodoxy

meant. In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most

successfully on people incapable of understanding it. They could be made to

accept the most flagrant violations of reality, because they never fully

grasped the enormity of what was demanded of them, and were not

sufficiently interested in public events to notice what was happening. By

lack of understanding they remained sane. They simply swallowed everything,

and what they swallowed did them no harm, because it left no residue

behind, just as a grain of corn will pass undigested through the body of a

bird.

==VI==

It had happened at last. The expected message had come. All his life,

it seemed to him, he had been waiting for this to happen.

He was walking down the long corridor at the Ministry and he was

almost at the spot where Julia had slipped the note into his hand when he

became aware that someone larger than himself was walking just behind him.

The person, whoever it was, gave a small cough, evidently as a prelude to

speaking. Winston stopped abruptly and turned. It was O'Brien.

At last they were face to face, and it seemed that his only impulse

was to run away. His heart bounded violently. He would have been incapable

of speaking. O'Brien, however, had continued forward in the same movement,

laying a friendly hand for a moment on Winston's arm, so that the two of

them were walking side by side. He began speaking with the peculiar grave

courtesy that differentiated him from the majority of Inner Party members.

'I had been hoping for an opportunity of talking to you,' he said. 'I

was reading one of your Newspeak articles in the Times the other day. You

take a scholarly interest in Newspeak, I believe?'

Winston had recovered part of his self-possession. 'Hardly scholarly,'

he said. 'I'm only an amateur. It's not my subject. I have never had

anything to do with the actual construction of the language.'

'But you write it very elegantly,' said O'Brien. 'That is not only my

own opinion. I was talking recently to a friend of yours who is certainly

an expert. His name has slipped my memory for the moment.'

Again Winston's heart stirred painfully. It was inconceivable that

this was anything other than a reference to Syme. But Syme was not only

dead, he was abolished, an unperson. Any identifiable reference to him

would have been mortally dangerous. O'Brien's remark must obviously have

been intended as a signal, a codeword. By sharing a small act of

thoughtcrime he had turned the two of them into accomplices. They had

continued to stroll slowly down the corridor, but now O'Brien halted. With

the curious, disarming friendliness that he always managed to put in to the

gesture he resettled his spectacles on his nose. Then he went on:

'What I had really intended to say was that in your article I noticed

you had used two words which have become obsolete. But they have only

become so very recently. Have you seen the tenth edition of the Newspeak

Dictionary?'

'No,' said Winston. 'I didn't think it had been issued yet. We are

still using the ninth in the Records Department.'

'The tenth edition is not due to appear for some months, I believe.

But a few advance copies have been circulated. I have one myself. It might

interest you to look at it, perhaps?'

'Very much so,' said Winston, immediately seeing where this tended.

'Some of the new developments are most ingenious. The reduction in the

number of verbs - that is the point that will appeal to you, I think. Let

me see, shall I send a messenger to you with the dictionary? But I am

afraid I invariably forget anything of that kind. Perhaps you could pick it

up at my flat at some time that suited you? Wait. Let me give you my

address.'

They were standing in front of a telescreen. Somewhat absentmindedly

O'Brien felt two of his pockets and then produced a small leather-covered

notebook and a gold ink-pencil. Immediately beneath the telescreen, in such

a position that anyone who was watching at the other end of the instrument

could read what he was writing, he scribbled an address, tore out the page

and handed it to Winston.

'I am usually at home in the evenings,' he said. 'If not, my servant

will give you the dictionary.'

He was gone, leaving Winston holding the scrap of paper, which this

time there was no need to conceal. Nevertheless he carefully memorized what

was written on it, and some hours later dropped it into the memory hole

along with a mass of other papers.

They had been talking to one another for a couple of minutes at the

most. There was only one meaning that the episode could possibly have. It

had been contrived as a way of letting Winston know O'Brien's address. This

was necessary, because except by direct enquiry it was never possible to

discover where anyone lived. There were no directories of any kind. 'If you

ever want to see me, this is where I can be found,' was what O'Brien had

been saying to him. Perhaps there would even be a message concealed

somewhere in the dictionary. But at any rate, one thing was certain. The

conspiracy that he had dreamed of did exist, and he had reached the outer

edges of it.

He knew that sooner or later he would obey O'Brien's summons. Perhaps

tomorrow, perhaps after a long delay - he was not certain. What was

happening was only the working-out of a process that had started years ago.

The first step had been a secret, involuntary thought, the second had been

the opening of the diary. He had moved from thoughts to words, and now from

words to actions. The last step was something that would happen in the

Ministry of Love. He had accepted it. The end was contained in the

beginning. But it was frightening: or, more exactly, it was like a

foretaste of death, like being a little less alive. Even while he was

speaking to O'Brien, when the meaning of the words had sunk in, a chilly

shuddering feeling had taken possession of his body. He had the sensation

of stepping into the dampness of a grave, and it was not much better

because he had always known that the grave was there and waiting for him.

==VII==

Winston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Julia rolled

sleepily against him, murmuring something that might have been 'What's the

matter?'

'I dreamt--' he began, and stopped short. It was too complex to be put

into words. There was the dream itself, and there was a memory connected

with it that had swum into his mind in the few seconds after waking.

He lay back with his eyes shut, still sodden in the atmosphere of the

dream. It was a vast, luminous dream in which his whole life seemed to

stretch out before him like a landscape on a summer evening after rain. It

had all occurred inside the glass paperweight, but the surface of the glass

was the dome of the sky, and inside the dome everything was flooded with

clear soft light in which one could see into interminable distances. The

dream had also been comprehended by - indeed, in some sense it had

consisted in - a gesture of the arm made by his mother, and made again

thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the news film, trying

to shelter the small boy from the bullets, before the helicopter blew them

both to pieces.

'Do you know,' he said, 'that until this moment I believed I had

murdered my mother?'

'Why did you murder her?' said Julia, almost asleep.

'I didn't murder her. Not physically.'

In the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his mother, and

within a few moments of waking the cluster of small events surrounding it

had all come back. It was a memory that he must have deliberately pushed

out of his consciousness over many years. He was not certain of the date,

but he could not have been less than ten years old, possibly twelve, when

it had happened.

His father had disappeared some time earlier, how much earlier he

could not remember. He remembered better the rackety, uneasy circumstances

of the time: the periodical panics about air-raids and the sheltering in

Tube stations, the piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible

proclamations posted at street corners, the gangs of youths in shirts all

the same colour, the enormous queues outside the bakeries, the intermittent

machine-gun fire in the distance - above all, the fact that there was

never enough to eat. He remembered long afternoons spent with other boys in

scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking out the ribs of

cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust

from which they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting for

the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were known

to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad patches in

the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake.

When his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or

any violent grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have

become completely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was

waiting for something that she knew must happen. She did everything that

was needed - cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted

the mantelpiece - always very slowly and with a curious lack of

superfluous motion, like an artist's lay-figure moving of its own accord.

Her large shapely body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For

hours at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed, nursing his young

sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two or three, with a face made

simian by thinness. Very occasionally she would take Winston in her arms

and press him against her for a long time without saying anything. He was

aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this was somehow

connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen.

He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, close-smelling room

that seemed half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas

ring in the fender, and a shelf where food was kept, and on the landing

outside there was a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He

remembered his mother's statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir

at something in a saucepan. Above all he remembered his continuous hunger,

and the fierce sordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother

naggingly, over and over again, why there was not more food, he would shout

and storm at her (he even remembered the tones of his voice, which was

beginning to break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or

he would attempt a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more

than his share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than his share.

She took it for granted that he, 'the boy', should have the biggest

portion; but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more. At

every meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his

little sister was sick and also needed food, but it was no use. He would

cry out with rage when she stopped ladling, he would try to wrench the

saucepan and spoon out of her hands, he would grab bits from his sister's

plate. He knew that he was starving the other two, but he could not help

it; he even felt that he had a right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his

belly seemed to justify him. Between meals, if his mother did not stand

guard, he was constantly pilfering at the wretched store of food on the

shelf.

One day a chocolate-ration was issued. There had been no such issue

for weeks or months past. He remembered quite clearly that precious little

morsel of chocolate. It was a two-ounce slab (they still talked about

ounces in those days) between the three of them. It was obvious that it

ought to be divided into three equal parts. Suddenly, as though he were

listening to somebody else, Winston heard himself demanding in a loud

booming voice that he should be given the whole piece. His mother told him

not to be greedy. There was a long, nagging argument that went round and

round, with shouts, whines, tears, remonstrances, bargainings. His tiny

sister, clinging to her mother with both hands, exactly like a baby monkey,

sat looking over her shoulder at him with large, mournful eyes. In the end

his mother broke off three-quarters of the chocolate and gave it to

Winston, giving the other quarter to his sister. The little girl took hold

of it and looked at it dully, perhaps not knowing what it was. Winston

stood watching her for a moment. Then with a sudden swift spring he had

snatched the piece of chocolate out of his sister's hand and was fleeing

for the door.

'Winston, Winston!' his mother called after him. 'Come back! Give your

sister back her chocolate!'

He stopped, but did not come back. His mother's anxious eyes were

fixed on his face. Even now he was thinking about the thing, he did not

know what it was that was on the point of happening. His sister, conscious

of having been robbed of something, had set up a feeble wail. His mother

drew her arm round the child and pressed its face against her breast.

Something in the gesture told him that his sister was dying. He turned and

fled down the stairs. with the chocolate growing sticky in his hand.

He never saw his mother again. After he had devoured the chocolate he

felt somewhat ashamed of himself and hung about in the streets for several

hours, until hunger drove him home. When he came back his mother had

disappeared. This was already becoming normal at that time. Nothing was

gone from the room except his mother and his sister. They had not taken any

clothes, not even his mother's overcoat. To this day he did not know with

any certainty that his mother was dead. It was perfectly possible that she

had merely been sent to a forced-labour camp. As for his sister, she might

have been removed, like Winston himself, to one of the colonies for

homeless children (Reclamation Centres, they were called) which had grown

up as a result of the civil war, or she might have been sent to the labour

camp along with his mother, or simply left somewhere or other to die.

The dream was still vivid in his mind, especially the enveloping

protecting gesture of the arm in which its whole meaning seemed to be

contained. His mind went back to another dream of two months ago. Exactly

as his mother had sat on the dingy whitequilted bed, with the child

clinging to her, so she had sat in the sunken ship, far underneath him, and

drowning deeper every minute, but still looking up at him through the

darkening water.

He told Julia the story of his mother's disappearance. Without opening

her eyes she rolled over and settled herself into a more comfortable

position.

'I expect you were a beastly little swine in those days,' she said

indistinctly. 'All children are swine.'

'Yes. But the real point of the story--'

From her breathing it was evident that she was going off to sleep

again. He would have liked to continue talking about his mother. He did not

suppose, from what he could remember of her, that she had been an unusual

woman, still less an intelligent one; and yet she had possessed a kind of

nobility, a kind of purity, simply because the standards that she obeyed

were private ones. Her feelings were her own, and could not be altered from

outside. It would not have occurred to her that an action which is

ineffectual thereby becomes meaningless. If you loved someone, you loved

him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love. When

the last of the chocolate was gone, his mother had clasped the child in her

arms. It was no use, it changed nothing, it did not produce more chocolate,

it did not avert the child's death or her own; but it seemed natural to her

to do it. The refugee woman in the boat had also covered the little boy

with her arm, which was no more use against the bullets than a sheet of

paper. The terrible thing that the Party had done was to persuade you that

mere impulses, mere feelings, were of no account, while at the same time

robbing you of all power over the material world. When once you were in the

grip of the Party, what you felt or did not feel, what you did or refrained

from doing, made literally no difference. Whatever happened you vanished,

and neither you nor your actions were ever heard of again. You were lifted

clean out of the stream of history. And yet to the people of only two

generations ago this would not have seemed all-important, because they were

not attempting to alter history. They were governed by private loyalties

which they did not question. What mattered were individual relationships,

and a completely helpless gesture, an embrace, a tear, a word spoken to a

dying man, could have value in itself. The proles, it suddenly occurred to

him, had remained in this condition. They were notloyal to a party or a

country or an idea, they were loyal to one another. For the first time in

his life he did not despise the proles or think of them merely as an inert

force which would one day spring to life and regenerate the world. The

proles had stayed human. They had not become hardened inside. They had held

on to the primitive emotions which he himself had to re-learn by conscious

effort. And in thinking this he remembered, without apparent relevance, how

a few weeks ago he had seen a severed hand lying on the pavement and had

kicked it into the gutter as though it had been a cabbage-stalk.

'The proles are human beings,' he said aloud. 'We are not human.'

'Why not?' said Julia, who had woken up again.

He thought for a little while. 'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said,

'that the best thing for us to do would be simply to walk out of here

before it's too late, and never see each other again?'

'Yes, dear, it has occurred to me, several times. But I'm not going to

do it, all the same.'

'We've been lucky,' he said 'but it can't last much longer. You're

young. You look normal and innocent. If you keep clear of people like me,

you might stay alive for another fifty years.'

'No. I've thought it all out. What you do, I'm going to do. And don't

be too downhearted. I'm rather good at staying alive.'

'We may be together for another six months - a year - there's no

knowing. At the end we're certain to be apart. Do you realize how utterly

alone we shall be? When once they get hold of us there will be nothing,

literally nothing, that either of us can do for the other. If I confess,

they'll shoot you, and if I refuse to confess, they'll shoot you just the

same. Nothing that I can do or say, or stop myself from saying, will put

off your death for as much as five minutes. Neither of us will even know

whether the other is alive or dead. We shall be utterly without power of

any kind. The one thing that matters is that we shouldn't betray one

another, although even that can't make the slightest difference.'

'If you mean confessing,' she said, 'we shall do that, right enough.

Everybody always confesses. You can't help it. They torture you.'

'I don't mean confessing. Confession is not betrayal. What you say or

do doesn't matter: only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving

you - that would be the real betrayal.'

She thought it over. 'They can't do that,' she said finally. 'It's the

one thing they can't do. They can make you say anything - anything - but

they can't make you believe it. They can't get inside you.'

'No,' he said a little more hopefully, 'no; that's quite true. They

can't get inside you. If you can feel that staying human is worth while,

even when it can't have any result whatever, you've beaten them.'

He thought of the telescreen with its never-sleeping ear. They could

spy upon you night and day, but if you kept your head you could still

outwit them. With all their cleverness they had never mastered the secret

of finding out what another human being was thinking. Perhaps that was less

true when you were actually in their hands. One did not know what happened

inside the Ministry of Love, but it was possible to guess: tortures, drugs,

delicate instruments that registered your nervous reactions, gradual

wearing-down by sleeplessness and solitude and persistent questioning.

Facts, at any rate, could not be kept hidden. They could be tracked down by

enquiry, they could be squeezed out of you by torture. But if the object

was not to stay alive but to stay human, what difference did it ultimately

make? They could not alter your feelings: for that matter you could not

alter them yourself, even if you wanted to. They could lay bare in the

utmost detail everything that you had done or said or thought; but the

inner heart, whose workings were mysterious even to yourself, remained

impregnable.

==VIII==

They had done it, they had done it at last!

The room they were standing in was long-shaped and softly lit. The

telescreen was dimmed to a low murmur; the richness of the dark-blue carpet

gave one the impression of treading on velvet. At the far end of the room

O'Brien was sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp, with a mass of

papers on either side of him. He had not bothered to look up when the

servant showed Julia and Winston in.

Winston's heart was thumping so hard that he doubted whether he would

be able to speak. They had done it, they had done it at last, was all he

could think. It had been a rash act to come here at all, and sheer folly to

arrive together; though it was true that they had come by different routes

and only met on O'Brien's doorstep. But merely to walk into such a place

needed an effort of the nerve. It was only on very rare occasions that one

saw inside the dwelling-places of the Inner Party, or even penetrated into

the quarter of the town where they lived. The whole atmosphere of the huge

block of flats, the richness and spaciousness of everything, the unfamiliar

smells of good food and good tobacco, the silent and incredibly rapid lifts

sliding up and down, the white-jacketed servants hurrying to and fro -

everything was intimidating. Although he had a good pretext for coming

here, he was haunted at every step by the fear that a black-uniformed guard

would suddenly appear from round the corner, demand his papers, and order

him to get out. O'Brien's servant, however, had admitted the two of them

without demur. He was a small, dark-haired man in a white jacket, with a

diamond-shaped, completely expressionless face which might have been that

of a Chinese. The passage down which he led them was softly carpeted, with

cream-papered walls and white wainscoting, all exquisitely clean. That too

was intimidating. Winston could not remember ever to have seen a passageway

whose walls were not grimy from the contact of human bodies.

O'Brien had a slip of paper between his fingers and seemed to be

studying it intently. His heavy face, bent down so that one could see the

line of the nose, looked both formidable and intelligent. For perhaps

twenty seconds he sat without stirring. Then he pulled the speakwrite

towards him and rapped out a message in the hybrid jargon of the

Ministries:

'Items one comma five comma seven approved fullwise stop suggestion

contained item six doubleplus ridiculous verging crimethink cancel stop

unproceed constructionwise antegetting plusfull estimates machinery

overheads stop end message.'

He rose deliberately from his chair and came towards them across the

soundless carpet. A little of the official atmosphere seemed to have fallen

away from him with the Newspeak words, but his expression was grimmer than

usual, as though he were not pleased at being disturbed. The terror that

Winston already felt was suddenly shot through by a streak of ordinary

embarrassment. It seemed to him quite possible that he had simply made a

stupid mistake. For what evidence had he in reality that O'Brien was any

kind of political conspirator? Nothing but a flash of the eyes and a single

equivocal remark: beyond that, only his own secret imaginings, founded on a

dream. He could not even fall back on the pretence that he had come to

borrow the dictionary, because in that case Julia's presence was impossible

to explain. As O'Brien passed the telescreen a thought seemed to strike

him. He stopped, turned aside and pressed a switch on the wall. There was a

sharp snap. The voice had stopped.

Julia uttered a tiny sound, a sort of squeak of surprise. Even in the

midst of his panic, Winston was too much taken aback to be able to hold his

tongue.

'You can turn it off!' he said.

'Yes,' said O'Brien, 'we can turn it off. We have that privilege.'

He was opposite them now. His solid form towered over the pair of

them, and the expression on his face was still indecipherable. He was

waiting, somewhat sternly, for Winston to speak, but about what? Even now

it was quite conceivable that he was simply a busy man wondering irritably

why he had been interrupted. Nobody spoke. After the stopping of the

telescreen the room seemed deadly silent. The seconds marched past,

enormous. With difficulty Winston continued to keep his eyes fixed on

O'Brien's. Then suddenly the grim face broke down into what might have been

the beginnings of a smile. With his characteristic gesture O'Brien

resettled his spectacles on his nose.

'Shall I say it, or will you?' he said.

'I will say it,' said Winston promptly. 'That thing is really turned

off?'

'Yes, everything is turned off. We are alone.'

'We have come here because--'

He paused, realizing for the first time the vagueness of his own

motives. Since he did not in fact know what kind of help he expected from

O'Brien, it was not easy to say why he had come here. He went on, conscious

that what he was saying must sound both feeble and pretentious:

'We believe that there is some kind of conspiracy, some kind of secret

organization working against the Party, and that you are involved in it. We

want to join it and work for it. We are enemies of the Party. We disbelieve

in the principles of Ingsoc. We are thought-criminals. We are also

adulterers. I tell you this because we want to put ourselves at your mercy.

If you want us to incriminate ourselves in any other way, we are ready.'

He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, with the feeling that the

door had opened. Sure enough, the little yellow-faced servant had come in

without knocking. Winston saw that he was carrying a tray with a decanter

and glasses.

'Martin is one of us,' said O'Brien impassively. 'Bring the drinks

over here, Martin. Put them on the round table. Have we enough chairs? Then

we may as well sit down and talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself,

Martin. This is business. You can stop being a servant for the next ten

minutes.'

The little man sat down, quite at his ease, and yet still with a

servant-like air, the air of a valet enjoying a privilege. Winston regarded

him out of the corner of his eye. It struck him that the man's whole life

was playing a part, and that he felt it to be dangerous to drop his assumed

personality even for a moment. O'Brien took the decanter by the neck and

filled up the glasses with a dark-red liquid. It aroused in Winston dim

memories of something seen long ago on a wall or a hoarding - a vast

bottle composed of electric lights which seemed to move up and down and

pour its contents into a glass. Seen from the top the stuff looked almost

black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby. It had a sour-sweet

smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff at it with frank curiosity.

'It is called wine,' said O'Brien with a faint smile. 'You will have

read about it in books, no doubt. Not much of it gets to the Outer Party, I

am afraid.' His face grew solemn again, and he raised his glass: 'I think

it is fitting that we should begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To

Emmanuel Goldstein.'

Winston took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine was a thing

he had read and dreamed about. Like the glass paperweight or Mr.

Charrington's half-remembered rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic

past, the olden time as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts. For

some reason he had always thought of wine as having an intensely sweet

taste, like that of blackberry jam and an immediate intoxicating effect.

Actually, when he came to swallow it, the stuff was distinctly

disappointing. The truth was that after years of gin-drinking he could

barely taste it. He set down the empty glass.

'Then there is such a person as Goldstein?' he said.

'Yes, there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I do not know.'

'And the conspiracy - the organization? Is it real? It is not simply

an invention of the Thought Police?'

'No, it is real. The Brotherhood, we call it. You will never learn

much more about the Brotherhood than that it exists and that you belong to

it. I will come back to that presently.' He looked at his wrist-watch. 'It

is unwise even for members of the Inner Party to turn off the telescreen

for more than half an hour. You ought not to have come here together, and

you will have to leave separately. You, comrade' - he bowed his head to

Julia - 'will leave first. We have about twenty minutes at our disposal.

You will understand that I must start by asking you certain questions. In

general terms, what are you prepared to do?'

'Anything that we are capable of,' said Winston.

O'Brien had turned himself a little in his chair so that he was facing

Winston. He almost ignored Julia, seeming to take it for granted that

Winston could speak for her. For a moment the lids flitted down over his

eyes. He began asking his questions in a low, expressionless voice, as

though this were a routine, a sort of catechism, most of whose answers were

known to him already.

'You are prepared to give your lives?'

'Yes.'

'You are prepared to commit murder?'

'Yes.'

'To commit acts of sabotage which may cause the death of hundreds of

innocent people?'

'Yes.'

'To betray your country to foreign powers?'

'Yes.'

'You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to corrupt the

minds of children, to distribute habit-forming drugs, to encourage

prostitution, to disseminate venereal diseases - to do anything which is

likely to cause demoralization and weaken the power of the Party?'

'Yes.'

'If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to throw

sulphuric acid in a child's face - are you prepared to do that?'

'Yes.'

'You are prepared to lose your identity and live out the rest of your

life as a waiter or a dock-worker?'

'Yes.'

'You are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we order you to do

so?'

'Yes.'

'You are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never see one

another again?'

'No!' broke in Julia.

It appeared to Winston that a long time passed before he answered. For

a moment he seemed even to have been deprived of the power of speech. His

tongue worked soundlessly, forming the opening syllables first of one word,

then of the other, over and over again. Until he had said it, he did not

know which word he was going to say. 'No,' he said finally.

'You did well to tell me,' said O'Brien. 'It is necessary for us to

know everything.'

He turned himself toward Julia and added in a voice with somewhat more

expression in it:

'Do you understand that even if he survives, it may be as a different

person? We may be obliged to give him a new identity. His face, his

movements, the shape of his hands, the colour of his hair - even his voice

would be different. And you yourself might have become a different person.

Our surgeons can alter people beyond recognition. Sometimes it is

necessary. Sometimes we even amputate a limb.'

Winston could not help snatching another sidelong glance at Martin's

Mongolian face. There were no scars that he could see. Julia had turned a

shade paler, so that her freckles were showing, but she faced O'Brien

boldly. She murmured something that seemed to be assent.

'Good. Then that is settled.'

There was a silver box of cigarettes on the table. With a rather

absent-minded air O'Brien pushed them towards the others, took one himself,

then stood up and began to pace slowly to and fro, as though he could think

better standing. They were very good cigarettes, very thick and well-

packed, with an unfamiliar silkiness in the paper. O'Brien looked at his

wrist-watch again.

'You had better go back to your Pantry, Martin,' he said. 'I shall

switch on in a quarter of an hour. Take a good look at these comrades"

faces before you go. You will be seeing them again. I may not.'

Exactly as they had done at the front door, the little man's dark eyes

flickered over their faces. There was not a trace of friendliness in his

manner. He was memorizing their appearance, but he felt no interest in

them, or appeared to feel none. It occurred to Winston that a synthetic

face was perhaps incapable of changing its expression. Without speaking or

giving any kind of salutation, Martin went out, closing the door silently

behind him. O'Brien was strolling up and down, one hand in the pocket of

his black overalls, the other holding his cigarette.

'You understand,' he said, 'that you will be fighting in the dark. You

will always be in the dark. You will receive orders and you will obey them,

without knowing why. Later I shall send you a book from which you will

learn the true nature of the society we live in, and the strategy by which

we shall destroy it. When you have read the book, you will be full members

of the Brotherhood. But between the general aims that we are fighting for

and the immedi ate tasks of the moment, you will never know anything. I

tell you that the Brotherhood exists, but I cannot tell you whether it

numbers a hundred members, or ten million. From your personal knowledge you

will never be able to say that it numbers even as many as a dozen. You will

have three or four contacts, who will be renewed from time to time as they

disappear. As this was your first contact, it will be preserved. When you

receive orders, they will come from me. If we find it necessary to

communicate with you, it will be through Martin. When you are finally

caught, you will confess. That is unavoidable. But you will have very

little to confess, other than your own actions. You will not be able to

betray more than a handful of unimportant people. Probably you will not

even betray me. By that time I may be dead, or I shall have become a

different person, with a different face.'

He continued to move to and fro over the soft carpet. In spite of the

bulkiness of his body there was a remarkable grace in his movements. It

came out even in the gesture with which he thrust a hand into his pocket,

or manipulated a cigarette. More even than of strength, he gave an

impression of confidence and of an understanding tinged by irony. However

much in earnest he might be, he had nothing of the single-mindedness that

belongs to a fanatic. When he spoke of murder, suicide, venereal disease,

amputated limbs, and altered faces, it was with a faint air of persiflage.

'This is unavoidable,' his voice seemed to say; 'this is what we have got

to do, unflinchingly. But this is not what we shall be doing when life is

worth living again.' A wave of admiration, almost of worship, flowed out

from Winston towards O'Brien. For the moment he had forgotten the shadowy

figure of Goldstein. When you looked at O'Brien's powerful shoulders and

his blunt-featured face, so ugly and yet so civilized, it was impossible to

believe that he could be defeated. There was no stratagem that he was not

equal to, no danger that he could not foresee. Even Julia seemed to be

impressed. She had let her cigarette go out and was listening intently.

O'Brien went on:

'You will have heard rumours of the existence of the Brotherhood. No

doubt you have formed your own picture of it. You have imagined, probably,

a huge underworld of conspirators, meeting secretly in cellars, scribbling

messages on walls, recognizing one another by codewords or by special

movements of the hand. Nothing of the kind exists. The members of the

Brotherhood have no way of recognizing one another, and it is impossible

for any one member to be aware of the identity of more than a few others.

Goldstein himself, if he fell into the hands of the Thought Police, could

not give them a complete list of members, or any information that would

lead them to a complete list. No such list exists. The Brotherhood cannot

be wiped out because it is not an organization in the ordinary sense.

Nothing holds it together except an idea which is indestructible. You will

never have anything to sustain you, except the idea. You will get no

comradeship and no encouragement. When finally you are caught, you will get

no help. We never help our members. At most, when it is absolutely

necessary that someone should be silenced, we are occasionally able to

smuggle a razor blade into a prisoner's cell. You will have to get used to

living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you

will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only

results that you will ever see. There is no possibility that any

perceptible change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the dead.

Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls

of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there

is no knowing. It might be a thousand years. At present nothing is possible

except to extend the area of sanity little by little. We cannot act

collectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards from individual to

individual, generation after generation. In the face of the Thought Police

there is no other way.'

He halted and looked for the third time at his wrist-watch.

'It is almost time for you to leave, comrade,' he said to Julia.

'Wait. The decanter is still half full.'

He filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the stem.

'What shall it be this time?' he said, still with the same faint

suggestion of irony. 'To the confusion of the Thought Police? To the death

of Big Brother? To humanity? To the future?'

'To the past,' said Winston.

'The past is more important,' agreed O'Brien gravely.

They emptied their glasses, and a moment later Julia stood up to go.

O'Brien took a small box from the top of a cabinet and handed her a flat

white tablet which he told her to place on her tongue. It was important, he

said, not to go out smelling of wine: the lift attendants were very

observant. As soon as the door had shut behind her he appeared to forget

her existence. He took another pace or two up and down, then stopped.

'There are details to be settled,' he said. 'I assume that you have a

hiding-place of some kind?'

Winston explained about the room over Mr. Charrington's shop.

'That will do for the moment. Later we will arrange something else for

you. It is important to change one's hiding-place frequently. Meanwhile I

shall send you a copy of the book' - even O'Brien, Winston noticed, seemed

to pronounce the words as though they were in italics - 'Goldstein's book,

you understand, as soon as possible. It may be some days before I can get

hold of one. There are not many in existence, as you can imagine. The

Thought Police hunt them down and destroy them almost as fast as we can

produce them. It makes very little difference. The book is indestructible.

If the last copy were gone, we could reproduce it almost word for word. Do

you carry a brief-case to work with you?' he added.

'As a rule, yes.'

'What is it like?'

'Black, very shabby. With two straps.'

'Black, two straps, very shabby - good. One day in the fairly near

future - I cannot give a date - one of the messages among your morning's

work will contain a misprinted word, and you will have to ask for a repeat.

On the following day you will go to work without your brief-case. At some

time during the day, in the street, a man will touch you on the arm and say

"I think you have dropped your brief-case." The one he gives you will

contain a copy of Goldstein's book. You will return it within fourteen

days.'

They were silent for a moment.

'There are a couple of minutes before you need go,' said O'Brien. 'We

shall meet again - if we do meet again--'

Winston looked up at him. 'In the place where there is no darkness?'

he said hesitantly.

O'Brien nodded without appearance of surprise. 'In the place where

there is no darkness,' he said, as though he had recognized the allusion.

'And in the meantime, is there anything that you wish to say before you

leave? Any message? Any question?.'

Winston thought. There did not seem to be any further question that he

wanted to ask: still less did he feel any impulse to utter high-sounding

generalities. Instead of anything directly connected with O'Brien or the

Brotherhood, there came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the

dark bedroom where his mother had spent her last days, and the little room

over Mr. Charrington's shop, and the glass paperweight, and the steel

engraving in its rosewood frame. Almost at random he said:

'Did you ever happen to hear an old rhyme that begins "'Oranges and

lemons,' say the bells of St Clement's"?'

Again O'Brien nodded. With a sort of grave courtesy he completed the

stanza:

'Oranges and lemons,' say the bells of St. Clement's,

'You owe me three farthings,' say the bells of St. Martin's,

'When will you pay me?' say the bells of Old Bailey,

'When I grow rich,' say the bells of Shoreditch.

'You knew the last line!' said Winston.

'Yes, I knew the last line. And now, I am afraid, it is time for you

to go. But wait. You had better let me give you one of these tablets.'

As Winston stood up O'Brien held out a hand. His powerful grip crushed

the bones of Winston's palm. At the door Winston looked back, but O'Brien

seemed already to be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting

with his hand on the switch that controlled the telescreen. Beyond him

Winston could see the writing-table with its green-shaded lamp and the

speakwrite and the wire baskets deep-laden with papers. The incident was

closed. Within thirty seconds, it occurred to him, O'Brien would be back at

his interrupted and important work on behalf of the Party.

==IX==

Winston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was the right word. It

had come into his head spontaneously. His body seemed to have not only the

weakness of a jelly, but its translucency. He felt that if he held up his

hand he would be able to see the light through it. All the blood and lymph

had been drained out of him by an enormous debauch of work, leaving only a

frail structure of nerves, bones, and skin. All sensations seemed to be

magnified. His overalls fretted his shoulders, the pavement tickled his

feet, even the opening and closing of a hand was an effort that made his

joints creak.

He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So had everyone

else in the Ministry. Now it was all over, and he had literally nothing to

do, no Party work of any description, until tomorrow morning. He could

spend six hours in the hiding-place and another nine in his own bed.

Slowly, in mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a dingy street in the

direction of Mr. Charrington's shop, keeping one eye open for the patrols,

but irrationally convinced that this afternoon there was no danger of

anyone interfering with him. The heavy brief-case that he was carrying

bumped against his knee at each step, sending a tingling sensation up and

down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book, which he had now had in

his possession for six days and had not yet opened, nor even looked at.

On the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the speeches,

the shouting, the singing, the banners, the posters, the films, the

waxworks, the rolling of drums and squealing of trumpets, the tramp of

marching feet, the grinding of the caterpillars of tanks, the roar of

massed planes, the booming of guns - after six days of this, when the

great orgasm was quivering to its climax and the general hatred of Eurasia

had boiled up into such delirium that if the crowd could have got their

hands on the 2,000 Eurasian war-criminals who were to be publicly hanged on

the last day of the proceedings, they would unquestionably have torn them

to pieces - at just this moment it had been announced that Oceania was not

after all at war with Eurasia. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Eurasia

was an ally.

There was, of course, no admission that any change had taken place.

Merely it became known, with extreme suddenness and everywhere at once,

that Eastasia and not Eurasia was the enemy. Winston was taking part in a

demonstration in one of the central London squares at the moment when it

happened. It was night, and the white faces and the scarlet banners were

luridly floodlit. The square was packed with several thousand people,

including a block of about a thousand schoolchildren in the uniform of the

Spies. On a scarlet-draped platform an orator of the Inner Party, a small

lean man with disproportionately long arms and a large bald skull over

which a few lank locks straggled, was haranguing the crowd. A little

Rumpelstiltskin figure, contorted with hatred, he gripped the neck of the

microphone with one hand while the other, enormous at the end of a bony

arm, clawed the air menacingly above his head. His voice, made metallic by

the amplifiers, boomed forth an endless catalogue of atrocities, massacres,

deportations, lootings, rapings, torture of prisoners, bombing of

civilians, lying propaganda, unjust aggressions, broken treaties. It was

almost impossible to listen to him without being first convinced and then

maddened. At every few moments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the

voice of the speaker was drowned by a wild beast-like roaring that rose

uncontrollably from thousands of throats. The most savage yells of all came

from the schoolchildren. The speech had been proceeding for perhaps twenty

minutes when a messenger hurried on to the platform and a scrap of paper

was slipped into the speaker's hand. He unrolled and read it without

pausing in his speech. Nothing altered in his voice or manner, or in the

content of what he was saying, but suddenly the names were different.

Without words said, a wave of understanding rippled through the crowd.

Oceania was at war with Eastasia! The next moment there was a tremendous

commotion. The banners and posters with which the square was decorated were

all wrong! Quite half of them had the wrong faces on them. It was sabotage!

The agents of Goldstein had been at work! There was a riotous interlude

while posters were ripped from the walls, banners torn to shreds and

trampled underfoot. The Spies performed prodigies of activity in clambering

over the rooftops and cutting the streamers that fluttered from the

chimneys. But within two or three minutes it was all over. The orator,

still gripping the neck of the microphone, his shoulders hunched forward,

his free hand clawing at the air, had gone straight on with his speech. One

minute more, and the feral roars of rage were again bursting from the

crowd. The Hate continued exactly as before, except that the target had

been changed.

The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was that the speaker

had switched from one line to the other actually in midsentence, not only

without a pause, but without even breaking the syntax. But at the moment he

had other things to preoccupy him. It was during the moment of disorder

while the posters were being torn down that a man whose face he did not see

had tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Excuse me, I think you've dropped

your brief-case.' He took the brief-case abstractedly, without speaking. He

knew that it would be days before he had an opportunity to look inside it.

The instant that the demonstration was over he went straight to the

Ministry of Truth, though the time was now nearly twenty-three hours. The

entire staff of the Ministry had done likewise. The orders already issuing

from the telescreen, recalling them to their posts, were hardly necessary.

Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always been at war with

Eastasia. A large part of the political literature of five years was now

completely obsolete. Reports and records of all kinds, newspapers, books,

pamphlets, films, sound-tracks, photographs - all had to be rectified at

lightning speed. Although no directive was ever issued, it was known that

the chiefs of the Department intended that within one week no reference to

the war with Eurasia, or the alliance with Eastasia, should remain in

existence anywhere. The work was overwhelming, all the more so because the

processes that it involved could not be called by their true names.

Everyone in the Records Department worked eighteen hours in the twenty-

four, with two three-hour snatches of sleep. Mattresses were brought up

from the cellars and pitched all over the corridors: meals consisted of

sandwiches and Victory Coffee wheeled round on trolleys by attendants from

the canteen. Each time that Winston broke off for one of his spells of

sleep he tried to leave his desk clear of work, and each time that he

crawled back sticky-eyed and aching, it was to find that another shower of

paper cylinders had covered the desk like a snowdrift, halfburying the

speakwrite and overflowing on to the floor, so that the first job was

always to stack them into a neat enough pile to give him room to work. What

was worst of all was that the work was by no means purely mechanical. Often

it was enough merely to substitute one name for another, but any detailed

report of events demanded care and imagination. Even the geographical

knowledge that one needed in transferring the war from one part of the

world to another was considerable.

By the third day his eyes ached unbearably and his spectacles needed

wiping every few minutes. It was like struggling with some crushing

physical task, something which one had the right to refuse and which one

was nevertheless neurotically anxious to accomplish. In so far as he had

time to remember it, he was not troubled by the fact that every word he

murmured into the speakwrite, every stroke of his ink-pencil, was a

deliberate lie. He was as anxious as anyone else in the Department that the

forgery should be perfect. On the morning of the sixth day the dribble of

cylinders slowed down. For as much as half an hour nothing came out of the

tube; then one more cylinder, then nothing. Everywhere at about the same

time the work was easing off. A deep and as it were secret sigh went

through the Department. A mighty deed, which could never be mentioned, had

been achieved. It was now impossible for any human being to prove by

documentary evidence that the war with Eurasia had ever happened. At twelve

hundred it was unexpectedly announced that all workers in the Ministry were

free till tomorrow morning. Winston, still carrying the brief-case

containing the book, which had remained between his feet while he worked

and under his body while he slept, went home, shaved himself, and almost

fell asleep in his bath, although the water was barely more than tepid.

With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he climbed the stair

above Mr. Charrington's shop. He was tired, but not sleepy any longer. He

opened the window, lit the dirty little oilstove and put on a pan of water

for coffee. Julia would arrive presently: meanwhile there was the book. He

sat down in the sluttish armchair and undid the straps of the brief-case.

A heavy black volume, amateurishly bound, with no name or title on the

cover. The print also looked slightly irregular. The pages were worn at the

edges, and fell apart, easily, as though the book had passed through many

hands. The inscription on the title-page ran:

THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF

OLIGARCHICAL COLLECTIVISM

by

Emmanuel Goldstein

Winston began reading:

Chapter I.

Ignorance is Strength.

Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic

Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the

Middle, and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have

borne countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as

their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the

essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous

upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always

reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium,

however far it is pushed one way or the other.

The aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable...

Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact that

he was reading, in comfort and safety. He was alone: no telescreen, no ear

at the keyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the

page with his hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From

somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of children: in the room

itself there was no sound except the insect voice of the clock. He settled

deeper into the arm-chair and put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss,

it was etemity. Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one

knows that one will ultimately read and re-read every word, he opened it at

a different place and found himself at Chapter III. He went on reading:

Chapter III.

War is Peace.

The splitting up of the world into three great super-states was an

event which could be and indeed was foreseen before the middle of the

twentieth century. With the absorption of Europe by Russia and of the

British Empire by the United States, two of the three existing powers,

Eurasia and Oceania, were already effectively in being. The third,

Eastasia, only emerged as a distinct unit after another decade of confused

fighting. The frontiers between the three super-states are in some places

arbitrary, and in others they fluctuate according to the fortunes of war,

but in general they follow geographical lines. Eurasia comprises the whole

of the northern part of the European and Asiatic land-mass, from Portugal

to the Bering Strait. Oceania comprises the Americas, the Atlantic islands

including the British Isles, Australasia, and the southern portion of

Africa. Eastasia, smaller than the others and with a less definite western

frontier, comprises China and the countries to the south of it, the

Japanese islands and a large but fluctuating portion of Manchuria,

Mongolia, and Tibet.

In one combination or another, these three super-states are

permanently at war, and have been so for the past twenty-five years. War,

however, is no longer the desperate, annihilating struggle that it was in

the early decades of the twentieth century. It is a warfare of limited aims

between combatants who are unable to destroy one another, have no material

cause for fighting and are not divided by any genuine ideological

difference This is not to say that either the conduct of war, or the

prevailing attitude towards it, has become less bloodthirsty or more

chivalrous. On the contrary, war hysteria is continuous and universal in

all countries, and such acts as raping, looting, the slaughter of children,

the reduction of whole populations to slavery, and reprisals against

prisoners which extend even to boiling and burying alive, are looked upon

as normal, and, when they are committed by one's own side and not by the

enemy, meritorious. But in a physical sense war involves very small numbers

of people, mostly highly-trained specialists, and causes comparatively few

casualties. The fighting, when there is any, takes place on the vague

frontiers whose whereabouts the average man can only guess at, or round the

Floating Fortresses which guard strategic spots on the sea lanes. In the

centres of civilization war means no more than a continuous shortage of

consumption goods, and the occasional crash of a rocket bomb which may

cause a few scores of deaths. War has in fact changed its character. More

exactly, the reasons for which war is waged have changed in their order of

importance. Motives which were already present to some small extent in the

great wars of the early twentieth centuury have now become dominant and are

consciously recognized and acted upon.

To understand the nature of the present war - for in spite of the

regrouping which occurs every few years, it is always the same war - one

must realize in the first place that it is impossible for it to be

decisive. None of the three super-states could be definitively conquered

even by the other two in combination. They are too evenly matched, and

their natural defences are too formidable. Eurasia is protected by its vast

land spaces, Oceania by the width of the Atlantic and the Pacific, Eastasia

by the fecundity and indus triousness of its inhabitants. Secondly, there

is no longer, in a material sense, anything to fight about. With the

establishment of self-contained economies, in which production and

consumption are geared to one another, the scramble for markets which was a

main cause of previous wars has come to an end, while the competition for

raw materials is no longer a matter of life and death. In any case each of

the three super-states is so vast that it can obtain almost all the

materials that it needs within its own boundaries. In so far as the war has

a direct economic purpose, it is a war for labour power. Between the

frontiers of the super-states, and not permanently in the possession of any

of them, there lies a rough quadrilateral with its corners at Tangier,

Brazzaville, Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing within it about a fifth of

the population of the earth. It is for the possession of these thickly-

populated regions, and of the northern ice-cap, that the three powers are

constantly struggling. In practice no one power ever controls the whole of

the disputed area. Portions of it are constantly changing hands, and it is

the chance of seizing this or that fragment by a sudden stroke of treachery

that dictates the endless changes of alignment.

All of the disputed territories contain valuable minerals, and some of

them yield important vegetable products such as rubber which in colder

climates it is necessary to synthesize by comparatively expensive methods.

But above all they contain a bottomless reserve of cheap labour. Whichever

power controls equatorial Africa, or the countries of the Middle East, or

Southern India, or the Indonesian Archipelago, disposes also of the bodies

of scores or hundreds of millions of ill-paid and hard-working coolies. The

inhabitants of these areas, reduced more or less openly to the status of

slaves, pass continually from conqueror to conqueror, and are expended like

so much coal or oil in the race to turn out more armaments, to capture more

territory, to control more labour power, to turn out more armaments, to

capture more territory, and so on indefinitely. It should be noted that the

fighting never really moves beyond the edges of the disputed areas. The

frontiers of Eurasia flow back and forth between the basin of the Congo and

the northern shore of the Mediterranean; the islands of the Indian Ocean

and the Pacific are constantly being captured and recaptured by Oceania or

by Eastasia; in Mongolia the dividing line between Eurasia and Eastasia is

never stable; round the Pole all three powers lay claim to enormous

territories which in fact are largely unihabited and unexplored: but the

balance of power always remains roughly even, and the territory which forms

the heartland of each super-state always remains inviolate. Moreover, the

labour of the exploited peoples round the Equator is not really necessary

to the world's economy. They add nothing to the wealth of the world, since

whatever they produce is used for purposes of war, and the object of waging

a war is always to be in a better position in which to wage another war. By

their labour the slave populations allow the tempo of continuous warfare to

be speeded up. But if they did not exist, the structure of world society,

and the process by which it maintains itself, would not be essentially

different.

The primary aim of modern warfare (in accordance with the principles

of doublethink, this aim is simultaneously recognized and not recognized by

the directing brains of the Inner Party) is to use up the products of the

machine without raising the general standard of living. Ever since the end

of the nineteenth century, the problem of what to do with the surplus of

consumption goods has been latent in industrial society. At present, when

few human beings even have enough to eat, this problem is obviously not

urgent, and it might not have become so, even if no artificial processes of

destruction had been at work. The world of today is a bare, hungry,

dilapidated place compared with the world that existed before 1914, and

still more so if compared with the imaginary future to which the people of

that period looked forward. In the early twentieth century, the vision of a

future society unbelievably rich, leisured, orderly, and efficient - a

glittering antiseptic world of glass and steel and snow-white concrete -

was part of the consciousness of nearly every literate person. Science and

technology were developing at a prodigious speed, and it seemed natural to

assume that they would go on developing. This failed to happen, partly

because of the impoverishment caused by a long series of wars and

revolutions, partly because scientific and technical progress depended on

the empirical habit of thought, which could not survive in a strictly

regimented society. As a whole the world is more primitive today than it

was fifty years ago. Certain backward areas have advanced, and various

devices, always in some way connected with warfare and police espionage,

have been developed, but experiment and invention have largely stopped, and

the ravages of the atomic war of the nineteen-fifties have never been fully

repaired. Nevertheless the dangers inherent in the machine are still there.

From the moment when the machine first made its appearance it was clear to

all thinking people that the need for human drudgery, and therefore to a

great extent for human inequality, had disappeared. If the machine were

used deliberately for that end, hunger, overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and

disease could be eliminated within a few generations. And in fact, without

being used for any such purpose, but by a sort of automatic process - by

producing wealth which it was sometimes impossible not to distribute - the

machine did raise the living standards of the average humand being very

greatly over a period of about fifty years at the end of the nineteenth and

the beginning of the twentieth centuries.

But it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth threatened

the destruction - indeed, in some sense was the destruction - of a

hierarchical society. In a world in which everyone worked short hours, had

enough to eat, lived in a house with a bathroom and a refrigerator, and

possessed a motor-car or even an aeroplane, the most obvious and perhaps

the most important form of inequality would already have disappeared. If it

once became general, wealth would confer no distinction. It was possible,

no doubt, to imagine a society in which wealth, in the sense of personal

possessions and luxuries, should be evenly distributed, while power

remained in the hands of a small privileged caste. But in practice such a

society could not long remain stable. For if leisure and security were

enjoyed by all alike, the great mass of human beings who are normally

stupefied by poverty would become literate and would learn to think for

themselves; and when once they had done this, they would sooner or later

realize that the privileged minority had no function, and they would sweep

it away. In the long run, a hierarchical society was only possible on a

basis of poverty and ignorance. To return to the agricultural past, as some

thinkers about the beginning of the twentieth century dreamed of doing, was

not a practicable solution. It conflicted with the tendency towards

mechanization which had become quasi-instinctive throughout almost the

whole world, and moreover, any country which remained industrially backward

was helpless in a military sense and was bound to be dominated, directly or

indirectly, by its more advanced rivals.

Nor was it a satisfactory solution to keep the masses in poverty by

restricting the output of goods. This happened to a great extent during the

final phase of capitalism, roughly between 1920 and 1940. The economy of

many countries was allowed to stagnate, land went out of cultivation,

capital equipment was not added to, great blocks of the population were

prevented from working and kept half alive by State charity. But this, too,

entailed military weakness, and since the privations it inflicted were

obviously unnecessary, it made opposition inevitable. The problem was how

to keep the wheels of industry turning without increasing the real wealth

of the world. Goods must be produced, but they must not be distributed. And

in practice the only way of achieving this was by continuous warfare.

The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human

lives, but of the products of human labour. War is a way of shattering to

pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths of the

sea, materials which might otherwise be used to make the masses too

comfortable, and hence, in the long run, too intelligent. Even when weapons

of war are not actually destroyed, their manufacture is still a convenient

way of expending labour power without producing anything that can be

consumed. A Floating Fortress, for example, has locked up in it the labour

that would build several hundred cargo-ships. Ultimately it is scrapped as

obsolete, never having brought any material benefit to anybody, and with

further enormous labours another Floating Fortress is built. In principle

the war effort is always so planned as to eat up any surplus that might

exist after meeting the bare needs of the population. In practice the needs

of the population are always underestimated, with the result that there is

a chronic shortage of half the necessities of life; but this is looked on

as an advantage. It is deliberate policy to keep even the favoured groups

somewhere near the brink of hardship, because a general state of scarcity

increases the importance of small privileges and thus magnifies the

distinction between one group and another. By the standards of the early

twentieth century, even a member of the Inner Party lives an austere,

laborious kind of life. Nevertheless, the few luxuries that he does enjoy

his large, well-appointed flat, the better texture of his clothes, the

better quality of his food and drink and tobacco, his two or three

servants, his private motor-car or helicopter - set him in a different

world from a member of the Outer Party, and the members of the Outer Party

have a similar advantage in comparison with the submerged masses whom we

call 'the proles'. The social atmosphere is that of a besieged city, where

the possession of a lump of horseflesh makes the difference between wealth

and poverty. And at the same time the consciousness of being at war, and

therefore in danger, makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste

seem the natural, unavoidable condition of survival.

War, it will be seen, accomplishes the necessary destruction, but

accomplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way. In principle it would

be quite simple to waste the surplus labour of the world by building

temples and pyramids, by digging holes and filling them up again, or even

by producing vast quantities of goods and then setting fire to them. But

this would provide only the economic and not the emotional basis for a

hierarchical society. What is concerned here is not the morale of masses,

whose attitude is unimportant so long as they are kept steadily at work,

but the morale of the Party itself. Even the humblest Party member is

expected to be competent, industrious, and even intelligent within narrow

limits, but it is also necessary that he should be a credulous and ignorant

fanatic whose prevailing moods are fear, hatred, adulation, and orgiastic

triumph. In other words it is necessary that he should have the mentality

appropriate to a state of war. It does not matter whether the war is

actually happening, and, since no decisive victory is possible, it does not

matter whether the war is going well or badly. All that is needed is that a

state of war should exist. The splitting of the intelligence which the

Party requires of its members, and which is more easily achieved in an

atmosphere of war, is now almost universal, but the higher up the ranks one

goes, the more marked it becomes. It is precisely in the Inner Party that

war hysteria and hatred of the enemy are strongest. In his capacity as an

administrator, it is often necessary for a member of the Inner Party to

know that this or that item of war news is untruthful, and he may often be

aware that the entire war is spurious and is either not happening or is

being waged for purposes quite other than the declared ones: but such

knowledge is easily neutralized by the technique of doublethink. Meanwhile

no Inner Party member wavers for an instant in his mystical belief that the

war is real, and that it is bound to end victoriously, with Oceania the

undisputed master of the entire world.

All members of the Inner Party believe in this coming conquest as an

article of faith. It is to be achieved either by gradually acquiring more

and more territory and so building up an overwhelming preponderance of

power, or by the discovery of some new and unanswerable weapon. The search

for new weapons continues unceasingly, and is one of the very few remaining

activities in which the inventive or speculative type of mind can find any

outlet. In Oceania at the present day, Science, in the old sense, has

almost ceased to exist. In Newspeak there is no word for 'Science'. The

empirical method of thought, on which all the scientific achievements of

the past were founded, is opposed to the most fundamental principles of

Ingsoc. And even technological progress only happens when its products can

in some way be used for the diminution of human liberty. In all the useful

arts the world is either standing still or going backwards. The fields are

cultivated with horse-ploughs while books are written by machinery. But in

matters of vital importance - meaning, in effect, war and police espionage

- the empirical approach is still encouraged, or at least tolerated. The

two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole surface of the earth and to

extinguish once and for all the possibility of independent thought. There

are therefore two great problems which the Party is concerned to solve. One

is how to discover, against his will, what another human being is thinking,

and the other is how to kill several hundred million people in a few

seconds without giving warning beforehand. In so far as scientific research

still continues, this is its subject matter. The scientist of today is

either a mixture of psychologist and inquisitor, studying with real

ordinary minuteness the meaning of facial expressions, gestures, and tones

of voice, and testing the truth-producing effects of drugs, shock therapy,

hypnosis, and physical torture; or he is chemist, physicist, or biologist

concerned only with such branches of his special subject as are relevant to

the taking of life. In the vast laboratories of the Ministry of Peace, and

in the experimental stations hidden in the Brazilian forests, or in the

Australian desert, or on lost islands of the Antarctic, the teams of

experts are indefatigably at work. Some are concerned simply with planning

the logistics of future wars; others devise larger and larger rocket bombs,

more and more powerful explosives, and more and more impenetrable armour-

plating; others search for new and deadlier gases, or for soluble poisons

capable of being produced in such quantities as to destroy the vegetation

of whole continents, or for breeds of disease germs immunized against all

possible antibodies; others strive to produce a vehicle that shall bore its

way under the soil like a submarine under the water, or an aeroplane as

independent of its base as a sailing-ship; others explore even remoter

possibilities such as focusing the sun's rays through lenses suspended

thousands of kilometres away in space, or producing artificial earthquakes

and tidal waves by tapping the heat at the earth's centre.

But none of these projects ever comes anywhere near realization, and

none of the three super-states ever gains a significant lead on the others.

What is more remarkable is that all three powers already possess, in the

atomic bomb, a weapon far more powerful than any that their present

researches are likely to discover. Although the Party, according to its

habit, claims the invention for itself, atomic bombs first appeared as

early as the nineteen-forties, and were first used on a large scale about

ten years later. At that time some hundreds of bombs were dropped on

industrial centres, chiefly in European Russia, Western Europe, and North

America. The effect was to convince the ruling groups of all countries that

a few more atomic bombs would mean the end of organized society, and hence

of their own power. Thereafter, although no formal agreement was ever made

or hinted at, no more bombs were dropped. All three powers merely continue

to produce atomic bombs and store them up against the decisive opportunity

which they all believe will come sooner or later. And meanwhile the art of

war has remained almost stationary for thirty or forty years. Helicopters

are more used than they were formerly, bombing planes have been largely

superseded by self-propelled projectiles, and the fragile movable

battleship has given way to the almost unsinkable Floating Fortress; but

otherwise there has been little development. The tank, the submarine, the

torpedo, the machine gun, even the rifle and the hand grenade are still in

use. And in spite of the endless slaughters reported in the Press and on

the telescreens, the desperate battles of earlier wars, in which hundreds

of thousands or even millions of men were often killed in a few weeks, have

never been repeated.

None of the three super-states ever attempts any manoeuvre which

involves the risk of serious defeat. When any large operation is

undertaken, it is usually a surprise attack against an ally. The strategy

that all three powers are following, or pretend to themselves that they are

following, is the same. The plan is, by a combination of fighting,

bargaining, and well-timed strokes of treachery, to acquire a ring of bases

completely encircling one or other of the rival states, and then to sign a

pact of friendship with that rival and remain on peaceful terms for so many

years as to lull suspicion to sleep. During this time rockets loaded with

atomic bombs can be assembled at all the strategic spots; finally they will

all be fired simultaneously, with effects so devastating as to make

retaliation impossible. It will then be time to sign a pact of friendship

with the remaining world-power, in preparation for another attack. This

scheme, it is hardly necessary to say, is a mere daydream, impossible of

realization. Moreover, no fighting ever occurs except in the disputed areas

round the Equator and the Pole: no invasion of enemy territory is ever

undertaken. This explains the fact that in some places the frontiers

between the superstates are arbitrary. Eurasia, for example, could easily

conquer the British Isles, which are geographically part of Europe, or on

the other hand it would be possible for Oceania to push its frontiers to

the Rhine or even to the Vistula. But this would violate the principle,

followed on all sides though never formulated, of cultural integrity. If

Oceania were to conquer the areas that used once to be known as France and

Germany, it would be necessary either to exterminate the inhabitants, a

task of great physical difficulty, or to assimilate a population of about a

hundred million people, who, so far as technical development goes, are

roughly on the Oceanic level. The problem is the same for all three super-

states. It is absolutely necessary to their structure that there should be

no contact with foreigners, except, to a limited extent, with war prisoners

and coloured slaves. Even the official ally of the moment is always

regarded with the darkest suspicion. War prisoners apart, the average

citizen of Oceania never sets eyes on a citizen of either Eurasia or

Eastasia, and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If he

were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover that they are

creatures similar to himself and that most of what he has been told about

them is lies. The sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the

fear, hatred, and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might

evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides that however often Persia,

or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon may change hands, the main frontiers must

never be crossed by anything except bombs.

Under this lies a fact never mentioned aloud, but tacitly understood

and acted upon: namely, that the conditions of life in all three super-

states are very much the same. In Oceania the prevailing philosophy is

called Ingsoc, in Eurasia it is called Neo-Bolshevism, and in Eastasia it

is called by a Chinese name usually translated as Death-Worship, but

perhaps better rendered as Obliteration of the Self. The citizen of Oceania

is not allowed to know anything of the tenets of the other two

philosophies, but he is taught to execrate them as barbarous outrages upon

morality and common sense. Actually the three philosophies are barely

distinguishable, and the social systems which they support are not

distinguishable at all. Everywhere there is the same pyramidal structure,

the same worship of semi-divine leader, the same economy existing by and

for continuous warfare. It follows that the three super-states not only

cannot conquer one another, but would gain no advantage by doing so. On the

contrary, so long as they remain in conflict they prop one another up, like

three sheaves of corn. And, as usual, the ruling groups of all three powers

are simultaneously aware and unaware of what they are doing. Their lives

are dedicated to world conquest, but they also know that it is necessary

that the war should continue everlastingly and without victory. Meanwhile

the fact that there IS no danger of conquest makes possible the denial of

reality which is the special feature of Ingsoc and its rival systems of

thought. Here it is necessary to repeat what has been said earlier, that by

becoming continuous war has fundamentally changed its character.

In past ages, a war, almost by definition, was something that sooner

or later came to an end, usually in unmistakable victory or defeat. In the

past, also, war was one of the main instruments by which human societies

were kept in touch with physical reality. All rulers in all ages have tried

to impose a false view of the world upon their followers, but they could

not afford to encourage any illusion that tended to impair military

efficiency. So long as defeat meant the loss of independence, or some other

result generally held to be undesirable, the precautions against defeat had

to be serious. Physical facts could not be ignored. In philosophy, or

religion, or ethics, or politics, two and two might make five, but when one

was designing a gun or an aeroplane they had to make four. Inefficient

nations were always conquered sooner or later, and the struggle for

efficiency was inimical to illusions. Moreover, to be efficient it was

necessary to be able to learn from the past, which meant having a fairly

accurate idea of what had happened in the past. Newspapers and history

books were, of course, always coloured and biased, but falsification of the

kind that is practised today would have been impossible. War was a sure

safeguard of sanity, and so far as the ruling classes were concerned it was

probably the most important of all safeguards. While wars could be won or

lost, no ruling class could be completely irresponsible.

But when war becomes literally continuous, it also ceases to be

dangerous. When war is continuous there is no such thing as military

necessity. Technical progress can cease and the most palpable facts can be

denied or disregarded. As we have seen, researches that could be called

scientific are still carried out for the purposes of war, but they are

essentially a kind of daydreaming, and their failure to show results is not

important. Efficiency, even military efficiency, is no longer needed.

Nothing is efficient in Oceania except the Thought Police. Since each of

the three super-states is unconquerable, each is in effect a separate

universe within which almost any perversion of thought can be safely

practised. Reality only exerts its pressure through the needs of everyday

life - the need to eat and drink, to get shelter and clothing, to avoid

swallowing poison or stepping out of top-storey windows, and the like.

Between life and death, and between physical pleasure and physical pain,

there is still a distinction, but that is all. Cut off from contact with

the outer world, and with the past, the citizen of Oceania is like a man in

interstellar space, who has no way of knowing which direction is up and

which is down. The rulers of such a state are absolute, as the Pharaohs or

the Caesars could not be. They are obliged to prevent their followers from

starving to death in numbers large enough to be inconvenient, and they are

obliged to remain at the same low level of military technique as their

rivals; but once that minimum is achieved, they can twist reality into

whatever shape they choose.

The war, therefore, if we judge it by the standards of previous wars,

is merely an imposture. It is like the battles between certain ruminant

animals whose horns are set at such an angle that they are incapable of

hurting one another. But though it is unreal it is not meaningless. It eats

up the surplus of consumable goods, and it helps to preserve the special

mental atmosphere that a hierarchical society needs. War, it will be seen,

is now a purely internal affair. In the past, the ruling groups of all

countries, although they might recognize their common interest and

therefore limit the destructiveness of war, did fight against one another,

and the victor always plundered the vanquished. In our own day they are not

fighting against one another at all. The war is waged by each ruling group

against its own subjects, and the object of the war is not to make or

prevent conquests of territory, but to keep the structure of society

intact. The very word 'war', therefore, has become misleading. It would

probably be accurate to say that by becoming continuous war has ceased to

exist. The peculiar pressure that it exerted on human beings between the

Neolithic Age and the early twentieth century has disappeared and been

replaced by something quite different. The effect would be much the same if

the three super-states, instead of fighting one another, should agree to

live in perpetual peace, each inviolate within its own boundaries. For in

that case each would still be a self-contained universe, freed for ever

from the sobering influence of external danger. A peace that was truly

permanent would be the same as a permanent war. This - although the vast

majority of Party members understand it only in a shallower sense - is the

inner meaning of the Party slogan: War is peace.

Winston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in remote distance a

rocket bomb thundered. The blissful feeling of being alone with the

forbidden book, in a room with no telescreen, had not worn off. Solitude

and safety were physical sensations, mixed up somehow with the tiredness of

his body, the softness of the chair, the touch of the faint breeze from the

window that played upon his cheek. The book fascinated him, or more exactly

it reassured him. In a sense it told him nothing that was new, but that was

part of the attraction. It said what he would have said, if it had been

possible for him to set his scattered thoughts in order. It was the product

of a mind similar to his own, but enormously more powerful, more

systematic, less fear-ridden. The best books, he perceived, are those that

tell you what you know already. He had just turned back to Chapter I when

he heard Julia's footstep on the stair and started out of his chair to meet

her. She dumped her brown tool-bag on the floor and flung herself into his

arms. It was more than a week since they had seen one another.

'I've got the book,' he said as they disentangled themselves.

'Oh, you've got it? Good,' she said without much interest, and almost

immediately knelt down beside the oil stove to make the coffee.

They did not return to the subject until they had been in bed for half

an hour. The evening was just cool enough to make it worth while to pull up

the counterpane. From below came the familiar sound of singing and the

scrape of boots on the flagstones. The brawny red-armed woman whom Winston

had seen there on his first visit was almost a fixture in the yard. There

seemed to be no hour of daylight when she was not marching to and fro

between the washtub and the line, alternately gagging herself with clothes

pegs and breaking forth into lusty song. Julia had settled down on her side

and seemed to be already on the point of falling asleep. He reached out for

the book, which was lying on the floor, and sat up against the bedhead.

'We must read it,' he said. 'You too. All members of the Brotherhood

have to read it.'

'You read it,' she said with her eyes shut. 'Read it aloud. That's the

best way. Then you can explain it to me as you go.'

The clock's hands said six, meaning eighteen. They had three or four

hours ahead of them. He propped the book against his knees and began

reading:

Chapter I.

Ignorance is Strength.

Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic

Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the

Middle, and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have

borne countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as

their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the

essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous

upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always

reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibnum,

however far it is pushed one way or the other

'Julia, are you awake?' said Winston.

'Yes, my love, I'm listening. Go on. It's marvellous.'

He continued reading:

The aims of these three groups are entirely irreconcilable. The aim of

the High is to remain where they are. The aim of the Middle is to change

places with the High. The aim of the Low, when they have an aim - for it

is an abiding characteristic of the Low that they are too much crushed by

drudgery to be more than intermittently conscious of anything outside their

daily lives - is to abolish all distinctions and create a society in which

all men shall be equal. Thus throughout history a struggle which is the

same in its main outlines recurs over and over again. For long periods the

High seem to be securely in power, but sooner or later there always comes a

moment when they lose either their belief in themselves or their capacity

to govern efficiently, or both. They are then overthrown by the Middle, who

enlist the Low on their side by pretending to them that they are fighting

for liberty and justice. As soon as they have reached their objective, the

Middle thrust the Low back into their old position of servitude, and

themselves become the High. Presently a new Middle group splits off from

one of the other groups, or from both of them, and the struggle begins over

again. Of the three groups, only the Low are never even temporarily

successful in achieving their aims. It would be an exaggeration to say that

throughout history there has been no progress of a material kind. Even

today, in a period of decline, the average human being is physically better

off than he was a few centuries ago. But no advance in wealth, no softening

of manners, no reform or revolution has ever brought human equality a

millimetre nearer. From the point of view of the Low, no historic change

has ever meant much more than a change in the name of their masters.

By the late nineteenth century the recurrence of this pattern had

become obvious to many observers. There then rose schools of thinkers who

interpreted history as a cyclical process and claimed to show that

inequality was the unalterable law of human life. This doctrine, of course,

had always had its adherents, but in the manner in which it was now put

forward there was a significant change. In the past the need for a

hierarchical form of society had been the doctrine specifically of the

High. It had been preached by kings and aristocrats and by the priests,

lawyers, and the like who were parasitical upon them, and it had generally

been softened by promises of compensation in an imaginary world beyond the

grave. The Middle, so long as it was struggling for power, had always made

use of such terms as freedom, justice, and fraternity. Now, however, the

concept of human brotherhood began to be assailed by people who were not

yet in positions of command, but merely hoped to be so before long. In the

past the Middle had made revolutions under the banner of equality, and then

had established a fresh tyranny as soon as the old one was overthrown. The

new Middle groups in effect proclaimed their tyranny beforehand. Socialism,

a theory which appeared in the early nineteenth century and was the last

link in a chain of thought stretching back to the slave rebellions of

antiquity, was still deeply infected by the Utopianism of past ages. But in

each variant of Socialism that appeared from about 1900 onwards the aim of

establishing liberty and equality was more and more openly abandoned. The

new movements which appeared in the middle years of the century, Ingsoc in

Oceania, Neo-Bolshevism in Eurasia, Death-Worship, as it is commonly

called, in Eastasia, had the conscious aim of perpetuating UNfreedom and

INequality. These new movements, of course, grew out of the old ones and

tended to keep their names and pay lip-service to their ideology. But the

purpose of all of them was to arrest progress and freeze history at a

chosen moment. The familiar pendulum swing was to happen once more, and

then stop. As usual, the High were to be turned out by the Middle, who

would then become the High; but this time, by conscious strategy, the High

would be able to maintain their position permanently.

The new doctrines arose partly because of the accumulation of

historical knowledge, and the growth of the historical sense, which had

hardly existed before the nineteenth century. The cyclical movement of

history was now intelligible, or appeared to be so; and if it was

intelligible, then it was alterable. But the principal, underlying cause

was that, as early as the beginning of the twentieth century, human

equality had become technically possible. It was still true that men were

not equal in their native talents and that functions had to be specialized

in ways that favoured some individuals against others; but there was no

longer any real need for class distinctions or for large differences of

wealth. In earlier ages, class distinctions had been not only inevitable

but desirable. Inequality was the price of civilization. With the

development of machine production, however, the case was altered. Even if

it was still necessary for human beings to do different kinds of work, it

was no longer necessary for them to live at different social or economic

levels. Therefore, from the point of view of the new groups who were on the

point of seizing power, human equality was no longer an ideal to be striven

after, but a danger to be averted. In more primitive ages, when a just and

peaceful society was in fact not possible, it had been fairly easy to

believe it. The idea of an earthly paradise in which men should live

together in a state of brotherhood, without laws and without brute labour,

had haunted the human imagination for thousands of years. And this vision

had had a certain hold even on the groups who actually profited by each

historical change. The heirs of the French, English, and American

revolutions had partly believed in their own phrases about the rights of

man, freedom of speech, equality before the law, and the like, and have

even allowed their conduct to be influenced by them to some extent. But by

the fourth decade of the twentieth century all the main currents of

political thought were authoritarian. The earthly paradise had been

discredited at exactly the moment when it became realizable. Every new

political theory, by whatever name it called itself, led back to hierarchy

and regimentation. And in the general hardening of outlook that set in

round about 1930, practices which had been long abandoned, in some cases

for hundreds of years - imprisonment without trial, the use of war

prisoners as slaves, public executions, torture to extract confessions, the

use of hostages, and the deportation of whole populations - not only

became common again, but were tolerated and even defended by people who

considered themselves enlightened and progressive.

It was only after a decade of national wars, civil wars, revolutions,

and counter-revolutions in all parts of the world that Ingsoc and its

rivals emerged as fully worked-out political theories. But they had been

foreshadowed by the various systems, generally called totalitarian, which

had appeared earlier in the century, and the main outlines of the world

which would emerge from the prevailing chaos had long been obvious. What

kind of people would control this world had been equally obvious. The new

aristocracy was made up for the most part of bureaucrats, scientists,

technicians, trade-union organizers, publicity experts, sociologists,

teachers, journalists, and professional politicians. These people, whose

origins lay in the salaried middle class and the upper grades of the

working class, had been shaped and brought together by the barren world of

monopoly industry and centralized government. As compared with their

opposite numbers in past ages, they were less avaricious, less tempted by

luxury, hungrier for pure power, and, above all, more conscious of what

they were doing and more intent on crushing opposition. This last

difference was cardinal. By comparison with that existing today, all the

tyrannies of the past were half-hearted and inefficient. The ruling groups

were always infected to some extent by liberal ideas, and were content to

leave loose ends everywhere, to regard only the overt act and to be

uninterested in what their subjects were thinking. Even the Catholic Church

of the Middle Ages was tolerant by modern standards. Part of the reason for

this was that in the past no government had the power to keep its citizens

under constant surveillance. The invention of print, however, made it

easier to manipulate public opinion, and the film and the radio carried the

process further. With the development of television, and the technical

advance which made it possible to receive and transmit simultaneously on

the same instrument, private life came to an end. Every citizen, or at

least every citizen important enough to be worth watching, could be kept

for twentyfour hours a day under the eyes of the police and in the sound of

official propaganda, with all other channels of communication closed. The

possibility of enforcing not only complete obedience to the will of the

State, but complete uniformity of opinion on all subjects, now existed for

the first time.

After the revolutionary period of the fifties and sixties, society

regrouped itself, as always, into High, Middle, and Low. But the new High

group, unlike all its forerunners, did not act upon instinct but knew what

was needed to safeguard its position. It had long been realized that the

only secure basis for oligarchy is collectivism. Wealth and privilege are

most easily defended when they are possessed jointly. The so-called

'abolition of private property' which took place in the middle years of the

century meant, in effect, the concentration of property in far fewer hands

than before: but with this difference, that the new owners were a group

instead of a mass of individuals. Individually, no member of the Party owns

anything, except petty personal belongings. Collectively, the Party owns

everything in Oceania, because it controls everything, and disposes of the

products as it thinks fit. In the years following the Revolution it was

able to step into this commanding position almost unopposed, because the

whole process was represented as an act of collectivization. It had always

been assumed that if the capitalist class were expropriated, Socialism must

follow: and unquestionably the capitalists had been expropriated.

Factories, mines, land, houses, transport - everything had been taken away

from them: and since these things were no longer private property, it

followed that they must be public property. Ingsoc, which grew out of the

earlier Socialist movement and inherited its phraseology, has in fact

carried out the main item in the Socialist programme; with the result,

foreseen and intended beforehand, that economic inequality has been made

permanent.

But the problems of perpetuating a hierarchical society go deeper than

this. There are only four ways in which a ruling group can fall from power.

Either it is conquered from without, or it governs so inefficiently that

the masses are stirred to revolt, or it allows a strong and discontented

Middle group to come into being, or it loses its own self-confidence and

willingness to govern. These causes do not operate singly, and as a rule

all four of them are present in some degree. A ruling class which could

guard against all of them would remain in power permanently. Ultimately the

determining factor is the mental attitude of the ruling class itself.

After the middle of the present century, the first danger had in

reality disappeared. Each of the three powers which now divide the world is

in fact unconquerable, and could only become conquerable through slow

demographic changes which a government with wide powers can easily avert.

The second danger, also, is only a theoretical one. The masses never revolt

of their own accord, and they never revolt merely because they are

oppressed. Indeed, so long as they are not permitted to have standards of

comparison, they never even become aware that they are oppressed. The

recurrent economic crises of past times were totally unnecessary and are

not now permitted to happen, but other and equally large dislocations can

and do happen without having political results, because there is no way in

which discontent can become articulate. As for the problem of over-

production, which has been latent in our society since the development of

machine technique, it is solved by the device of continuous warfare (see

Chapter III), which is also useful in keying up public morale to the

necessary pitch. From the point of view of our present rulers, therefore,

the only genuine dangers are the splitting-off of a new group of able,

under-employed, power-hungry people, and the growth of liberalism and

scepticism in their own ranks. The problem, that is to say, is educational.

It is a problem of continuously moulding the consciousness both of the

directing group and of the larger executive group that lies immediately

below it. The consciousness of the masses needs only to be influenced in a

negative way.

Given this background, one could infer, if one did not know it

already, the general structure of Oceanic society. At the apex of the

pyramid comes Big Brother. Big Brother is infallible and all-powerful.

Every success, every achievement, every victory, every scientific

discovery, all knowledge, all wisdom, all happiness, all virtue, are held

to issue directly from his leadership and inspiration. Nobody has ever seen

Big Brother. He is a face on the hoardings, a voice on the telescreen. We

may be reasonably sure that he will never die, and there is already

considerable uncertainty as to when he was born. Big Brother is the guise

in which the Party chooses to exhibit itself to the world. His function is

to act as a focusing point for love, fear, and reverence, emotions which

are more easily felt towards an individual than towards an organization.

Below Big Brother comes the Inner Party. Its numbers limited to six

millions, or something less than 2 per cent of the population of Oceania.

Below the Inner Party comes the Outer Party, which, if the Inner Party is

described as the brain of the State, may be justly likened to the hands.

Below that come the dumb masses whom we habitually refer to as 'the

proles', numbering perhaps 85 per cent of the population. In the terms of

our earlier classification, the proles are the Low: for the slave

population of the equatorial lands who pass constantly from conqueror to

conqueror, are not a permanent or necessary part of the structure.

In principle, membership of these three groups is not hereditary. The

child of Inner Party parents is in theory not born into the Inner Party.

Admission to either branch of the Party is by examination, taken at the age

of sixteen. Nor is there any racial discrimination, or any marked

domination of one province by another. Jews, Negroes, South Americans of

pure Indian blood are to be found in the highest ranks of the Party, and

the administrators of any area are always drawn from the inhabitants of

that area. In no part of Oceania do the inhabitants have the feeling that

they are a colonial population ruled from a distant capital. Oceania has no

capital, and its titular head is a person whose whereabouts nobody knows.

Except that English is its chief lingua franca and Newspeak its official

language, it is not centralized in any way. Its rulers are not held

together by blood-ties but by adherence to a common doctrine. It is true

that our society is stratified, and very rigidly stratified, on what at

first sight appear to be hereditary lines. There is far less to-and-fro

movement between the different groups than happened under capitalism or

even in the pre-industrial age. Between the two branches of the Party there

is a certain amount of interchange, but only so much as will ensure that

weaklings are excluded from the Inner Party and that ambitious members of

the Outer Party are made harmless by allowing them to rise. Proletarians,

in practice, are not allowed to graduate into the Party. The most gifted

among them, who might possibly become nuclei of discontent, are simply

marked down by the Thought Police and eliminated. But this state of affairs

is not necessarily permanent, nor is it a matter of principle. The Party is

not a class in the old sense of the word. It does not aim at transmitting

power to its own children, as such; and if there were no other way of

keeping the ablest people at the top, it would be perfectly prepared to

recruit an entire new generation from the ranks of the proletariat. In the

crucial years, the fact that the Party was not a hereditary body did a

great deal to neutralize opposition. The older kind of Socialist, who had

been trained to fight against something called 'class privilege' assumed

that what is not hereditary cannot be permanent. He did not see that the

continuity of an oligarchy need not be physical, nor did he pause to

reflect that hereditary aristocracies have always been shortlived, whereas

adoptive organizations such as the Catholic Church have sometimes lasted

for hundreds or thousands of years. The essence of oligarchical rule is not

father-to-son inheritance, but the persistence of a certain world-view and

a certain way of life, imposed by the dead upon the living. A ruling group

is a ruling group so long as it can nominate its successors. The Party is

not concerned with perpetuating its blood but with perpetuating itself. Who

wields power is not important, provided that the hierarchical structure

remains always the same.

All the beliefs, habits, tastes, emotions, mental attitudes that

characterize our time are really designed to sustain the mystique of the

Party and prevent the true nature of present-day society from being

perceived. Physical rebellion, or any preliminary move towards rebellion,

is at present not possible. From the proletarians nothing is to be feared.

Left to themselves, they will continue from generation to generation and

from century to century, working, breeding, and dying, not only without any

impulse to rebel, but without the power of grasping that the world could be

other than it is. They could only become dangerous if the advance of

industrial technique made it necessary to educate them more highly; but,

since military and commercial rivalry are no longer important, the level of

popular education is actually declining. What opinions the masses hold, or

do not hold, is looked on as a matter of indifference. They can be granted

intellectual liberty because they have no intellect. In a Party member, on

the other hand, not even the smallest deviation of opinion on the most

unimportant subject can be tolerated.

A Party member lives from birth to death under the eye of the Thought

Police. Even when he is alone he can never be sure that he is alone.

Wherever he may be, asleep or awake, working or resting, in his bath or in

bed, he can be inspected without warning and without knowing that he is

being inspected. Nothing that he does is indifferent. His friendships, his

relaxations, his behaviour towards his wife and children, the expression of

his face when he is alone, the words he mutters in sleep, even the

characteristic movements of his body, are all jealously scrutinized. Not

only any actual misdemeanour, but any eccentricity, however small, any

change of habits, any nervous mannerism that could possibly be the symptom

of an inner struggle, is certain to be detected. He has no freedom of

choice in any direction whatever. On the other hand his actions are not

regulated by law or by any clearly formulated code of behaviour. In Oceania

there is no law. Thoughts and actions which, when detected, mean certain

death are not formally forbidden, and the endless purges, arrests,

tortures, imprisonments, and vaporizations are not inflicted as punishment

for crimes which have actually been committed, but are merely the wiping-

out of persons who might perhaps commit a crime at some time in the future.

A Party member is required to have not only the right opinions, but the

right instincts. Many of the beliefs and attitudes demanded of him are

never plainly stated, and could not be stated without laying bare the

contradictions inherent in Ingsoc. If he is a person naturally orthodox (in

Newspeak a goodthinker), he will in all circumstances know, without taking

thought, what is the true belief or the desirable emotion. But in any case

an elaborate mental training, undergone in childhood and grouping itself

round the Newspeak words crimestop, blackwhite, and doublethink, makes him

unwilling and unable to think too deeply on any subject whatever.

A Party member is expected to have no private emotions and no respites

from enthusiasm. He is supposed to live in a continuous frenzy of hatred of

foreign enemies and internal traitors, triumph over victories, and self-

abasement before the power and wisdom of the Party. The discontents

produced by his bare, unsatisfying life are deliberately turned outwards

and dissipated by such devices as the Two Minutes Hate, and the

speculations which might possibly induce a sceptical or rebellious attitude

are killed in advance by his early acquired inner discipline. The first and

simplest stage in the discipline, which can be taught even to young

children, is called, in Newspeak, crimestop. Crimestop means the faculty of

stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous

thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to

perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they

are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of

thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction. Crimestop, in

short, means protective stupidity. But stupidity is not enough. On the

contrary, orthodoxy in the full sense demands a control over one's own

mental processes as complete as that of a contortionist over his body.

Oceanic society rests ultimately on the belief that Big Brother is

omnipotent and that the Party is infallible. But since in reality Big

Brother is not omnipotent and the party is not infallible, there is need

for an unwearying, moment-to-moment flexibility in the treatment of facts.

The keyword here is blackwhite. Like so many Newspeak words, this word has

two mutually contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it means the

habit of impudently claiming that black is white, in contradiction of the

plain facts. Applied to a Party member, it means a loyal willingness to say

that black is white when Party discipline demands this. But it means also

the ability to believe that black is white, and more, to know that black is

white, and to forget that one has ever believed the contrary. This demands

a continuous alteration of the past, made possible by the system of thought

which really embraces all the rest, and which is known in Newspeak as

doublethink.

The alteration of the past is necessary for two reasons, one of which

is subsidiary and, so to speak, precautionary. The subsidiary reason is

that the Party member, like the proletarian, tolerates present-day

conditions partly because he has no standards of comparison. He must be cut

off from the past, just as he must be cut off from foreign countries,

because it is necessary for him to believe that he is better off than his

ancestors and that the average level of material comfort is constantly

rising. But by far the more important reason for the readjustment of the

past is the need to safeguard the infallibility of the Party. It is not

merely that speeches, statistics, and records of every kind must be

constantly brought up to date in order to show that the predictions of the

Party were in all cases right. It is also that no change in doctrine or in

political alignment can ever be admitted. For to change one's mind, or even

one's policy, is a confession of weakness. If, for example, Eurasia or

Eastasia (whichever it may be) is the enemy today, then that country must

always have been the enemy. And if the facts say otherwise then the facts

must be altered. Thus history is continuously rewritten. This day-to-day

falsification of the past, carried out by the Ministry of Truth, is as

necessary to the stability of the regime as the work of repression and

espionage carried out by the Ministry of Love.

The mutability of the past is the central tenet of Ingsoc. Past

events, it is argued, have no objective existence, but survive only in

written records and in human memories. The past is whatever the records and

the memories agree upon. And since the Party is in full control of all

records and in equally full control of the minds of its members, it follows

that the past is whatever the Party chooses to make it. It also follows

that though the past is alterable, it never has been altered in any

specific instance. For when it has been recreated in whatever shape is

needed at the moment, then this new version is the past, and no different

past can ever have existed. This holds good even when, as often happens,

the same event has to be altered out of recognition several times in the

course of a year. At all times the Party is in possession of absolute

truth, and clearly the absolute can never have been different from what it

is now. It will be seen that the control of the past depends above all on

the training of memory. To make sure that all written records agree with

the orthodoxy of the moment is merely a mechanical act. But it is also

necessary to remember that events happened in the desired manner. And if it

is necessary to rearrange one's memories or to tamper with written records,

then it is necessary to forget that one has done so. The trick of doing

this can be learned like any other mental technique. It is learned by the

majority of Party members, and certainly by all who are intelligent as well

as orthodox. In Oldspeak it is called, quite frankly, 'reality control'. In

Newspeak it is called doublethink, though doublethink comprises much else

as well.

Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in

one's mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them. The Party

intellectual knows in which direction his memories must be altered; he

therefore knows that he is playing tricks with reality; but by the exercise

of doublethink he also satisfies himself that reality is not violated. The

process has to be conscious, or it would not be carried out with sufficient

precision, but it also has to be unconscious, or it would bring with it a

feeling of falsity and hence of guilt. Doublethink lies at the very heart

of Ingsoc, since the essential act of the Party is to use conscious

deception while retaining the firmness of purpose that goes with complete

honesty. To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to

forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes

necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is

needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to

take account of the reality which one denies - all this is indispensably

necessary. Even in using the word doublethink it is necessary to exercise

doublethink. For by using the word one admits that one is tampering with

reality; by a fresh act of doublethink one erases this knowledge; and so on

indefinitely, with the lie always one leap ahead of the truth. Ultimately

it is by means of doublethink that the Party has been able - and may, for

all we know, continue to be able for thousands of years - to arrest the

course of history.

All past oligarchies have fallen from power either because they

ossified or because they grew soft. Either they became stupid and arrogant,

failed to adjust themselves to changing circumstances, and were overthrown;

or they became liberal and cowardly, made concessions when they should have

used force, and once again were overthrown. They fell, that is to say,

either through consciousness or through unconsciousness. It is the

achievement of the Party to have produced a system of thought in which both

conditions can exist simultaneously. And upon no other intellectual basis

could the dominion of the Party be made permanent. If one is to rule, and

to continue ruling, one must be able to dislocate the sense of reality. For

the secret of rulership is to combine a belief in one's own infallibility

with the Power to learn from past mistakes.

It need hardly be said that the subtlest practitioners of doublethink

are those who invented doublethink and know that it is a vast system of

mental cheating. In our society, those who have the best knowledge of what

is happening are also those who are furthest from seeing the world as it

is. In general, the greater the understanding, the greater the delusion;

the more intelligent, the less sane. One clear illustration of this is the

fact that war hysteria increases in intensity as one rises in the social

scale. Those whose attitude towards the war is most nearly rational are the

subject peoples of the disputed territories. To these people the war is

simply a continuous calamity which sweeps to and fro over their bodies like

a tidal wave. Which side is winning is a matter of complete indifference to

them. They are aware that a change of overlordship means simply that they

will be doing the same work as before for new masters who treat them in the

same manner as the old ones. The slightly more favoured workers whom we

call 'the proles' are only intermittently conscious of the war. When it is

necessary they can be prodded into frenzies of fear and hatred, but when

left to themselves they are capable of forgetting for long periods that the

war is happening. It is in the ranks of the Party, and above all of the

Inner Party, that the true war enthusiasm is found. World-conquest is

believed in most firmly by those who know it to be impossible. This

peculiar linking-together of opposites - knowledge with ignorance,

cynicism with fanaticism - is one of the chief distinguishing marks of

Oceanic society. The official ideology abounds with contradictions even

when there is no practical reason for them. Thus, the Party rejects and

vilifies every principle for which the Socialist movement originally stood,

and it chooses to do this in the name of Socialism. It preaches a contempt

for the working class unexampled for centuries past, and it dresses its

members in a uniform which was at one time peculiar to manual workers and

was adopted for that reason. It systematically undermines the solidarity of

the family, and it calls its leader by a name which is a direct appeal to

the sentiment of family loyalty. Even the names of the four Ministries by

which we are governed exhibit a sort of impudence in their deliberate

reversal of the facts. The Ministry of Peace concerns itself with war, the

Ministry of Truth with lies, the Ministry of Love with torture and the

Ministry of Plenty with starvation. These contradictions are not

accidental, nor do they result from ordinary hypocrisy; they are deliberate

exercises in doublethink. For it is only by reconciling contradictions that

power can be retained indefinitely. In no other way could the ancient cycle

be broken. If human equality is to be for ever averted - if the High, as

we have called them, are to keep their places permanently - then the

prevailing mental condition must be controlled insanity.

But there is one question which until this moment we have almost

ignored. It is; why should human equality be averted? Supposing that the

mechanics of the process have been rightly described, what is the motive

for this huge, accurately planned effort to freeze history at a particular

moment of time?

Here we reach the central secret. As we have seen. the mystique of the

Party, and above all of the Inner Party, depends upon doublethink. But

deeper than this lies the original motive, the never-questioned instinct

that first led to the seizure of power and brought doublethink, the Thought

Police, continuous warfare, and all the other necessary paraphernalia into

existence afterwards. This motive really consists...

Winston became aware of silence, as one becomes aware of a new sound.

It seemed to him that Julia had been very still for some time past. She was

lying on her side, naked from the waist upwards, with her cheek pillowed on

her hand and one dark lock tumbling across her eyes. Her breast rose and

fell slowly and regularly.

'Julia.'

No answer.

'Julia, are you awake?'

No answer. She was asleep. He shut the book, put it carefully on the

floor, lay down, and pulled the coverlet over both of them.

He had still, he reflected, not learned the ultimate secret. He

understood how; he did not understand why. Chapter I, like Chapter III, had

not actually told him anything that he did not know, it had merely

systematized the knowledge that he possessed already. But after reading it

he knew better than before that he was not mad. Being in a minority, even a

minority of one, did not make you mad. There was truth and there was

untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world, you

were not mad. A yellow beam from the sinking sun slanted in through the

window and fell across the pillow. He shut his eyes. The sun on his face

and the girl's smooth body touching his own gave him a strong, sleepy,

confident feeling. He was safe, everything was all right. He fell asleep

murmuring 'Sanity is not statistical,' with the feeling that this remark

contained in it a profound wisdom.

==X==

When he woke it was with the sensation of having slept for a long

time, but a glance at the old-fashioned clock told him that it was only

twenty-thirty. He lay dozing for a while; then the usual deep-lunged

singing struck up from the yard below:

It was only an 'opeless fancy,

It passed like an Ipril dye,

But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred

They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye!

The driveling song seemed to have kept its popularity. You still heard

it all over the place. It had outlived the Hate Song. Julia woke at the

sound, stretched herself luxuriously, and got out of bed.

'I'm hungry,' she said. 'Let's make some more coffee. Damn! The

stove's gone out and the water's cold.' She picked the stove up and shook

it. 'There's no oil in it.'

'We can get some from old Charrington, I expect.'

'The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I'm going to put my

clothes on,' she added. 'It seems to have got colder.'

Winston also got up and dressed himself. The indefatigable voice sang

on:

They sye that time 'eals all things,

They sye you can always forget;

But the smiles an' the tears acrorss the years

They twist my 'eart-strings yet!

As he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across to the

window. The sun must have gone down behind the houses; it was not shining

into the yard any longer. The flagstones were wet as though they had just

been washed, and he had the feeling that the sky had been washed too, so

fresh and pale was the blue between the chimney-pots. Tirelessly the woman

marched to and fro, corking and uncorking herself, singing and falling

silent, and pegging out more diapers, and more and yet more. He wondered

whether she took in washing for a living or was merely the slave of twenty

or thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to his side; together they

gazed down with a sort of fascination at the sturdy figure below. As he

looked at the woman in her characteristic attitude, her thick arms reaching

up for the line, her powerful mare-like buttocks protruded, it struck him

for the first time that she was beautiful. It had never before occurred to

him that the body of a woman of fifty, blown up to monstrous dimensions by

childbearing, then hardened, roughened by work till it was coarse in the

grain like an over-ripe turnip, could be beautiful. But it was so, and

after all, he thought, why not? The solid, contourless body, like a block

of granite, and the rasping red skin, bore the same relation to the body of

a girl as the rose-hip to the rose. Why should the fruit be held inferior

to the flower?

'She's beautiful,' he murmured.

'She's a metre across the hips, easily,' said Julia.

'That is her style of beauty,' said Winston.

He held Julia's supple waist easily encircled by his arm. From the hip

to the knee her flank was against his. Out of their bodies no child would

ever come. That was the one thing they could never do. Only by word of

mouth, from mind to mind, could they pass on the secret. The woman down

there had no mind, she had only strong arms, a warm heart, and a fertile

belly. He wondered how many children she had given birth to. It might

easily be fifteen. She had had her momentary flowering, a year, perhaps, of

wild-rose beauty and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized fruit

and grown hard and red and coarse, and then her life had been laundering,

scrubbing, darning, cooking, sweeping, polishing, mending, scrubbing,

laundering, first for children, then for grandchildren, over thirty

unbroken years. At the end of it she was still singing. The mystical

reverence that he felt for her was somehow mixed up with the aspect of the

pale, cloudless sky, stretching away behind the chimney-pots into

interminable distance. It was curious to think that the sky was the same

for everybody, in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under

the sky were also very much the same - everywhere, all over the world,

hundreds of thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant

of one another's existence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet

almost exactly the same - people who had never learned to think but who

were storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power that

would one day overturn the world. If there was hope, it lay in the proles!

Without having read to the end of the book, he knew that that must be

Goldstein's final message. The future belonged to the proles. And could he

be sure that when their time came the world they constructed would not be

just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as the world of the Party? Yes,

because at the least it would be a world of sanity. Where there is equality

there can be sanity. Sooner or later it would happen, strength would change

into consciousness. The proles were immortal, you could not doubt it when

you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their awakening

would come. And until that happened, though it might be a thousand years,

they would stay alive against all the odds, like birds, passing on from

body to body the vitality which the Party did not share and could not kill.

'Do you remember,' he said, 'the thrush that sang to us, that first

day, at the edge of the wood?'

'He wasn't singing to us,' said Julia. 'He was singing to please

himself. Not even that. He was just singing.'

The birds sang, the proles sang. the Party did not sing. All round the

world, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious,

forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin,

in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and

Japan - everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made

monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still

singing. Out of those mighty loins a race of conscious beings must one day

come. You were the dead, theirs was the future. But you could share in that

future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body, and passed

on the secret doctrine that two plus two make four.

'We are the dead,' he said.

'We are the dead,' echoed Julia dutifully.

'You are the dead,' said an iron voice behind them.

They sprang apart. Winston's entrails seemed to have turned into ice.

He could see the white all round the irises of Julia's eyes. Her face had

turned a milky yellow. The smear of rouge that was still on each cheekbone

stood out sharply, almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath.

'You are the dead,' repeated the iron voice.

'It was behind the picture,' breathed Julia.

'It was behind the picture,' said the voice. 'Remain exactly where you

are. Make no movement until you are ordered.'

It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except

stand gazing into one another's eyes. To run for life, to get out of the

house before it was too late - no such thought occurred to them.

Unthinkable to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as

though a catch had been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The

picture had fallen to the floor uncovering the telescreen behind it.

'Now they can see us,' said Julia.

'Now we can see you,' said the voice. 'Stand out in the middle of the

room. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands behind your heads. Do not touch

one another.'

They were not touching, but it seemed to him that he could feel

Julia's body shaking. Or perhaps it was merely the shaking of his own. He

could just stop his teeth from chattering, but his knees were beyond his

control. There was a sound of trampling boots below, inside the house and

outside. The yard seemed to be full of men. Something was being dragged

across the stones. The woman's singing had stopped abruptly. There was a

long, rolling clang, as though the washtub had been flung across the yard,

and then a confusion of angry shouts which ended in a yell of pain.

'The house is surrounded,' said Winston.

'The house is surrounded,' said the voice.

He heard Julia snap her teeth together. 'I suppose we may as well say

good-bye,' she said.

'You may as well say good-bye,' said the voice. And then another quite

different voice, a thin, cultivated voice which Winston had the impression

of having heard before, struck in; 'And by the way, while we are on the

subject, Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to

chop off your head!'

Something crashed on to the bed behind Winston's back. The head of a

ladder had been thrust through the window and had burst in the frame.

Someone was climbing through the window. There was a stampede of boots up

the stairs. The room was full of solid men in black uniforms, with iron-

shod boots on their feet and truncheons in their hands.

Winston was not trembling any longer. Even his eyes he barely moved.

One thing alone mattered; to keep still, to keep still and not give them an

excuse to hit you! A man with a smooth prize-fighter's jowl in which the

mouth was only a slit paused opposite him balancing his truncheon

meditatively between thumb and forefinger. Winston met his eyes. The

feeling of nakedness, with one's hands behind one's head and one's face and

body all exposed, was almost unbearable. The man protruded the tip of a

white tongue, licked the place where his lips should have been, and then

passed on. There was another crash. Someone had picked up the glass

paperweight from the table and smashed it to pieces on the hearth-stone.

The fragment of coral, a tiny crinkle of pink like a sugar rosebud

from a cake, rolled across the mat. How small, thought Winston, how small

it always was! There was a gasp and a thump behind him, and he received a

violent kick on the ankle which nearly flung him off his balance. One of

the men had smashed his fist into Julia's solar plexus, doubling her up

like a pocket ruler. She was thrashing about on the floor, fighting for

breath. Winston dared not turn his head even by a millimetre, but sometimes

her livid, gasping face came within the angle of his vision. Even in his

terror it was as though he could feel the pain in his own body, the deadly

pain which nevertheless was less urgent than the struggle to get back her

breath. He knew what it was like; the terrible, agonizing pain which was

there all the while but could not be suffered yet, because before all else

it was necessary to be able to breathe. Then two of the men hoisted her up

by knees and shoulders, and carried her out of the room like a sack.

Winston had a glimpse of her face, upside down, yellow and contorted, with

the eyes shut, and still with a smear of rouge on either cheek; and that

was the last he saw of her.

He stood dead still. No one had hit him yet. Thoughts which came of

their own accord but seemed totally uninteresting began to flit through his

mind. He wondered whether they had got Mr. Charrington. He wondered what

they had done to the woman in the yard. He noticed that he badly wanted to

urinate, and felt a faint surprise, because he had done so only two or

three hours ago. He noticed that the clock on the mantelpiece said nine,

meaning twenty-one. But the light seemed too strong. Would not the light be

fading at twenty-one hours on an August evening? He wondered whether after

all he and Julia had mistaken the time - had slept the clock round and

thought it was twenty-thirty when really it was nought eight-thirty on the

following morning. But he did not pursue the thought further. It was not

interesting.

There ws another, lighter step in the passage. Mr. Charrington came

into the room. The demeanour of the black-uniformed men suddenly became

more subdued. Something had also changed in Mr. Charrington's appearance.

His eye fell on the fragments of the glass paperweight.

'Pick up those pieces,' he said sharply.

A man stooped to obey. The cockney accent had disappeared; Winston

suddenly realized whose voice it was that he had heard a few moments ago on

the telescreen. Mr. Charrington was still wearing his old velvet jacket,

but his hair, which had been almost white, had turned black. Also he was

not wearing his spectacles. He gave Winston a single sharp glance, as

though verifying his identity, and then paid no more attention to him. He

was still recognizable, but he was not the same person any longer. His body

had straightened, and seemed to have grown bigger. His face had undergone

only tiny changes that had nevertheless worked a complete transformation.

The black eyebrows were less bushy, the wrinkles were gone, the whole lines

of the face seemed to have altered; even the nose seemed shorter. It was

the alert, cold face of a man of about five-and-thirty. It occurred to

Winston that for the first time in his life he was looking, with knowledge,

at a member of the Thought Police.

  • * *

=PART III=

==I==

He did not know where he was. Presumably he was in the Ministry of

Love, but there was no way of making certain. He was in a high-ceilinged

windowless cell with walls of glittering white porcelain. Concealed lamps

flooded it with cold light, and there was a low, steady humming sound which

he supposed had something to do with the air supply. A bench, or shelf,

just wide enough to sit on ran round the wall, broken only by the door and,

at the end opposite the door, a lavatory pan with no wooden seat. There

were four telescreens, one in each wall.

There was a dull aching in his belly. It had been there ever since

they had bundled him into the closed van and driven him away. But he was

also hungry, with a gnawing, unwholesome kind of hunger. It might be

twenty-four hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did

not know, probably never would know, whether it had been morning or evening

when they arrested him. Since he was arrested he had not been fed.

He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his hands

crossed on his knee. He had already learned to sit still. If you made

unexpected movements they yelled at you from the telescreen. But the

craving for food was growing upon him. What he longed for above all was a

piece of bread. He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the

pocket of his overalls. It was even possible - he thought this because

from time to time something seemed to tickle his leg - that there might be

a sizeable bit of crust there. In the end the temptation to find out

overcame his fear; he slipped a hand into his pocket.

'Smith!' yelled a voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W! Hands out

of pockets in the cells!'

He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Before being

brought here he had been taken to another place which must have been an

ordinary prison or a temporary lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know

how long he had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and no

daylight it was hard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evil-smelling

place. They had put him into a cell similar to the one he was now in, but

filthily dirty and at all times crowded by ten or fifteen people. The

majority of them were common criminals, but there were a few political

prisoners among them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty

bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his belly to take much

interest in his surroundings, but still noticing the astonishing difference

in demeanour between the Party prisoners and the others. The Party

prisoners were always silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals

seemed to care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards,

fought back fiercely when their belongings were impounded, wrote obscene

words on the floor, ate smuggled food which they produced from mysterious

hiding-places in their clothes, and even shouted down the telescreen when

it tried to restore order. On the other hand some of them seemed to be on

good terms with the guards, called them by nicknames, and tried to wheedle

cigarettes through the spyhole in the door. The guards, too, treated the

common criminals with a certain forbearance, even when they had to handle

them roughly. There was much talk about the forced-labour camps to which

most of the prisoners expected to be sent. It was 'all right' in the camps,

he gathered, so long as you had good contacts and knew the ropes. There was

bribery, favouritism, and racketeering of every kind, there was

homosexuality and prostitution, there was even illicit alcohol distilled

from potatoes. The positions of trust were given only to the common

criminals, especially the gangsters and the murderers, who formed a sort of

aristocracy. All the dirty jobs were done by the politicals.

There was a constant come-and-go of prisoners of every description:

drug-peddlers, thieves, bandits, black-marketeers, drunks, prostitutes.

Some of the drunks were so violent that the other prisoners had to combine

to suppress them. An enormous wreck of a woman, aged about sixty, with

great tumbling breasts and thick coils of white hair which had come down in

her struggles, was carried in, kicking and shouting, by four guards, who

had hold of her one at each corner. They wrenched off the boots with which

she had been trying to kick them, and dumped her down across Winston's lap,

almost breaking his thigh-bones. The woman hoisted herself upright and

followed them out with a yell of 'F-- bastards!' Then, noticing that she

was sitting on something uneven, she slid off Winston's knees on to the

bench.

'Beg pardon, dearie,' she said. 'I wouldn't 'a sat on you, only the

buggers put me there. They dono 'ow to treat a lady, do they?' She paused,

patted her breast, and belched. 'Pardon,' she said, 'I ain't meself,

quite.'

She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor.

'Thass better,' she said, leaning back with closed eyes. 'Never keep

it down, thass what I say. Get it up while it's fresh on your stomach,

like.'

She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and seemed

immediately to take a fancy to him. She put a vast arm round his shoulder

and drew him towards her, breathing beer and vomit into his face.

'Wass your name, dearie?' she said.

'Smith,' said Winston.

'Smith?' said the woman. 'Thass funny. My name's Smith too. Why,' she

added sentimentally, 'I might be your mother!'

She might, thought Winston, be his mother. She was about the right age

and physique, and it was probable that people changed somewhat after twenty

years in a forced-labour camp.

No one else had spoken to him. To a surprising extent the ordinary

criminals ignored the Party prisoners. 'The polits,' they called them, with

a sort of uninterested contempt. The Party prisoners seemed terrified of

speaking to anybody, and above all of speaking to one another. Only once,

when two Party members, both women, were pressed close together on the

bench, he overheard amid the din of voices a few hurriedly-whispered words;

and in particular a reference to something called 'room one-oh-one', which

he did not understand.

It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought him here. The

dull pain in his belly never went away, but sometimes it grew better and

sometimes worse, and his thoughts expanded or contracted accordingly. When

it grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his desire for

food. When it grew better, panic took hold of him. There were moments when

he foresaw the things that would happen to him with such actuality that his

heart galloped and his breath stopped. He felt the smash of truncheons on

his elbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself grovelling on

the floor, screaming for mercy through broken teeth. He hardly thought of

Julia. He could not fix his mind on her. He loved her and would not betray

her; but that was only a fact, known as he knew the rules of arithmetic. He

felt no love for her, and he hardly even wondered what was happening to

her. He thought oftener of O'Brien, with a flickering hope. O'Brien might

know that he had been arrested. The Brotherhood, he had said, never tried

to save its members. But there was the razor blade; they would send the

razor blade if they could. There would be perhaps five seconds before the

guard could rush into the cell. The blade would bite into him with a sort

of burning coldness, and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the

bone. Everything came back to his sick body, which shrank trembling from

the smallest pain. He was not certain that he would use the razor blade

even if he got the chance. It was more natural to exist from moment to

moment, accepting another ten minutes" life even with the certainty that

there was torture at the end of it.

Sometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain bricks in the

walls of the cell. It should have been easy, but he always lost count at

some point or another. More often he wondered where he was, and what time

of day it was. At one moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight

outside, and at the next equally certain that it was pitch darkness. In

this place, he knew instinctively, the lights would never be turned out. It

was the place with no darkness: he saw now why O'Brien had seemed to

recognize the allusion. In the Ministry of Love there were no windows. His

cell might be at the heart of the building or against its outer wall; it

might be ten floors below ground, or thirty above it. He moved himself

mentally from place to place, and tried to determine by the feeling of his

body whether he was perched high in the air or buried deep underground.

There was a sound of marching boots outside. The steel door opened

with a clang. A young officer, a trim black-uniformed figure who seemed to

glitter all over with polished leather, and whose pale, straight-featured

face was like a wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway. He motioned

to the guards outside to bring in the prisoner they were leading. The poet

Ampleforth shambled into the cell. The door clanged shut again.

Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from side to side, as

though having some idea that there was another door to go out of, and then

began to wander up and down the cell. He had not yet noticed Winston's

presence. His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre above the

level of Winston's head. He was shoeless; large, dirty toes were sticking

out of the holes in his socks. He was also several days away from a shave.

A scrubby beard covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air of

ruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and nervous movements.

Winston roused hirnself a little from his lethargy. He must speak to

Ampleforth, and risk the yell from the telescreen. It was even conceivable

that Ampleforth was the bearer of the razor blade.

'Ampleforth,' he said.

There was no yell from the telescreen. Ampleforth paused, mildly

startled. His eyes focused themselves slowly on Winston.

'Ah, Smith!' he said. 'You too!'

'What are you in for?'

'To tell you the truth --.' He sat down awkwardly on the bench

opposite Winston. 'There is only one offence, is there not?' he said.

'And have you committed it?'

'Apparently I have.'

He put a hand to his forehead and pressed his temples for a moment, as

though trying to remember something.

'These things happen,' he began vaguely. 'I have been able to recall

one instance - a possible instance. It was an indiscretion, undoubtedly.

We were producing a definitive edition of the poems of Kipling. I allowed

the word "God" to remain at the end of a line. I could not help it!' he

added almost indignantly, raising his face to look at Winston. 'It was

impossible to change the line. The rhyme was "rod". Do you realize that

there are only twelve rhymes to "rod" in the entire language? For days I

had racked my brains. There was no other rhyme.'

The expression on his face changed. The annoyance passed out of it and

for a moment he looked almost pleased. A sort of intellectual warmth, the

joy of the pedant who has found out some useless fact, shone through the

dirt and scrubby hair.

'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, 'that the whole history of

English poetry has been determined by the fact that the English language

lacks rhymes?'

No, that particular thought had never occurred to Winston. Nor, in the

circumstances, did it strike him as very important or interesting.

'Do you know what time of day it is?' he said.

Ampleforth looked startled again. 'I had hardly thought about it. They

arrested me - it could be two days ago - perhaps three.' His eyes flitted

round the walls, as though he half expected to find a window somewhere.

'There is no difference between night and day in this place. I do not see

how one can calculate the time.'

They talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without apparent

reason, a yell from the telescreen bade them be silent. Winston sat

quietly, his hands crossed. Ampleforth, too large to sit in comfort on the

narrow bench, fidgeted from side to side, clasping his lank hands first

round one knee, then round the other. The telescreen barked at him to keep

still. Time passed. Twenty minutes, an hour - it was difficult to judge.

Once more there was a sound of boots outside. Winston's entrails

contracted. Soon, very soon, perhaps in five minutes, perhaps now, the

tramp of boots would mean that his own turn had come.

The door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped into the cell.

With a brief movement of the hand he indicated Ampleforth.

'Room 101,' he said.

Ampleforth marched clumsily out between the guards, his face vaguely

perturbed, but uncomprehending.

What seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Winston's belly had

revived. His mind sagged round and round on the same trick, like a ball

falling again and again into the same series of slots. He had only six

thoughts. The pain in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the

screaming; O'Brien; Julia; the razor blade. There was another spasm in his

entrails, the heavy boots were approaching. As the door opened, the wave of

air that it created brought in a powerful smell of cold sweat. Parsons

walked into the cell. He was wearing khaki shorts and a sports-shirt.

This time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness.

'You here!' he said.

Parsons gave Winston a glance in which there was neither interest nor

surprise, but only misery. He began walking jerkily up and down, evidently

unable to keep still. Each time he straightened his pudgy knees it was

apparent that they were trembling. His eyes had a wide-open, staring look,

as though he could not prevent himself from gazing at something in the

middle distance.

'What are you in for?' said Winston.

'Thoughtcrime!' said Parsons, almost blubbering. The tone of his voice

implied at once a complete admission of his guilt and a sort of incredulous

horror that such a word could be applied to himself. He paused opposite

Winston and began eagerly appealing to him: 'You don't think they'll shoot

me, do you, old chap? They don't shoot you if you haven't actually done

anything - only thoughts, which you can't help? I know they give you a

fair hearing. Oh, I trust them for that! They'll know my record, won't

they? You know what kind of chap I was. Not a bad chap in my way. Not

brainy, of course, but keen. I tried to do my best for the Party, didn't I?

I'll get off with five years, don't you think? Or even ten years? A chap

like me could make himself pretty useful in a labour-camp. They wouldn't

shoot me for going off the rails just once?'

'Are you guilty?' said Winston.

'Of course I'm guilty!' cried Parsons with a servile glance at the

telescreen. 'You don't think the Party would arrest an innocent man, do

you?' His frog-like face grew calmer, and even took on a slightly

sanctimonious expression. 'Thoughtcrime is a dreadful thing, old man,' he

said sententiously. 'It's insidious. It can get hold of you without your

even knowing it. Do you know how it got hold of me? In my sleep! Yes,

that's a fact. There I was, working away, trying to do my bit - never knew

I had any bad stuff in my mind at all. And then I started talking in my

sleep. Do you know what they heard me saying?'

He sank his voice, like someone who is obliged for medical reasons to

utter an obscenity.

'"Down with Big Brother!" Yes, I said that! Said it over and over

again, it seems. Between you and me, old man, I'm glad they got me before

it went any further. Do you know what I'm going to say to them when I go up

before the tribunal? "Thank you," I'm going to say, "thank you for saving

me before it was too late."'

'Who denounced you?' said Winston.

'It was my little daughter,' said Parsons with a sort of doleful

pride. 'She listened at the keyhole. Heard what I was saying, and nipped

off to the patrols the very next day. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven,

eh? I don't bear her any grudge for it. In fact I'm proud of her. It shows

I brought her up in the right spirit, anyway.'

He made a few more jerky movements up and down, several times, casting

a longing glance at the lavatory pan. Then he suddenly ripped down his

shorts.

'Excuse me, old man,' he said. 'I can't help it. It's the waiting.'

He plumped his large posterior into the lavatory pan. Winston covered

his face with his hands.

'Smith!' yelled the voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W! Uncover

your face. No faces covered in the cells.'

Winston uncovered his face. Parsons used the lavatory, loudly and

abundantly. It then turned out that the plug was defective and the cell

stank abominably for hours afterwards.

Parsons was removed. More prisoners came and went, mysteriously. One,

a woman, was consigned to 'Room 101', and, Winston noticed, seemed to

shrivel and turn a different colour when she heard the words. A time came

when, if it had been morning when he was brought here, it would be

afternoon; or if it had been afternoon, then it would be midnight. There

were six prisoners in the cell, men and women. All sat very still. Opposite

Winston there sat a man with a chinless, toothy face exactly like that of

some large, harmless rodent. His fat, mottled cheeks were so pouched at the

bottom that it was difficult not to believe that he had little stores of

food tucked away there. His pale-grey eyes flitted timorously from face to

face and turned quickly away again when he caught anyone's eye.

The door opened, and another prisoner was brought in whose appearance

sent a momentary chill through Winston. He was a commonplace, mean-looking

man who might have been an engineer or technician of some kind. But what

was startling was the emaciation of his face. It was like a skull. Because

of its thinness the mouth and eyes looked disproportionately large, and the

eyes seemed filled with a murderous, unappeasable hatred of somebody or

something.

The man sat down on the bench at a little distance from Winston.

Winston did not look at him again, but the tormented, skull-like face was

as vivid in his mind as though it had been straight in front of his eyes.

Suddenly he realized what was the matter. The man was dying of starvation.

The same thought seemed to occur almost simultaneously to everyone in the

cell. There was a very faint stirring all the way round the bench. The eyes

of the chinless man kept flitting towards the skull-faced man, then turning

guiltily away, then being dragged back by an irresistible attraction.

Presently he began to fidget on his seat. At last he stood up, waddled

clumsily across the cell, dug down into the pocket of his overalls, and,

with an abashed air, held out a grimy piece of bread to the skull-faced

man.

There was a furious, deafening roar from the telescreen. The chinless

man jumped in his tracks. The skull-faced man had quickly thrust his hands

behind his back, as though demonstrating to all the world that he refused

the gift.

'Bumstead!' roared the voice. '2713 Bumstead J! Let fall that piece of

bread!'

The chinless man dropped the piece of bread on the floor.

'Remain standing where you are,' said the voice. 'Face the door. Make

no movement.'

The chinless man obeyed. His large pouchy cheeks were quivering

uncontrollably. The door clanged open. As the young officer entered and

stepped aside, there emerged from behind him a short stumpy guard with

enormous arms and shoulders. He took his stand opposite the chinless man,

and then, at a signal from the officer, let free a frightful blow, with all

the weight of his body behind it, full in the chinless man's mouth. The

force of it seemed almost to knock him clear of the floor. His body was

flung across the cell and fetched up against the base of the lavatory seat.

For a moment he lay as though stunned, with dark blood oozing from his

mouth and nose. A very faint whimpering or squeaking, which seemed

unconscious, came out of him. Then he rolled over and raised himself

unsteadily on hands and knees. Amid a stream of blood and saliva, the two

halves of a dental plate fell out of his mouth.

The prisoners sat very still, their hands crossed on their knees. The

chinless man climbed back into his place. Down one side of his face the

flesh was darkening. His mouth had swollen into a shapeless cherry-coloured

mass with a black hole in the middle of it.

From time to time a little blood dripped on to the breast of his

overalls. His grey eyes still flitted from face to face, more guiltily than

ever, as though he were trying to discover how much the others despised him

for his humiliation.

The door opened. With a small gesture the officer indicated the skull-

faced man.

'Room 101,' he said.

There was a gasp and a flurry at Winston's side. The man had actually

flung himself on his knees on the floor, with his hand clasped together.

'Comrade! Officer!' he cried. 'You don't have to take me to that

place! Haven't I told you everything already? What else is it you want to

know? There's nothing I wouldn't confess, nothing! Just tell me what it is

and I'll confess straight off. Write it down and I'll sign it - anything!

Not room 101!'

'Room 101,' said the officer.

The man's face, already very pale, turned a colour Winston would not

have believed possible. It was definitely, unmistakably, a shade of green.

'Do anything to me!' he yelled. 'You've been starving me for weeks.

Finish it off and let me die. Shoot me. Hang me. Sentence me to twenty-five

years. Is there somebody else you want me to give away? Just say who it is

and I'll tell you anything you want. I don't care who it is or what you do

to them. I've got a wife and three children. The biggest of them isn't six

years old. You can take the whole lot of them and cut their throats in

front of my eyes, and I'll stand by and watch it. But not Room 101!'

'Room 101,' said the officer.

The man looked frantically round at the other prisoners, as though

with some idea that he could put another victim in his own place. His eyes

settled on the smashed face of the chinless man. He flung out a lean arm.

'That's the one you ought to be taking, not me!' he shouted. 'You

didn't hear what he was saying after they bashed his face. Give me a chance

and I'll tell you every word of it. He's the one that's against the Party,

not me.' The guards stepped forward. The man's voice rose to a shriek. 'You

didn't hear him!' he repeated. 'Something went wrong with the telescreen.

He's the one you want. Take him, not me!'

The two sturdy guards had stooped to take him by the arms. But just at

this moment he flung himself across the floor of the cell and grabbed one

of the iron legs that supported the bench. He had set up a wordless

howling, like an animal. The guards took hold of him to wrench him loose,

but he clung on with astonishing strength. For perhaps twenty seconds they

were hauling at him. The prisoners sat quiet, their hands crossed on their

knees, looking straight in front of them. The howling stopped; the man had

no breath left for anything except hanging on. Then there was a different

kind of cry. A kick from a guard's boot had broken the fingers of one of

his hands. They dragged him to his feet.

'Room 101,' said the officer.

The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head sunken, nursing his

crushed hand, all the fight had gone out of him.

A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the skull-faced man

was taken away, it was morning: if morning, it was afternoon. Winston was

alone, and had been alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow

bench was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved by the

telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chinless man had dropped

it. At the beginning it needed a hard effort not to look at it, but

presently hunger gave way to thirst. His mouth was sticky and evil-tasting.

The humming sound and the unvarying white light induced a sort of

faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would get up because the

ache in his bones was no longer bearable, and then would sit down again

almost at once because he was too dizzy to make sure of staying on his

feet. Whenever his physical sensations were a little under control the

terror returned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought of O'Brien and the

razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor blade might arrive concealed

in his food, if he were ever fed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere

or other she was suffering perhaps far worse than he. She might be

screaming with pain at this moment. He thought: 'If I could save Julia by

doubling my own pain, would I do it? Yes, I would.' But that was merely an

intellectual decision, taken because he knew that he ought to take it. He

did not feel it. In this place you could not feel anything, except pain and

foreknowledge of pain. Besides, was it possible, when you were actually

suffering it, to wish for any reason that your own pain should increase?

But that question was not answerable yet.

The boots were approaching again. The door opened. O'Brien came in.

Winston started to his feet. The shock of the sight had driven all

caution out of him. For the first time in many years he forgot the presence

of the telescreen.

'They've got you too!' he cried.

'They got me a long time ago,' said O'Brien with a mild, almost

regretful irony. He stepped aside. From behind him there emerged a broad-

chested guard with a long black truncheon in his hand.

'You know this, Winston,' said O'Brien. 'Don't deceive yourself. You

did know it - you have always known it.'

Yes, he saw now, he had always known it. But there was no time to

think of that. All he had eyes for was the truncheon in the guard's hand.

It might fall anywhere; on the crown, on the tip of the ear, on the upper

arm, on the elbow--

The elbow! He had slumped to his knees, almost paralysed, clasping the

stricken elbow with his other hand. Everything had exploded into yellow

light. Inconceivable, inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain!

The light cleared and he could see the other two looking down at him. The

guard was laughing at his contortions. One question at any rate was

answered. Never, for any reason on earth, could you wish for an increase of

pain. Of pain you could wish only one thing: that it should stop. Nothing

in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain there are no

heroes, no heroes, he thought over and over as he writhed on the floor,

clutching uselessly at his disabled left arm.

==II==

He was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it

was higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he

could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his

face. O'Brien was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At

the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic

syringe.

Even after his eyes were open he took in his surroundings only

gradually. He had the impression of swimming up into this room from some

quite different world, a sort of underwater world far beneath it. How long

he had been down there he did not know. Since the moment when they arrested

him he had not seen darkness or daylight. Besides, his memories were not

continuous. There had been times when consciousness, even the sort of

consciousness that one has in sleep, had stopped dead and started again

after a blank interval. But whether the intervals were of days or weeks or

only seconds, there was no way of knowing.

With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had started. Later he

was to realize that all that then happened was merely a preliminary, a

routine interrogation to which nearly all prisoners were subjected. There

was a long range of crimes - espionage, sabotage, and the like - to which

everyone had to confess as a matter of course. The confession was a

formality, though the torture was real. How many times he had been beaten,

how long the beatings had continued, he could not remember. Always there

were five or six men in black uniforms at him simultaneously. Sometimes it

was fists, sometimes it was truncheons, sometimes it was steel rods,

sometimes it was boots. There were times when he rolled about the floor, as

shameless as an animal, writhing his body this way and that in an endless,

hopeless effort to dodge the kicks, and simply inviting more and yet more

kicks, in his ribs, in his belly, on his elbows, on his shins, in his

groin, in his testicles, on the bone at the base of his spine. There were

times when it went on and on until the cruel, wicked, unforgivable thing

seemed to him not that the guards continued to beat him but that he could

not force hirnself into losing consciousness. There were times when his

nerve so forsook him that he began shouting for mercy even before the

beating began, when the mere sight of a fist drawn back for a blow was

enough to make him pour forth a confession of real and imaginary crimes.

There were other times when he started out with the resolve of confessing

nothing, when every word had to be forced out of him between gasps of pain,

and there were times when he feebly tried to compromise, when he said to

himself: 'I will confess, but not yet. I must hold out till the pain

becomes unbearable. Three more kicks, two more kicks, and then I will tell

them what they want.' Sometimes he was beaten till he could hardly stand,

then flung like a sack of potatoes on to the stone floor of a cell, left to

recuperate for a few hours, and then taken out and beaten again. There were

also longer periods of recovery. He remembered them dimly, because they

were spent chiefly in sleep or stupor. He remembered a cell with a plank

bed, a sort of shelf sticking out from the wall, and a tin wash-basin, and

meals of hot soup and bread and sometimes coffee. He remembered a surly

barber arriving to scrape his chin and crop his hair, and businesslike,

unsympathetic men in white coats feeling his pulse, tapping his reflexes,

turning up his eyelids, running harsh fingers over him in search for broken

bones, and shooting needles into his arm to make him sleep.

The beatings grew less frequent, and became mainly a threat, a horror

to which he could be sent back at any moment when his answers were

unsatisfactory. His questioners now were not ruffians in black uniforms but

Party intellectuals, little rotund men with quick movements and flashing

spectacles, who worked on him in relays over periods which lasted - he

thought, he could not be sure - ten or twelve hours at a stretch. These

other questioners saw to it that he was in constant slight pain, but it was

not chiefly pain that they relied on. They slapped his face, wrung his

ears. pulled his hair, made him stand on one leg, refused him leave to

urinate, shone glaring lights in his face until his eyes ran with water;

but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of

arguing and reasoning. Their real weapon was the merciless questioning that

went on and on, hour after hour, tripping him up, laying traps for him,

twisting everything that he said, convicting him at every step of lies and

self-contradiction until he began weeping as much from shame as from

nervous fatigue Sometimes he would weep half a dozen times in a single

session. Most of the time they screamed abuse at him and threatened at

every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes

they would suddenly change their tune, call him comrade, appeal to him in

the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother, and ask him sorrowfully whether even

now he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo

the evil he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of

questioning, even this appeal could reduce him to snivelling tears. In the

end the nagging voices broke him down more completely than the boots and

fists of the guards. He became simply a mouth that uttered, a hand that

signed, whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to find out what

they wanted him to confess, and then confess it quickly, before the

bullying started anew. He confessed to the assassination of eminent Party

members, the distribution of seditious pamphlets, embezzlement of public

funds, sale of military secrets, sabotage of every kind. He confessed that

he had been a spy in the pay of the Eastasian government as far back as

1968. He confessed that he was a religious believer, an admirer of

capitalism, and a sexual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his

wife, although he knew, and his questioners must have known, that his wife

was still alive. He confessed that for years he had been in personal touch

with Goldstein and had been a member of an underground organization which

had included almost every human being he had ever known. It was easier to

confess everything and implicate everybody. Besides, in a sense it was all

true. It was true that he had been the enemy of the Party, and in the eyes

of the Party there was no distinction between the thought and the deed.

There were also memories of another kind. They stood out in his mind

disconnectedly, like pictures with blackness all round them.

He was in a cell which might have been either dark or light, because

he could see nothing except a pair of eyes. Near at hand some kind of

instrument was ticking slowly and regularly. The eyes grew larger and more

luminous. Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and was

swallowed up.

He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under dazzling

lights. A man in a white coat was reading the dials. There was a tramp of

heavy boots outside. The door clanged open. The waxed-faced officer marched

in, followed by two guards.

'Room 101,' said the officer.

The man in the white coat did not turn round. He did not look at

Winston either; he was looking only at the dials.

He was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometre wide, full of

glorious, golden light, roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions

at the top of his voice. He was confessing everything, even the things he

had succeeded in holding back under the torture. He was relating the entire

history of his life to an audience who knew it already. With him were the

guards, the other questioners, the men in white coats, O'Brien, Julia, Mr

Charrington, all rolling down the corridor together and shouting with

laughter. Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the future had

somehow been skipped over and had not happened. Everything was all right,

there was no more pain, the last detail of his life was laid bare,

understood, forgiven.

He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he

had heard O'Brien's voice. All through his interrogation, although he had

never seen him, he had had the feeling that O'Brien was at his elbow, just

out of sight. It was O'Brien who was directing everything. It was he who

set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from killing him. It

was he who decided when Winston should scream with pain, when he should

have a respite, when he should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs

should be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and

suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was

the inquisitor, he was the friend. And once - Winston could not remember

whether it was in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment of

wakefulness - a voice murmured in his ear: 'Don't worry, Winston; you are

in my keeping. For seven years I have watched over you. Now the turning-

point has come. I shall save you, I shall make you perfect.' He was not

sure whether it was O'Brien's voice; but it was the same voice that had

said to him, 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' in

that other dream, seven years ago.

He did not remember any ending to his interrogation. There was a

period of blackness and then the cell, or room, in which he now was had

gradually materialized round him. He was almost flat on his back, and

unable to move. His body was held down at every essential point. Even the

back of his head was gripped in some manner. O'Brien was looking down at

him gravely and rather sadly. His face, seen from below, looked coarse and

worn, with pouches under the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin. He was

older than Winston had thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty.

Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top and figures running

round the face.

'I told you,' said O'Brien, 'that if we met again it would be here.'

'Yes,' said Winston.

Without any warning except a slight movement of O'Brien's hand, a wave

of pain flooded his body. It was a frightening pain, because he could not

see what was happening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was

being done to him. He did not know whether the thing was really happening,

or whether the effect was electrically produced; but his body was being

wrenched out of shape, the joints were being slowly torn apart. Although

the pain had brought the sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was

the fear that his backbone was about to snap. He set his teeth and breathed

hard through his nose, trying to keep silent as long as possible.

'You are afraid,' said O'Brien, watching his face, 'that in another

moment something is going to break. Your especial fear is that it will be

your backbone. You have a vivid mental picture of the vertebrae snapping

apart and the spinal fluid dripping out of them. That is what you are

thinking, is it not, Winston?'

Winston did not answer. O'Brien drew back the lever on the dial. The

wave of pain receded almost as quickly as it had come.

'That was forty,' said O'Brien. 'You can see that the numbers on this

dial run up to a hundred. Will you please remember, throughout our

conversation, that I have it in my power to inflict pain on you at any

moment and to whatever degree I choose? If you tell me any lies, or attempt

to prevaricate in any way, or even fall below your usual level of

intelligence, you will cry out with pain, instantly. Do you understand

that?'

'Yes,' said Winston.

O'Brien's manner became less severe. He resettled his spectacles

thoughtfully, and took a pace or two up and down. When he spoke his voice

was gentle and patient. He had the air of a doctor, a teacher, even a

priest, anxious to explain and persuade rather than to punish.

'I am taking trouble with you, Winston,' he said, 'because you are

worth trouble. You know perfectly well what is the matter with you. You

have known it for years, though you have fought against the knowledge. You

are mentally deranged. You suffer from a defective memory. You are unable

to remember real events and you persuade yourself that you remember other

events which never happened. Fortunately it is curable. You have never

cured yourself of it, because you did not choose to. There was a small

effort of the will that you were not ready to make. Even now, I am well

aware, you are clinging to your disease under the impression that it is a

virtue. Now we will take an example. At this moment, which power is Oceania

at war with?'

'When I was arrested, Oceania was at war with Eastasia.'

'With Eastasia. Good. And Oceania has always been at war with

Eastasia, has it not?'

Winston drew in his breath. He opened his mouth to speak and then did

not speak. He could not take his eyes away from the dial.

'The truth, please, Winston. Your truth. Tell me what you think you

remember.'

'I remember that until only a week before I was arrested, we were not

at war with Eastasia at all. We were in alliance with them. The war was

against Eurasia. That had lasted for four years. Before that--'

O'Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand.

'Another example,' he said. 'Some years ago you had a very serious

delusion indeed. You believed that three men, three one-time Party members

named Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford men who were executed for treachery

and sabotage after making the fullest possible confession - were not

guilty of the crimes they were charged with. You believed that you had seen

unmistakable documentary evidence proving that their confessions were

false. There was a certain photograph about which you had a hallucination.

You believed that you had actually held it in your hands. It was a

photograph something like this.'

An oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between O'Brien's fingers.

For perhaps five seconds it was within the angle of Winston's vision. It

was a photograph, and there was no question of its identity. It was THE

photograph. It was another copy of the photograph of Jones, Aaronson, and

Rutherford at the party function in New York, which he had chanced upon

eleven years ago and promptly destroyed. For only an instant it was before

his eyes, then it was out of sight again. But he had seen it,

unquestionably he had seen it! He made a desperate, agonizing effort to

wrench the top half of his body free. It was impossible to move so much as

a centimetre in any direction. For the moment he had even forgotten the

dial. All he wanted was to hold the photograph in his fingers again, or at

least to see it.

'It exists!' he cried.

'No,' said O'Brien.

He stepped across the room. There was a memory hole in the opposite

wall. O'Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the frail slip of paper was

whirling away on the current of warm air; it was vanishing in a flash of

flame. O'Brien turned away from the wall.

'Ashes,' he said. 'Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does not

exist. It never existed.'

'But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I remember it.

You remember it.'

'I do not remember it,' said O'Brien.

Winston's heart sank. That was doublethink. He had a feeling of deadly

helplessness. If he could have been certain that O'Brien was lying, it

would not have seemed to matter. But it was perfectly possible that O'Brien

had really forgotten the photograph. And if so, then already he would have

forgotten his denial of remembering it, and forgotten the act of

forgetting. How could one be sure that it was simple trickery? Perhaps that

lunatic dislocation in the mind could really happen: that was the thought

that defeated him.

O'Brien was looking down at him speculatively. More than ever he had

the air of a teacher taking pains with a wayward but promising child.

'There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the past,' he

said. 'Repeat it, if you please.'

'"Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present

controls the past,"' repeated Winston obediently.

"'Who controls the present controls the past,"' said O'Brien, nodding

his head with slow approval. 'Is it your opinion, Winston, that the past

has real existence?'

Again the feeling of helplessness descended upon Winston. His eyes

flitted towards the dial. He not only did not know whether 'yes' or 'no'

was the answer that would save him from pain; he did not even know which

answer he believed to be the true one.

O'Brien smiled faintly. 'You are no metaphysician, Winston,' he said.

'Until this moment you had never considered what is meant by existence. I

will put it more precisely. Does the past exist concretely, in space? Is

there somewhere or other a place, a world of solid objects, where the past

is still happening?'

'No.'

'Then where does the past exist, if at all?'

'In records. It is written down.'

'In records. And--?'

'In the mind. In human memories.'

'In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all records, and

we control all memories. Then we control the past, do we not?'

'But how can you stop people remembering things?' cried Winston again

momentarily forgetting the dial. 'It is involuntary. It is outside oneself.

How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!'

O'Brien's manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial.

'On the contrary,' he said, 'you have not controlled it. That is what

has brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in

self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the

price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the

disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is

something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe

that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into

thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the

same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external.

Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual

mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the

mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party

holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by

looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got

to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the

will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.'

He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been

saying to sink in.

'Do you remember,' he went on, 'writing in your diary, "Freedom is the

freedom to say that two plus two make four"?'

'Yes,' said Winston.

O'Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the

thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.

'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?'

'Four.'

'And if the party says that it is not four but five - then how many?'

'Four.'

The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up

to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body. The air

tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching

his teeth he could not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers still

extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly

eased.

'How many fingers, Winston?'

'Four.'

The needle went up to sixty.

'How many fingers, Winston?'

'Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!'

The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The

heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood

up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate,

but unmistakably four.

'How many fingers, Winston?'

'Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!'

'How many fingers, Winston?'

'Five! Five! Five!'

'No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are

four. How many fingers, please?'

'Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!'

Abruptly he was sitting up with O'Brien's arm round his shoulders. He

had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held

his body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking

uncontrollably, his teeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his

cheeks. For a moment he clung to O'Brien like a baby, curiously comforted

by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the feeling that O'Brien was

his protector, that the pain was something that came from outside, from

some other source, and that it was O'Brien who would save him from it.

'You are a slow learner, Winston,' said O'Brien gently.

'How can I help it?' he blubbered. 'How can I help seeing what is in

front of my eyes? Two and two are four.'

'Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are

three. Sometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is

not easy to become sane.'

He laid Winston down on the bed. The grip of his limbs tightened

again, but the pain had ebbed away and the trembling had stopped, leaving

him merely weak and cold. O'Brien motioned with his head to the man in the

white coat, who had stood immobile throughout the proceedings. The man in

the white coat bent down and looked closely into Winston's eyes, felt his

pulse, laid an ear against his chest, tapped here and there, then he nodded

to O'Brien.

'Again,' said O'Brien.

The pain flowed into Winston's body. The needle must be at seventy,

seventy-five. He had shut his eyes this time. He knew that the fingers were

still there, and still four. All that mattered was somehow to stay alive

until the spasm was over. He had ceased to notice whether he was crying out

or not. The pain lessened again. He opened his eyes. O'Brien had drawn back

the lever.

'How many fingers, Winston?'

'Four. I suppose there are four. I would see five if I could. I am

trying to see five.'

'Which do you wish: to persuade me that you see five, or really to see

them?'

'Really to see them.'

'Again,' said O'Brien.

Perhaps the needle was eighty - ninety. Winston could not

intermittently remember why the pain was happening. Behind his screwed-up

eyelids a forest of fingers seemed to be moving in a sort of dance, weaving

in and out, disappearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was

trying to count them, he could not remember why. He knew only that it was

impossible to count them, and that this was somehow due to the mysterious

identity between five and four. The pain died down again. When he opened

his eyes it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing.

Innumerable fingers, like moving trees, were still streaming past in either

direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut his eyes again.

'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?'

'I don't know. I don't know. You will kill me if you do that again.

Four, five, six - in all honesty I don't know.'

'Better,' said O'Brien.

A needle slid into Winston's arm. Almost in the same instant a

blissful, healing warmth spread all through his body. The pain was already

half-forgotten. He opened his eyes and looked up gratefully at O'Brien. At

sight of the heavy, lined face, so ugly and so intelligent, his heart

seemed to turn over. If he could have moved he would have stretched out a

hand and laid it on O'Brien arm. He had never loved him so deeply as at

this moment, and not merely because he had stopped the pain. The old

feeling, that at bottom it did not matter whether O'Brien was a friend or

an enemy, had come back. O'Brien was a person who could be talked to.

Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood. O'Brien

had tortured him to the edge of lunacy, and in a little while, it was

certain, he would send him to his death. It made no difference. In some

sense that went deeper than friendship, they were intimates: somewhere or

other, although the actual words might never be spoken, there was a place

where they could meet and talk. O'Brien was looking down at him with an

expression which suggested that the same thought might be in his own mind.

When he spoke it was in an easy, conversational tone.

'Do you know where you are, Winston?' he said.

'I don't know. I can guess. In the Ministry of Love.'

'Do you know how long you have been here?'

'I don't know. Days, weeks, months - I think it is months.'

'And why do you imagine that we bring people to this place?'

'To make them confess.'

'No, that is not the reason. Try again.'

'To punish them.'

'No!' exclaimed O'Brien. His voice had changed extraordinarily, and

his face had suddenly become both stern and animated. 'No! Not merely to

extract your confession, not to punish you. Shall I tell you why we have

brought you here? To cure you! To make you sane! Will you understand,

Winston, that no one whom we bring to this place ever leaves our hands

uncured? We are not interested in those stupid crimes that you have

committed. The Party is not interested in the overt act: the thought is all

we care about. We do not merely destroy our enemies, we change them. Do you

understand what I mean by that?'

He was bending over Winston. His face looked enormous because of its

nearness, and hideously ugly because it was seen from below. Moreover it

was filled with a sort of exaltation, a lunatic intensity. Again Winston's

heart shrank. If it had been possible he would have cowered deeper into the

bed. He felt certain that O'Brien was about to twist the dial out of sheer

wantonness. At this moment, however, O'Brien turned away. He took a pace or

two up and down. Then he continued less vehemently:

'The first thing for you to understand is that in this place there are

no martyrdoms. You have read of the religious persecutions of the past. In

the Middle Ages there was the Inquisitlon. It was a failure. It set out to

eradicate heresy, and ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it burned

at the stake, thousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because the

Inquisition killed its enemies in the open, and killed them while they were

still unrepentant: in fact, it killed them because they were unrepentant.

Men were dying because they would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally

all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame to the Inquisitor

who burned him. Later, in the twentieth century, there were the

totalitarians, as they were called. There were the German Nazis and the

Russian Communists. The Russians persecuted heresy more cruelly than the

Inquisition had done. And they imagined that they had learned from the

mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that one must not make

martyrs. Before they exposed their victims to public trial, they

deliberately set themselves to destroy their dignity. They wore them down

by torture and solitude until they were despicable, cringing wretches,

confessing whatever was put into their mouths, covering themselves with

abuse, accusing and sheltering behind one another, whimpering for mercy.

And yet after only a few years the same thing had happened over again. The

dead men had become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once

again, why was it? In the first place, because the confessions that they

had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We do not make mistakes of

that kind. All the confessions that are uttered here are true. We make them

true. And above all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. You

must stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you, Winston. Posterity

will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out from the stream of

history. We shall turn you into gas and pour you into the stratosphere.

Nothing will remain of you, not a name in a register, not a memory in a

living brain. You will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future.

You will never have existed.'

Then why bother to torture me? thought Winston, with a momentary

bitterness. O'Brien checked his step as though Winston had uttered the

thought aloud. His large ugly face came nearer, with the eyes a little

narrowed.

'You are thinking,' he said, 'that since we intend to destroy you

utterly, so that nothing that you say or do can make the smallest

difference - in that case, why do we go to the trouble of interrogating

you first? That is what you were thinking, was it not?'

'Yes,' said Winston.

O'Brien smiled slightly. 'You are a flaw in the pattern, Winston. You

are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that we are

different from the persecutors of the past? We are not content with

negative obedience, nor even with the most abject submission. When finally

you surrender to us, it must be of your own free will. We do not destroy

the heretic because he resists us: so long as he resists us we never

destroy him. We convert him, we capture his inner mind, we reshape him. We

burn all evil and all illusion out of him; we bring him over to our side,

not in appearance, but genuinely, heart and soul. We make him one of

ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable to us that an erroneous

thought should exist anywhere in the world, however secret and powerless it

may be. Even in the instant of death we cannot permit any deviation. In the

old days the heretic walked to the stake still a heretic, proclaiming his

heresy, exulting in it. Even the victim of the Russian purges could carry

rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked down the passage waiting for

the bullet. But we make the brain perfect before we blow it out. The

command of the old despotisms was "Thou shalt not". The command of the

totalitarians was "Thou shalt". Our command is "Thou art". No one whom we

bring to this place ever stands out against us. Everyone is washed clean.

Even those three miserable traitors in whose innocence you once believed -

Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford - in the end we broke them down. I took

part in their interrogation myself. I saw them gradually worn down,

whimpering, grovelling, weeping - and in the end it was not with pain or

fear, only with penitence. By the time we had finished with them they were

only the shells of men. There was nothing left in them except sorrow for

what they had done, and love of Big Brother. It was touching to see how

they loved him. They begged to be shot quickly, so that they could die

while their minds were still clean.'

His voice had grown almost dreamy. The exaltation, the lunatic

enthusiasm, was still in his face. He is not pretending, thought Winston,

he is not a hypocrite, he believes every word he says. What most oppressed

him was the consciousness of his own intellectual inferiority. He watched

the heavy yet graceful form strolling to and fro, in and out of the range

of his vision. O'Brien was a being in all ways larger than himself. There

was no idea that he had ever had, or could have, that O'Brien had not long

ago known, examined, and rejected. His mind contained Winston's mind. But

in that case how could it be true that O'Brien was mad? It must be he,

Winston, who was mad. O'Brien halted and looked down at him. His voice had

grown stern again.

'Do not imagine that you will save yourself, Winston, however

completely you surrender to us. No one who has once gone astray is ever

spared. And even if we chose to let you live out the natural term of your

life, still you would never escape from us. What happens to you here is for

ever. Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to the point from

which there is no coming back. Things will happen to you from which you

could not recover, if you lived a thousand years. Never again will you be

capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you.

Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living,

or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We

shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves.'

He paused and signed to the man in the white coat. Winston was aware

of some heavy piece of apparatus being pushed into place behind his head.

O'Brien had sat down beside the bed, so that his face was almost on a level

with Winston's.

'Three thousand,' he said, speaking over Winston's head to the man in

the white coat.

Two soft pads, which felt slightly moist, clamped themselves against

Winston's temples. He quailed. There was pain coming, a new kind of pain.

O'Brien laid a hand reassuringly, almost kindly, on his.

'This time it will not hurt,' he said. 'Keep your eyes fixed on mine.'

At this moment there was a devastating explosion, or what seemed like

an explosion, though it was not certain whether there was any noise. There

was undoubtedly a blinding flash of light. Winston was not hurt, only

prostrated. Although he had already been lying on his back when the thing

happened, he had a curious feeling that he had been knocked into that

position. A terrific painless blow had flattened him out. Also something

had happened inside his head. As his eyes regained their focus he

remembered who he was, and where he was, and recognized the face that was

gazing into his own; but somewhere or other there was a large patch of

emptiness, as though a piece had been taken out of his brain.

'It will not last,' said O'Brien. 'Look me in the eyes. What country

is Oceania at war with?'

Winston thought. He knew what was meant by Oceania and that he himself

was a citizen of Oceania. He also remembered Eurasia and Eastasia; but who

was at war with whom he did not know. In fact he had not been aware that

there was any war.

'I don't remember.'

'Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Do you remember that now?'

'Yes.'

'Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. Since the beginning of

your life, since the beginning of the Party, since the beginning of

history, the war has continued without a break, always the same war. Do you

remember that?'

'Yes.'

'Eleven years ago you created a legend about three men who had been

condemned to death for treachery. You pretended that you had seen a piece

of paper which proved them innocent. No such piece of paper ever existed.

You invented it, and later you grew to believe in it. You remember now the

very moment at which you first invented it. Do you remember that?'

'Yes.'

'Just now I held up the fingers of my hand to you. You saw five

fingers. Do you remember that?'

'Yes.'

O'Brien held up the fingers of his left hand, with the thumb

concealed.

'There are five fingers there. Do you see five fingers?'

'Yes.'

And he did see them, for a fleeting instant, before the scenery of his

mind changed. He saw five fingers, and there was no deformity. Then

everything was normal again, and the old fear, the hatred, and the

bewilderment came crowding back again. But there had been a moment - he

did not know how long, thirty seconds, perhaps - of luminous certainty,

when each new suggestion of O'Brien's had filled up a patch of emptiness

and become absolute truth, and when two and two could have been three as

easily as five, if that were what was needed. It had faded but before

O'Brien had dropped his hand; but though he could not recapture it, he

could remember it, as one remembers a vivid experience at some period of

one's life when one was in effect a different person.

'You see now,' said O'Brien, 'that it is at any rate possible.'

'Yes,' said Winston.

O'Brien stood up with a satisfied air. Over to his left Winston saw

the man in the white coat break an ampoule and draw back the plunger of a

syringe. O'Brien turned to Winston with a smile. In almost the old manner

he resettled his spectacles on his nose.

'Do you remember writing in your diary,' he said, 'that it did not

matter whether I was a friend or an enemy, since I was at least a person

who understood you and could be talked to? You were right. I enjoy talking

to you. Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you

happen to be insane. Before we bring the session to an end you can ask me a

few questions, if you choose.'

'Any question I like?'

'Anything.' He saw that Winston's eyes were upon the dial. 'It is

switched off. What is your first question?'

'What have you done with Julia?' said Winston.

O'Brien smiled again. 'She betrayed you, Winston. Immediately-

unreservedly. I have seldom seen anyone come over to us so promptly. You

would hardly recognize her if you saw her. All her rebelliousness, her

deceit, her folly, her dirty-mindedness - everything has been burned out

of her. It was a perfect conversion, a textbook case.'

'You tortured her?'

O'Brien left this unanswered. 'Next question,' he said.

'Does Big Brother exist?'

'Of course he exists. The Party exists. Big Brother is the embodiment

of the Party.'

'Does he exist in the same way as I exist?'

'You do not exist,' said O'Brien.

Once again the sense of helplessness assailed him. He knew, or he

could imagine, the arguments which proved his own nonexistence; but they

were nonsense, they were only a play on words. Did not the statement, 'You

do not exist', contain a logical absurdity? But what use was it to say so?

His mind shrivelled as he thought of the unanswerable, mad arguments with

which O'Brien would demolish him.

'I think I exist,' he said wearily. 'I am conscious of my own

identity. I was born and I shall die. I have arms and legs. I occupy a

particular point in space. No other solid object can occupy the same point

simultaneously. In that sense, does Big Brother exist?'

'It is of no importance. He exists.'

'Will Big Brother ever die?'

'Of course not. How could he die? Next question.'

'Does the Brotherhood exist?'

'That, Winston, you will never know. If we choose to set you free when

we have finished with you, and if you live to be ninety years old, still

you will never learn whether the answer to that question is Yes or No. As

long as you live it will be an unsolved riddle in your mind.'

Winston lay silent. His breast rose and fell a little faster. He still

had not asked the question that had come into his mind the first. He had

got to ask it, and yet it was as though his tongue would not utter it.

There was a trace of amusement in O'Brien's face. Even his spectacles

seemed to wear an ironical gleam. He knows, thought Winston suddenly, he

knows what I am going to ask! At the thought the words burst out of him:

'What is in Room 101?'

The expression on O'Brien's face did not change. He answered drily:

'You know what is in Room 101, Winston. Everyone knows what is in Room

101.'

He raised a finger to the man in the white coat. Evidently the session

was at an end. A needle jerked into Winston's arm. He sank almost instantly

into deep sleep.

==III==

'There are three stages in your reintegration,' said O'Brien. 'There

is learning, there is understanding, and there is acceptance. It is time

for you to enter upon the second stage.'

As always, Winston was lying flat on his back. But of late his bonds

were looser. They still held him to the bed, but he could move his knees a

little and could turn his head from side to side and raise his arms from

the elbow. The dial, also, had grown to be less of a terror. He could evade

its pangs if he was quick-witted enough: it was chiefly when he showed

stupidity that O'Brien pulled the lever. Sometimes they got through a whole

session without use of the dial. He could not remember how many sessions

there had been. The whole process seemed to stretch out over a long,

indefinite time - weeks, possibly - and the intervals between the

sessions might sometimes have been days, sometimes only an hour or two.

'As you lie there,' said O'Brien, 'you have often wondered - you have

even asked me - why the Ministry of Love should expend so much time and

trouble on you. And when you were free you were puzzled by what was

essentially the same question. You could grasp the mechanics of the Society

you lived in, but not its underlying motives. Do you remember writing in

your diary, "I understand how: I do not understand why"? It was when you

thought about "why" that you doubted your own sanity. You have read the

book, Goldstein's book, or parts of it, at least. Did it tell you anything

that you did not know already?'

'You have read it?' said Winston.

'I wrote it. That is to say, I collaborated in writing it. No book is

produced individually, as you know.'

'Is it true, what it says?'

'A description, yes. The programme it sets forth is nonsense. The

secret accumulation of knowledge - a gradual spread of enlightenment -

ultimately a proletarian rebellion - the overthrow of the Party. You

foresaw yourself that that was what it would say. It is all nonsense. The

proletarians will never revolt, not in a thousand years or a million. They

cannot. I do not have to tell you the reason: you know it already. If you

have ever cherished any dreams of violent insurrection, you must abandon

them. There is no way in which the Party can be overthrown. The rule of the

Party is for ever. Make that the starting-point of your thoughts.'

He came closer to the bed. 'For ever!' he repeated. 'And now let us

get back to the question of "how" and "why". You understand well enough how

the Party maintains itself in power. Now tell me why we cling to power.

What is our motive? Why should we want power? Go on, speak,' he added as

Winston remained silent.

Nevertheless Winston did not speak for another moment or two. A

feeling of weariness had overwhelmed him. The faint, mad gleam of

enthusiasm had come back into O'Brien's face. He knew in advance what

O'Brien would say. That the Party did not seek power for its own ends, but

only for the good of the majority. That it sought power because men in the

mass were frail cowardly creatures who could not endure liberty or face the

truth, and must be ruled over and systematically deceived by others who

were stronger than themselves. That the choice for mankind lay between

freedom and happiness, and that, for the great bulk of mankind, happiness

was better. That the party was the eternal guardian of the weak, a

dedicated sect doing evil that good might come, sacrificing its own

happiness to that of others. The terrible thing, thought Winston, the

terrible thing was that when O'Brien said this he would believe it. You

could see it in his face. O'Brien knew everything. A thousand times better

than Winston he knew what the world was really like, in what degradation

the mass of human beings lived and by what lies and barbarities the Party

kept them there. He had understood it all, weighed it all, and it made no

difference: all was justified by the ultimate purpose. What can you do,

thought Winston, against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself,

who gives your arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists in his

lunacy?

'You are ruling over us for our own good,' he said feebly. 'You

believe that human beings are not fit to govern themselves, and

therefore--'

He started and almost cried out. A pang of pain had shot through his

body. O'Brien had pushed the lever of the dial up to thirty-five.

'That was stupid, Winston, stupid!' he said. 'You should know better

than to say a thing like that.'

He pulled the lever back and continued:

'Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party

seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of

others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long

life or happiness: only power, pure power. What pure power means you will

understand presently. We are different from all the oligarchies of the

past, in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who

resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the

Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never

had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps

they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a

limited time, and that just round the corner there lay a paradise where

human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know that no

one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not

a means, it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to

safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the

dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of

torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to

understand me?'

Winston was struck, as he had been struck before, by the tiredness of

O'Brien's face. It was strong and fleshy and brutal, it was full of

intelligence and a sort of controlled passion before which he felt himself

helpless; but it was tired. There were pouches under the eyes, the skin

sagged from the cheekbones. O'Brien leaned over him, deliberately bringing

the worn face nearer.

'You are thinking,' he said, 'that my face is old and tired. You are

thinking that I talk of power, and yet I am not even able to prevent the

decay of my own body. Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual

is only a cell? The weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. Do

you die when you cut your fingernails?'

He turned away from the bed and began strolling up and down again, one

hand in his pocket.

'We are the priests of power,' he said. 'God is power. But at present

power is only a word so far as you are concerned. It is time for you to

gather some idea of what power means. The first thing you must realize is

that power is collective. The individual only has power in so far as he

ceases to be an individual. You know the Party slogan: "Freedom is

Slavery". Has it ever occurred to you that it is reversible? Slavery is

freedom. Alone - free - the human being is always defeated. It must be

so, because every human being is doomed to die, which is the greatest of

all failures. But if he can make complete, utter submission, if he can

escape from his identity, if he can merge himself in the Party so that he

is the Party, then he is all-powerful and immortal. The second thing for

you to realize is that power is power over human beings. Over the body but,

above all, over the mind. Power over matter - external reality, as you

would call it - is not important. Already our control over matter is

absolute.'

For a moment Winston ignored the dial. He made a violent effort to

raise himself into a sitting position, and merely succeeded in wrenching

his body painfully.

'But how can you control matter?' he burst out. 'You don't even

control the climate or the law of gravity. And there are disease, pain,

death--'

O'Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. 'We control matter

because we control the mind. Reality is inside the skull. You will learn by

degrees, Winston. There is nothing that we could not do. Invisibility,

levitation - anything. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if

I wish to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it. You must

get rid of those nineteenth-century ideas about the laws of Nature. We make

the laws of Nature.'

'But you do not! You are not even masters of this planet. What about

Eurasia and Eastasia? You have not conquered them yet.'

'Unimportant. We shall conquer them when it suits us. And if we did

not, what difference would it make? We can shut them out of existence.

Oceania is the world.'

'But the world itself is only a speck of dust. And man is tiny

helpless! How long has he been in existence? For millions of years the

earth was uninhabited.'

'Nonsense. The earth is as old as we are, no older. How could it be

older? Nothing exists except through human consciousness.'

'But the rocks are full of the bones of extinct animals - mammoths

and mastodons and enormous reptiles which lived here long before man was

ever heard of.'

'Have you ever seen those bones, Winston? Of course not. Nineteenth-

century biologists invented them. Before man there was nothing. After man,

if he could come to an end, there would be nothing. Outside man there is

nothing.'

'But the whole universe is outside us. Look at the stars! Some of them

are a million light-years away. They are out of our reach for ever.'

'What are the stars?' said O'Brien indifferently. 'They are bits of

fire a few kilometres away. We could reach them if we wanted to. Or we

could blot them out. The earth is the centre of the universe. The sun and

the stars go round it.'

Winston made another convulsive movement. This time he did not say

anything. O'Brien continued as though answering a spoken objection:

'For certain purposes, of course, that is not true. When we navigate

the ocean, or when we predict an eclipse, we often find it convenient to

assume that the earth goes round the sun and that the stars are millions

upon millions of kilometres away. But what of it? Do you suppose it is

beyond us to produce a dual system of astronomy? The stars can be near or

distant, according as we need them. Do you suppose our mathematicians are

unequal to that? Have you forgotten doublethink?'

Winston shrank back upon the bed. Whatever he said, the swift answer

crushed him like a bludgeon. And yet he knew, he knew, that he was in the

right. The belief that nothing exists outside your own mind - surely there

must be some way of demonstrating that it was false? Had it not been

exposed long ago as a fallacy? There was even a name for it, which he had

forgotten. A faint smile twitched the corners of O'Brien's mouth as he

looked down at him.

'I told you, Winston,' he said, 'that metaphysics is not your strong

point. The word you are trying to think of is solipsism. But you are

mistaken. This is not solipsism. Collective solipsism, if you like. But

that is a different thing: in fact, the opposite thing. All this is a

digression,' he added in a different tone. 'The real power, the power we

have to fight for night and day, is not power over things, but over men.'

He paused, and for a moment assumed again his air of a schoolmaster

questioning a promising pupil: 'How does one man assert his power over

another, Winston?'

Winston thought. 'By making him suffer,' he said.

'Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is

suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his

own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human

minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own

choosing. Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It

is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old

reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery is torment, a world of

trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but

MORE merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress

towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on

love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no

emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we

shall destroy - everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of

thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the

links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man

and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But

in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken

from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct

will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the

renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are

at work upon it now. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the

Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be

no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will

be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent we shall have

no more need of science. There will be no distinction between beauty and

ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life.

All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always - do not forget

this, Winston - always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly

increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there

will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who

is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping

on a human face - for ever.'

He paused as though he expected Winston to speak. Winston had tried to

shrink back into the surface of the bed again. He could not say anything.

His heart seemed to be frozen. O'Brien went on:

'And remember that it is for ever. The face will always be there to be

stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always be there, so

that he can be defeated and humiliated over again. Everything that you have

undergone since you have been in our hands - all that will continue, and

worse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tortures, the

executions, the disappearances will never cease. It will be a world of

terror as much as a world of triumph. The more the Party is powerful, the

less it will be tolerant: the weaker the opposition, the tighter the

despotism. Goldstein and his heresies will live for ever. Every day, at

every moment, they will be defeated, discredited, ridiculed, spat upon and

yet they will always survive. This drama that I have played out with you

during seven years will be played out over and over again generation after

generation, always in subtler forms. Always we shall have the heretic here

at our mercy, screaming with pain, broken up, contemptible - and in the

end utterly penitent, saved from himself, crawling to our feet of his own

accord. That is the world that we are preparing, Winston. A world of

victory after victory, triumph after triumph after triumph: an endless

pressing, pressing, pressing upon the nerve of power. You are beginning, I

can see, to realize what that world will be like. But in the end you will

do more than understand it. You will accept it, welcome it, become part of

it.'

Winston had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. 'You can't!' he

said weakly.

'What do you mean by that remark, Winston?'

'You could not create such a world as you have just described. It is a

dream. It is impossible.'

'Why?'

'It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred and

cruelty. It would never endure.'

'Why not?'

'It would have no vitality. It would disintegrate. It would commit

suicide.'

'Nonsense. You are under the impression that hatred is more exhausting

than love. Why should it be? And if it were, what difference would that

make? Suppose that we choose to wear ourselves out faster. Suppose that we

quicken the tempo of human life till men are senile at thirty. Still what

difference would it make? Can you not understand that the death of the

individual is not death? The party is immortal.'

As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helplessness. Moreover

he was in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O'Brien would

twist the dial again. And yet he could not keep silent. Feebly, without

arguments, with nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of

what O'Brien had said, he returned to the attack.

'I don't know - I don't care. Somehow you will fail. Something will

defeat you. Life will defeat you.'

'We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imagining that

there is something called human nature which will be outraged by what we do

and will turn against us. But we create human nature. Men are infinitely

malleable. Or perhaps you have returned to your old idea that the

proletarians or the slaves will arise and overthrow us. Put it out of your

mind. They are helpless, like the animals. Humanity is the Party. The

others are outside - irrelevant.'

'I don't care. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later they

will see you for what you are, and then they will tear you to pieces.'

'Do you see any evidence that that is happening? Or any reason why it

should?'

'No. I believe it. I know that you will fail. There is something in

the universe - I don't know, some spirit, some principle - that you will

never overcome.'

'Do you believe in God, Winston?'

'No.'

'Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?'

'I don't know. The spirit of Man.'

'And do you consider yourself a man?.'

'Yes.'

'If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your kind is

extinct; we are the inheritors. Do you understand that you are alone? You

are outside history, you are non-existent.' His manner changed and he said

more harshly: 'And you consider yourself morally superior to us, with our

lies and our cruelty?'

'Yes, I consider myself superior.'

O'Brien did not speak. Two other voices were speaking. After a moment

Winston recognized one of them as his own. It was a sound-track of the

conversation he had had with O'Brien, on the night when he had enrolled

himself in the Brotherhood. He heard himself promising to lie, to steal, to

forge, to murder, to encourage drug-taking and prostitution, to disseminate

venereal diseases, to throw vitriol in a child's face. O'Brien made a small

impatient gesture, as though to say that the demonstration was hardly worth

making. Then he turned a switch and the voices stopped.

'Get up from that bed,' he said.

The bonds had loosened themselves. Winston lowered himself to the

floor and stood up unsteadily.

'You are the last man,' said O'Brien. 'You are the guardian of the

human spirit. You shall see yourself as you are. Take off your clothes.'

Winston undid the bit of string that held his overalls together. The

zip fastener had long since been wrenched out of them. He could not

remember whether at any time since his arrest he had taken off all his

clothes at one time. Beneath the overalls his body was looped with filthy

yellowish rags, just recognizable as the remnants of underclothes. As he

slid them to the ground he saw that there was a three-sided mirror at the

far end of the room. He approached it, then stopped short. An involuntary

cry had broken out of him.

'Go on,' said O'Brien. 'Stand between the wings of the mirror. You

shall see the side view as well.'

He had stopped because he was frightened. A bowed, grey-coloured,

skeleton-like thing was coming towards him. Its actual appearance was

frightening, and not merely the fact that he knew it to be himself. He

moved closer to the glass. The creature's face seemed to be protruded,

because of its bent carriage. A forlorn, jailbird's face with a nobby

forehead running back into a bald scalp, a crooked nose, and battered-

looking cheekbones above which his eyes were fierce and watchful. The

cheeks were seamed, the mouth had a drawn-in look. Certainly it was his own

face, but it seemed to him that it had changed more than he had changed

inside. The emotions it registered would be different from the ones he

felt. He had gone partially bald. For the first moment he had thought that

he had gone grey as well, but it was only the scalp that was grey. Except

for his hands and a circle of his face, his body was grey all over with

ancient, ingrained dirt. Here and there under the dirt there were the red

scars of wounds, and near the ankle the varicose ulcer was an inflamed mass

with flakes of skin peeling off it. But the truly frightening thing was the

emaciation of his body. The barrel of the ribs was as narrow as that of a

skeleton: the legs had shrunk so that the knees were thicker than the

thighs. He saw now what O'Brien had meant about seeing the side view. The

curvature of the spine was astonishing. The thin shoulders were hunched

forward so as to make a cavity of the chest, the scraggy neck seemed to be

bending double under the weight of the skull. At a guess he would have said

that it was the body of a man of sixty, suffering from some malignant

disease.

'You have thought sometimes,' said O'Brien, 'that my face - the face

of a member of the Inner Party - looks old and worn. What do you think of

your own face?'

He seized Winston's shoulder and spun him round so that he was facing

him.

'Look at the condition you are in!' he said. 'Look at this filthy

grime all over your body. Look at the dirt between your toes. Look at that

disgusting running sore on your leg. Do you know that you stink like a

goat? Probably you have ceased to notice it. Look at your emaciation. Do

you see? I can make my thumb and forefinger meet round your bicep. I could

snap your neck like a carrot. Do you know that you have lost twenty-five

kilograms since you have been in our hands? Even your hair is coming out in

handfuls. Look!' He plucked at Winston's head and brought away a tuft of

hair. 'Open your mouth. Nine, ten, eleven teeth left. How many had you when

you came to us? And the few you have left are dropping out of your head.

Look here!'

He seized one of Winston's remaining front teeth between his powerful

thumb and forefinger. A twinge of pain shot through Winston's jaw. O'Brien

had wrenched the loose tooth out by the roots. He tossed it across the

cell.

'You are rotting away,' he said; 'you are falling to pieces. What are

you? A bag of filth. Now turn around and look into that mirror again. Do

you see that thing facing you? That is the last man. If you are human, that

is humanity. Now put your clothes on again.'

Winston began to dress himself with slow stiff movements. Until now he

had not seemed to notice how thin and weak he was. Only one thought stirred

in his mind: that he must have been in this place longer than he had

imagined. Then suddenly as he fixed the miserable rags round himself a

feeling of pity for his ruined body overcame him. Before he knew what he

was doing he had collapsed on to a small stool that stood beside the bed

and burst into tears. He was aware of his ugliness, his gracelessness, a

bundle of bones in filthy underclothes sitting weeping in the harsh white

light: but he could not stop himself. O'Brien laid a hand on his shoulder,

almost kindly.

'It will not last for ever,' he said. 'You can escape from it whenever

you choose. Everything depends on yourself.'

'You did it!' sobbed Winston. 'You reduced me to this state.'

'No, Winston, you reduced yourself to it. This is what you accepted

when you set yourself up against the Party. It was all contained in that

first act. Nothing has happened that you did not foresee.'

He paused, and then went on:

'We have beaten you, Winston. We have broken you up. You have seen

what your body is like. Your mind is in the same state. I do not think

there can be much pride left in you. You have been kicked and flogged and

insulted, you have screamed with pain, you have rolled on the floor in your

own blood and vomit. You have whimpered for mercy, you have betrayed

everybody and everything. Can you think of a single degradation that has

not happened to you?'

Winston had stopped weeping, though the tears were still oozing out of

his eyes. He looked up at O'Brien.

'I have not betrayed Julia,' he said.

O'Brien looked down at him thoughtfully. 'No,' he said; 'no; that is

perfectly true. You have not betrayed Julia.'

The peculiar reverence for O'Brien, which nothing seemed able to

destroy, flooded Winston's heart again. How intelligent, he thought, how

intelligent! Never did O'Brien fail to understand what was said to him.

Anyone else on earth would have answered promptly that he had betrayed

Julia. For what was there that they had not screwed out of him under the

torture? He had told them everything he knew about her, her habits, her

character, her past life; he had confessed in the most trivial detail

everything that had happened at their meetings, all that he had said to her

and she to him, their black-market meals, their adulteries, their vague

plottings against the Party - everything. And yet, in the sense in which

he intended the word, he had not betrayed her. He had not stopped loving

her; his feelings towards her had remained the same. O'Brien had seen what

he meant without the need for explanation.

'Tell me,' he said, 'how soon will they shoot me?'

'It might be a long time,' said O'Brien. 'You are a difficult case.

But don't give up hope. Everyone is cured sooner or later. In the end we

shall shoot you.'

IV

He was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger every day, if

it was proper to speak of days.

The white light and the humming sound were the same as ever, but the

cell was a little more comfortable than the others he had been in. There

was a pillow and a mattress on the plank bed, and a stool to sit on. They

had given him a bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly

frequently in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash with. They

had given him new underclothes and a clean suit of overalls. They had

dressed his varicose ulcer with soothing ointment. They had pulled out the

remnants of his teeth and given him a new set of dentures.

Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been possible now to

keep count of the passage of time, if he had felt any interest in doing so,

since he was being fed at what appeared to be regular intervals. He was

getting, he judged, three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he

wondered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. The food was

surprisingly good, with meat at every third meal. Once there was even a

packet of cigarettes. He had no matches, but the never-speaking guard who

brought his food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke

it made him sick, but he persevered, and spun the packet out for a long

time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal.

They had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil tied to the

corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was

completely torpid. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost

without stirring, sometimes asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in

which it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown used to

sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference,

except that one's dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all

through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden

Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his

mother, with Julia, with O'Brien - not doing anything, merely sitting in

the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was

awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of

intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had been removed. He was

not bored, he had no desire for conversation or distraction. Merely to be

alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be

clean all over, was completely satisfying.

By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no

impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the

strength gathering in his body. He would finger himself here and there,

trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were

growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a

doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now definitely thicker

than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising

himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres,

measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing

straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and

humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a

walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm's length, he could not stand

on one leg without falling over. He squatted down on his heels, and found

that with agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself to a

standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to lift his weight by

his hands. It was hopeless, he could not raise himself a centimetre. But

after a few more days - a few more mealtimes - even that feat was

accomplished. A time came when he could do it six times running. He began

to grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an intermittent belief

that his face also was growing back to normal. Only when he chanced to put

his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the seamed, ruined face that had

looked back at him out of the mirror.

His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back

against the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately

at the task of re-educating himself.

He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw now, he had

been ready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the

moment when he was inside the Ministry of Love - and yes, even during

those minutes when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice

from the telescreen told them what to do - he had grasped the frivolity,

the shallowness of his attempt to set himself up against the power of the

Party. He knew now that for seven years the Thought police had watched him

like a beetle under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no word

spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of thought that they had

not been able to infer. Even the speck of whitish dust on the cover of his

diary they had carefully replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him,

shown him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia and himself.

Yes, even... He could not fight against the Party any longer. Besides, the

Party was in the right. It must be so; how could the immortal, collective

brain be mistaken? By what external standard could you check its

judgements? Sanity was statistical. It was merely a question of learning to

think as they thought. Only--!

The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He began to write

down the thoughts that came into his head. He wrote first in large clumsy

capitals:

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it:

TWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE

But then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though shying away

from something, seemed unable to concentrate. He knew that he knew what

came next, but for the moment he could not recall it. When he did recall

it, it was only by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not

come of its own accord. He wrote:

GOD IS POWER

He accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past never had

been altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at

war with Eastasia. Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford were guilty of the

crimes they were charged with. He had never seen the photograph that

disproved their guilt. It had never existed, he had invented it. He

remembered remembering contrary things, but those were false memories,

products of self-deception. How easy it all was! Only surrender, and

everything else followed. It was like swimming against a current that swept

you backwards however hard you struggled, and then suddenly deciding to

turn round and go with the current instead of opposing it. Nothing had

changed except your own attitude: the predestined thing happened in any

case. He hardly knew why he had ever rebelled. Everything was easy,

except--!

Anything could be true. The so-called laws of Nature were nonsense.

The law of gravity was nonsense. 'If I wished,' O'Brien had said, 'I could

float off this floor like a soap bubble.' Winston worked it out. 'If he

thinks he floats off the floor, and if I simultaneously think I see him do

it, then the thing happens.' Suddenly, like a lump of submerged wreckage

breaking the surface of water, the thought burst into his mind: 'It doesn't

really happen. We imagine it. It is hallucination.' He pushed the thought

under instantly. The fallacy was obvious. It presupposed that somewhere or

other, outside oneself, there was a 'real' world where 'real' things

happened. But how could there be such a world? What knowledge have we of

anything, save through our own minds? All happenings are in the mind.

Whatever happens in all minds, truly happens.

He had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he was in no

danger of succumbing to it. He realized, nevertheless, that it ought never

to have occurred to him. The mind should develop a blind spot whenever a

dangerous thought presented itself. The process should be automatic,

instinctive. Crimestop, they called it in Newspeak.

He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He presented himself

with propositions - 'the Party says the earth is flat', 'the party says

that ice is heavier than water' - and trained himself in not seeing or not

understanding the arguments that contradicted them. It was not easy. It

needed great powers of reasoning and improvisation. The arithmetical

problems raised, for instance, by such a statement as 'two and two make

five' were beyond his intellectual grasp. It needed also a sort of

athleticism of mind, an ability at one moment to make the most delicate use

of logic and at the next to be unconscious of the crudest logical errors.

Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult to attain.

All the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered how soon they

would shoot him. 'Everything depends on yourself,' O'Brien had said; but he

knew that there was no conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It

might be ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him for years in

solitary confinement, they might send him to a labour-camp, they might

release him for a while, as they sometimes did. It was perfectly possible

that before he was shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation

would be enacted all over again. The one certain thing was that death never

came at an expected moment. The tradition - the unspoken tradition:

somehow you knew it, though you never heard it said - was that they shot

you from behind; always in the back of the head, without warning, as you

walked down a corridor from cell to cell.

One day - but 'one day' was not the right expression; just as

probably it was in the middle of the night: once - he fell into a strange,

blissful reverie. He was walking down the corridor, waiting for the bullet.

He knew that it was coming in another moment. Everything was settled,

smoothed out, reconciled. There were no more doubts, no more arguments, no

more pain, no more fear. His body was healthy and strong. He walked easily,

with a joy of movement and with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was

not any longer in the narrow white corridors in the Ministry of Love, he

was in the enormous sunlit passage, a kilometre wide, down which he had

seemed to walk in the delirium induced by drugs. He was in the Golden

Country, following the foot-track across the old rabbit-cropped pasture. He

could feel the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sunshine on

his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees, faintly stirring,

and somewhere beyond that was the stream where the dace lay in the green

pools under the willows.

Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The sweat broke out on

his backbone. He had heard himself cry aloud:

'Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!'

For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence.

She had seemed to be not merely with him, but inside him. It was as though

she had got into the texture of his skin. In that moment he had loved her

far more than he had ever done when they were together and free. Also he

knew that somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help.

He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. What had he done?

How many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness?

In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could

not let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had

not known before, that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them.

He obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old days he had

hidden a heretical mind beneath an appearance of conformity. Now he had

retreated a step further: in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped

to keep the inner heart inviolate. He knew that he was in the wrong, but he

preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand that - O'Brien would

understand it. It was all confessed in that single foolish cry.

He would have to start all over again. It might take years. He ran a

hand over his face, trying to familiarize himself with the new shape. There

were deep furrows in the cheeks, the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose

flattened. Besides, since last seeing himself in the glass he had been

given a complete new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve

inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like. In any

case, mere control of the features was not enough. For the first time he

perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from

yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is

needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape

that could be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think right;

he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred

locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and

yet unconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst.

One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not tell when it

would happen, but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess.

It was always from behind, walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be

enough. In that time the world inside him could turn over. And then

suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his step, without the

changing of a line in his face - suddenly the camouflage would be down and

bang! would go the batteries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an

enormous roaring flame. And almost in the same instant bang! would go the

bullet, too late, or too early. They would have blown his brain to pieces

before they could reclaim it. The heretical thought would be unpunished,

unrepented, out of their reach for ever. They would have blown a hole in

their own perfection. To die hating them, that was freedom.

He shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting an intellectual

discipline. It was a question of degrading himself, mutilating himself. He

had got to plunge into the filthiest of filth. What was the most horrible,

sickening thing of all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face

(because of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought of it as

being a metre wide), with its heavy black moustache and the eyes that

followed you to and fro, seemed to float into his mind of its own accord.

What were his true feelings towards Big Brother?

There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The steel door swung

open with a clang. O'Brien walked into the cell. Behind him were the waxen-

faced officer and the black-uniformed guards.

'Get up,' said O'Brien. 'Come here.'

Winston stood opposite him. O'Brien took Winston's shoulders between

his strong hands and looked at him closely.

'You have had thoughts of deceiving me,' he said. 'That was stupid.

Stand up straighter. Look me in the face.'

He paused, and went on in a gentler tone:

'You are improving. Intellectually there is very little wrong with

you. It is only emotionally that you have failed to make progress. Tell me,

Winston - and remember, no lies: you know that I am always able to detect

a lie - tell me, what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?'

'I hate him.'

'You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you to take the last

step. You must love Big Brother. It is not enough to obey him: you must

love him.'

He released Winston with a little push towards the guards.

'Room 101,' he said.

==V==

At each stage of his imprisonment he had known, or seemed to know,

whereabouts he was in the windowless building. Possibly there were slight

differences in the air pressure. The cells where the guards had beaten him

were below ground level. The room where he had been interrogated by O'Brien

was high up near the roof. This place was many metres underground, as deep

down as it was possible to go.

It was bigger than most of the cells he had been in. But he hardly

noticed his surroundings. All he noticed was that there were two small

tables straight in front of him, each covered with green baize. One was

only a metre or two from him, the other was further away, near the door. He

was strapped upright in a chair, so tightly that he could move nothing, not

even his head. A sort of pad gripped his head from behind, forcing him to

look straight in front of him.

For a moment he was alone, then the door opened and O'Brien came in.

'You asked me once,' said O'Brien, 'what was in Room 101. I told you

that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in

Room 101 is the worst thing in the world.'

The door opened again. A guard came in, carrying something made of

wire, a box or basket of some kind. He set it down on the further table.

Because of the position in which O'Brien was standing. Winston could not

see what the thing was.

'The worst thing in the world,' said O'Brien, 'varies from individual

to individual. It may be burial alive, or death by fire, or by drowning, or

by impalement, or fifty other deaths. There are cases where it is some

quite trivial thing, not even fatal.'

He had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a better view

of the thing on the table. It was an oblong wire cage with a handle on top

for carrying it by. Fixed to the front of it was something that looked like

a fencing mask, with the concave side outwards. Although it was three or

four metres away from him, he could see that the cage was divided

lengthways into two compartments, and that there was some kind of creature

in each. They were rats.

'In your case,' said O'Brien, 'the worst thing in the world happens to

be rats.'

A sort of premonitory tremor, a fear of he was not certain what, had

passed through Winston as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the cage.

But at this moment the meaning of the mask-like attachment in front of it

suddenly sank into him. His bowels seemed to turn to water.

'You can't do that!' he cried out in a high cracked voice. 'You

couldn't, you couldn't! It's impossible.'

'Do you remember,' said O'Brien, 'the moment of panic that used to

occur in your dreams? There was a wall of blackness in front of you, and a

roaring sound in your ears. There was something terrible on the other side

of the wall. You knew that you knew what it was, but you dared not drag it

into the open. It was the rats that were on the other side of the wall.'

'O'Brien!' said Winston, making an effort to control his voice. 'You

know this is not necessary. What is it that you want me to do?'

O'Brien made no direct answer. When he spoke it was in the

schoolmasterish manner that he sometimes affected. He looked thoughtfully

into the distance, as though he were addressing an audience somewhere

behind Winston's back.

'By itself,' he said, 'pain is not always enough. There are occasions

when a human being will stand out against pain, even to the point of death.

But for everyone there is something unendurable - something that cannot be

contemplated. Courage and cowardice are not involved. If you are falling

from a height it is not cowardly to clutch at a rope. If you have come up

from deep water it is not cowardly to fill your lungs with air. It is

merely an instinct which cannot be destroyed. It is the same with the rats.

For you, they are unendurable. They are a form of pressure that you cannot

withstand. even if you wished to. You will do what is required of you.

'But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don't know what it

is?'

O'Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the nearer table.

He set it down carefully on the baize cloth. Winston could hear the blood

singing in his ears. He had the feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. He

was in the middle of a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with

sunlight, across which all sounds came to him out of immense distances. Yet

the cage with the rats was not two metres away from him. They were enormous

rats. They were at the age when a rat's muzzle grows blunt and fierce and

his fur brown instead of grey.

'The rat,' said O'Brien, still addressing his invisible audience,

'although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of that. You will have

heard of the things that happen in the poor quarters of this town. In some

streets a woman dare not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five

minutes. The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time they

will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dying people. They

show astonishing intelligence in knowing when a human being is helpless.'

There was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed to reach

Winston from far away. The rats were fighting; they were trying to get at

each other through the partition. He heard also a deep groan of despair.

That, too, seemed to come from outside himself.

O'Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed something in

it. There was a sharp click. Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself

loose from the chair. It was hopeless; every part of him, even his head,

was held immovably. O'Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a metre

from Winston's face.

'I have pressed the first lever,' said O'Brien. 'You understand the

construction of this cage. The mask will fit over your head, leaving no

exit. When I press this other lever, the door of the cage will slide up.

These starving brutes will shoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever seen

a rat leap through the air? They will leap on to your face and bore

straight into it. Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Sometimes they

burrow through the cheeks and devour the tongue.'

The cage was nearer; it was closing in. Winston heard a succession of

shrill cries which appeared to be occurring in the air above his head. But

he fought furiously against his panic. To think, to think, even with a

split second left - to think was the only hope. Suddenly the foul musty

odour of the brutes struck his nostrils. There was a violent convulsion of

nausea inside him, and he almost lost consciousness. Everything had gone

black. For an instant he was insane, a screaming animal. Yet he came out of

the blackness clutching an idea. There was one and only one way to save

himself. He must interpose another human being, the body of another human

being, between himself and the rats.

The circle of the mask was large enough now to shut out the vision of

anything else. The wire door was a couple of hand-spans from his face. The

rats knew what was coming now. One of them was leaping up and down, the

other, an old scaly grandfather of the sewers, stood up, with his pink

hands against the bars, and fiercely sniffed the air. Winston could see the

whiskers and the yellow teeth. Again the black panic took hold of him. He

was blind, helpless, mindless.

'It was a common punishment in Imperial China,' said O'Brien as

didactically as ever.

The mask was closing on his face. The wire brushed his cheek. And then

- no, it was not relief, only hope, a tiny fragment of hope. Too late,

perhaps too late. But he had suddenly understood that in the whole world

there was just one person to whom he could transfer his punishment - one

body that he could thrust between himself and the rats. And he was shouting

frantically, over and over.

'Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia! I don't care what you

do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not

me!'

He was falling backwards, into enormous depths, away from the rats. He

was still strapped in the chair, but he had fallen through the floor,

through the walls of the building, through the earth, through the oceans,

through the atmosphere, into outer space, into the gulfs between the stars

- always away, away, away from the rats. He was light years distant, but

O'Brien was still standing at his side. There was still the cold touch of

wire against his cheek. But through the darkness that enveloped him he

heard another metallic click, and knew that the cage door had clicked shut

and not open.

VI

The Chestnut Tree was almost empty. A ray of sunlight slanting through

a window fell on dusty table-tops. It was the lonely hour of fifteen. A

tinny music trickled from the telescreens.

Winston sat in his usual corner, gazing into an empty glass. Now and

again he glanced up at a vast face which eyed him from the opposite wall.

BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU the caption said. Unbidden, a waiter came and

filled his glass up with Victory Gin, shaking into it a few drops from

another bottle with a quill through the cork. It was saccharine flavoured

with cloves, the speciality of the cafe.

Winston was listening to the telescreen. At present only music was

coming out of it, but there was a possibility that at any moment there

might be a special bulletin from the Ministry of Peace. The news from the

African front was disquieting in the extreme. On and off he had been

worrying about it all day. A Eurasian army (Oceania was at war with

Eurasia: Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia) was moving southward

at terrifying speed. The mid-day bulletin had not mentioned any definite

area, but it was probable that already the mouth of the Congo was a

battlefield. Brazzaville and Leopoldville were in danger. One did not have

to look at the map to see what it meant. It was not merely a question of

losing Central Africa: for the first time in the whole war, the territory

of Oceania itself was menaced.

A violent emotion, not fear exactly but a sort of undifferentiated

excitement, flared up in him, then faded again. He stopped thinking about

the war. In these days he could never fix his mind on any one subject for

more than a few moments at a time. He picked up his glass and drained it at

a gulp. As always, the gin made him shudder and even retch slightly. The

stuff was horrible. The cloves and saccharine, themselves disgusting enough

in their sickly way, could not disguise the flat oily smell; and what was

worst of all was that the smell of gin, which dwelt with him night and day,

was inextricably mixed up in his mind with the smell of those--

He never named them, even in his thoughts, and so far as it was

possible he never visualized them. They were something that he was half-

aware of, hovering close to his face, a smell that clung to his nostrils.

As the gin rose in him he belched through purple lips. He had grown fatter

since they released him, and had regained his old colour - indeed, more

than regained it. His features had thickened, the skin on nose and

cheekbones was coarsely red, even the bald scalp was too deep a pink. A

waiter, again unbidden, brought the chessboard and the current issue of the

Times, with the page turned down at the chess problem. Then, seeing that

Winston's glass was empty, he brought the gin bottle and filled it. There

was no need to give orders. They knew his habits. The chessboard was always

waiting for him, his corner table was always reserved; even when the place

was full he had it to himself, since nobody cared to be seen sitting too

close to him. He never even bothered to count his drinks. At irregular

intervals they presented him with a dirty slip of paper which they said was

the bill, but he had the impression that they always undercharged him. It

would have made no difference if it had been the other way about. He had

always plenty of money nowadays. He even had a job, a sinecure, more

highly-paid than his old job had been.

The music from the telescreen stopped and a voice took over. Winston

raised his head to listen. No bulletins from the front, however. It was

merely a brief announcement from the Ministry of Plenty. In the preceding

quarter, it appeared, the Tenth Three-Year Plan's quota for bootlaces had

been overfulfilled by 98 per cent.

He examined the chess problem and set out the pieces. It was a tricky

ending, involving a couple of knights. 'White to play and mate in two

moves.' Winston looked up at the portrait of Big Brother. White always

mates, he thought with a sort of cloudy mysticism. Always, without

exception, it is so arranged. In no chess problem since the beginning of

the world has black ever won. Did it not symbolize the eternal, unvarying

triumph of Good over Evil? The huge face gazed back at him, full of calm

power. White always mates.

The voice from the telescreen paused and added in a different and much

graver tone: 'You are warned to stand by for an important announcement at

fifteen-thirty. Fifteen-thirty! This is news of the highest importance.

Take care not to miss it. Fifteen-thirty!' The tinking music struck up

again.

Winston's heart stirred. That was the bulletin from the front;

instinct told him that it was bad news that was coming. All day, with

little spurts of excitement, the thought of a smashing defeat in Africa had

been in and out of his mind. He seemed actually to see the Eurasian army

swarming across the never-broken frontier and pouring down into the tip of

Africa like a column of ants. Why had it not been possible to outflank them

in some way? The outline of the West African coast stood out vividly in his

mind. He picked up the white knight and moved it across the board. There

was the proper spot. Even while he saw the black horde racing southward he

saw another force, mysteriously assembled, suddenly planted in their rear,

cutting their comunications by land and sea. He felt that by willing it he

was bringing that other force into existence. But it was necessary to act

quickly. If they could get control of the whole of Africa, if they had

airfields and submarine bases at the Cape, it would cut Oceania in two. It

might mean anything: defeat, breakdown, the redivision of the world, the

destruction of the Party! He drew a deep breath. An extraordinary medley of

feeling - but it was not a medley, exactly; rather it was successive

layers of feeling, in which one could not say which layer was undermost -

struggled inside him.

The spasm passed. He put the white knight back in its place, but for

the moment he could not settle down to serious study of the chess problem.

His thoughts wandered again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his finger

in the dust on the table:

2 + 2 = 5

'They can't get inside you,' she had said. But they could get inside

you. 'What happens to you here is for ever,' O'Brien had said. That was a

true word. There were things, your own acts, from which you could never

recover. Something was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out.

He had seen her; he had even spoken to her. There was no danger in it.

He knew as though instinctively that they now took almost no interest in

his doings. He could have arranged to meet her a second time if either of

them had wanted to. Actually it was by chance that they had met. It was in

the Park, on a vile, biting day in March, when the earth was like iron and

all the grass seemed dead and there was not a bud anywhere except a few

crocuses which had pushed themselves up to be dismembered by the wind. He

was hurrying along with frozen hands and watering eyes when he saw her not

ten metres away from him. It struck him at once that she had changed in

some ill-defined way. They almost passed one another without a sign, then

he turned and followed her, not very eagerly. He knew that there was no

danger, nobody would take any interest in him. She did not speak. She

walked obliquely away across the grass as though trying to get rid of him,

then seemed to resign herself to having him at her side. Presently they

were in among a clump of ragged leafless shrubs, useless either for

concealment or as protection from the wind. They halted. It was vilely

cold. The wind whistled through the twigs and fretted the occasional,

dirty-looking crocuses. He put his arm round her waist.

There was no telescreen, but there must be hidden microphones:

besides, they could be seen. It did not matter, nothing mattered. They

could have lain down on the ground and done that if they had wanted to. His

flesh froze with horror at the thought of it. She made no response whatever

to the clasp of his arm; she did not even try to disengage herself. He knew

now what had changed in her. Her face was sallower, and there was a long

scar, partly hidden by the hair, across her forehead and temple; but that

was not the change. It was that her waist had grown thicker, and, in a

surprising way, had stiffened. He remembered how once, after the explosion

of a rocket bomb, he had helped to drag a corpse out of some ruins, and had

been astonished not only by the incredible weight of the thing, but by its

rigidity and awkwardness to handle, which made it seem more like stone than

flesh. Her body felt like that. It occurred to him that the texture of her

skin would be quite different from what it had once been.

He did not attempt to kiss her, nor did they speak. As they walked

back across the grass, she looked directly at him for the first time. It

was only a momentary glance, full of contempt and dislike. He wondered

whether it was a dislike that came purely out of the past or whether it was

inspired also by his bloated face and the water that the wind kept

squeezing from his eyes. They sat down on two iron chairs, side by side but

not too close together. He saw that she was about to speak. She moved her

clumsy shoe a few centimetres and deliberately crushed a twig. Her feet

seemed to have grown broader, he noticed.

'I betrayed you,' she said baldly.

'I betrayed you,' he said.

She gave him another quick look of dislike.

'Sometimes,' she said, 'they threaten you with something something you

can't stand up to, can't even think about. And then you say, "Don't do it

to me, do it to somebody else, do it to so-and-so." And perhaps you might

pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to

make them stop and didn't really mean it. But that isn't true. At the time

when it happens you do mean it. You think there's no other way of saving

yourself, and you're quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to

happen to the other person. You don't give a damn what they suffer. All you

care about is yourself.'

'All you care about is yourself,' he echoed.

'And after that, you don't feel the same towards the other person any

longer.'

'No,' he said, 'you don't feel the same.'

There did not seem to be anything more to say. The wind plastered

their thin overalls against their bodies. Almost at once it became

embarrassing to sit there in silence: besides, it was too cold to keep

still. She said something about catching her Tube and stood up to go.

'We must meet again,' he said.

'Yes,' she said, 'we must meet again.'

He followed irresolutely for a little distance, half a pace behind

her. They did not speak again. She did not actually try to shake him off,

but walked at just such a speed as to prevent his keeping abreast of her.

He had made up his mind that he would accompany her as far as the Tube

station, but suddenly this process of trailing along in the cold seemed

pointless and unbearable. He was overwhelmed by a desire not so much to get

away from Julia as to get back to the Chestnut Tree Cafe, which had never

seemed so attractive as at this moment. He had a nostalgic vision of his

corner table, with the newspaper and the chessboard and the ever-flowing

gin. Above all, it would be warm in there. The next moment, not altogether

by accident, he allowed himself to become separated from her by a small

knot of people. He made a halfhearted attempt to catch up, then slowed

down, turned, and made off in the opposite direction. When he had gone

fifty metres he looked back. The street was not crowded, but already he

could not distinguish her. Any one of a dozen hurrying figures might have

been hers. Perhaps her thickened, stiffened body was no longer recognizable

from behind.

'At the time when it happens,' she had said, 'you do mean it.' He had

meant it. He had not merely said it, he had wished it. He had wished that

she and not he should be delivered over to the--

Something changed in the music that trickled from the telescreen. A

cracked and jeering note, a yellow note, came into it. And then - perhaps

it was not happening, perhaps it was only a memory taking on the semblance

of sound - a voice was singing:

Under the spreading chestnut tree

I sold you and you sold me--

The tears welled up in his eyes. A passing waiter noticed that his

glass was empty and came back with the gin bottle.

He took up his glass and sniffed at it. The stuff grew not less but

more horrible with every mouthful he drank. But it had become the element

he swam in. It was his life, his death, and his resurrection. It was gin

that sank him into stupor every night, and gin that revived him every

morning. When he woke, seldom before eleven hundred, with gummed-up eyelids

and fiery mouth and a back that seemed to be broken, it would have been

impossible even to rise from the horizontal if it had not been for the

bottle and teacup placed beside the bed overnight. Through the midday hours

he sat with glazed face, the bottle handy, listening to the telescreen.

From fifteen to closing-time he was a fixture in the Chestnut Tree. No one

cared what he did any longer, no whistle woke him, no telescreen admonished

him. Occasionally, perhaps twice a week, he went to a dusty, forgotten-

looking office in the Ministry of Truth and did a little work, or what was

called work. He had been appointed to a sub-committee of a sub-committee

which had sprouted from one of the innumerable committees dealing with

minor difficulties that arose in the compilation of the Eleventh Edition of

the Newspeak Dictionary. They were engaged in producing something called an

Interim Report, but what it was that they were reporting on he had never

definitely found out. It was something to do with the question of whether

commas should be placed inside brackets, or outside. There were four others

on the committee, all of them persons similar to himself. There were days

when they assembled and then promptly dispersed again, frankly admitting to

one another that there was not really anything to be done. But there were

other days when they settled down to their work almost eagerly, making a

tremendous show of entering up their minutes and drafting long memoranda

which were never finished - when the argument as to what they were

supposedly arguing about grew extraordinarily involved and abstruse, with

subtle haggling over definitions, enormous digressions, quarrels -

threats, even, to appeal to higher authority. And then suddenly the life

would go out of them and they would sit round the table looking at one

another with extinct eyes, like ghosts fading at cock-crow.

The telescreen was silent for a moment. Winston raised his head again.

The bulletin! But no, they were merely changing the music. He had the map

of Africa behind his eyelids. The movement of the armies was a diagram: a

black arrow tearing vertically southward, and a white arrow horizontally

eastward, across the tail of the first. As though for reassurance he looked

up at the imperturbable face in the portrait. Was it conceivable that the

second arrow did not even exist?

His interest flagged again. He drank another mouthful of gin, picked

up the white knight and made a tentative move. Check. But it was evidently

not the right move, because--

Uncalled, a memory floated into his mind. He saw a candle-lit room

with a vast white-counterpaned bed, and himself, a boy of nine or ten,

sitting on the floor, shaking a dice-box, and laughing excitedly. His

mother was sitting opposite him and also laughing.

It must have been about a month before she disappeared. It was a

moment of reconciliation, when the nagging hunger in his belly was

forgotten and his earlier affection for her had temporarily revived. He

remembered the day well, a pelting, drenching day when the water streamed

down the window-pane and the light indoors was too dull to read by. The

boredom of the two children in the dark, cramped bedroom became unbearable.

Winston whined and grizzled, made futile demands for food, fretted about

the room pulling everything out of place and kicking the wainscoting until

the neighbours banged on the wall, while the younger child wailed

intermittently. In the end his mother said, 'Now be good, and I'Il buy you

a toy. A lovely toy - you'll love it'; and then she had gone out in the

rain, to a little general shop which was still sporadically open nearby,

and came back with a cardboard box containing an outfit of Snakes and

Ladders. He could still remember the smell of the damp cardboard. It was a

miserable outfit. The board was cracked and the tiny wooden dice were so

ill-cut that they would hardly lie on their sides. Winston looked at the

thing sulkily and without interest. But then his mother lit a piece of

candle and they sat down on the floor to play. Soon he was wildly excited

and shouting with laughter as the tiddly-winks climbed hopefully up the

ladders and then came slithering down the snakes again, almost to the

starting-point. They played eight games, winning four each. His tiny

sister, too young to understand what the game was about, had sat propped up

against a bolster, laughing because the others were laughing. For a whole

afternoon they had all been happy together, as in his earlier childhood.

He pushed the picture out of his mind. It was a false memory. He was

troubled by false memories occasionally. They did not matter so long as one

knew them for what they were. Some things had happened, others had not

happened. He turned back to the chessboard and picked up the white knight

again. Almost in the same instant it dropped on to the board with a

clatter. He had started as though a pin had run into him.

A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin!

Victory! It always meant victory when a trumpet-call preceded the news. A

sort of electric drill ran through the cafe. Even the waiters had started

and pricked up their ears.

The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an

excited voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started it

was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had run

round the streets like magic. He could hear just enough of what was issuing

from the telescreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had

foreseen; a vast seaborne armada had secretly assembled a sudden blow in

the enemy's rear, the white arrow tearing across the tail of the black.

Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: 'Vast

strategic manoeuvre - perfect co-ordination - utter rout - half a

million prisoners - complete demoralization - control of the whole of

Africa - bring the war within measurable distance of its end victory -

greatest victory in human history - victory, victory, victory!'

Under the table Winston's feet made convulsive movements. He had not

stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, he

was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at

the portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the world! The rock

against which the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain! He thought how

ten minutes ago - yes, only ten minutes - there had still been

equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front

would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than a Eurasian army that

had perished! Much had changed in him since that first day in the Ministry

of Love, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened,

until this moment.

The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of

prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a

little. The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached

with the gin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no

attention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any

longer. He was back in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his

soul white as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything,

implicating everybody. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with

the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The

longhoped-for bullet was entering his brain.

He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to

learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel,

needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving

breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it

was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had

won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother.

1949

THE END

Appendix

THE PRINCIPLES OF NEWSPEAK

Newspeak was the official language of Oceania and had been devised to

meet the ideological needs of Ingsoc, or English Socialism. In the year

1984 there was not as yet anyone who used Newspeak as his sole means of

communication, either in speech or writing. The leading articles in the

Times were written in it, but this was a tour de force which could only be

carried out by a specialist. It was expected that Newspeak would have

finally superseded Oldspeak (or Standard English, as we should call it) by

about the year 2050. Meanwhile it gained ground steadily, all Party members

tending to use Newspeak words and grammatical constructions more and more

in their everyday speech. The version in use in 1984, and embodied in the

Ninth and Tenth Editions of the Newspeak Dictionary, was a provisional one,

and contained many superfluous words and archaic formations which were due

to be suppressed later. It is with the final, perfected version, as

embodied in the Eleventh Edition of the Dictionary, that we are concerned

here.

The purpose of Newspeak was not only to provide a medium of expression

for the world-view and mental habits proper to the devotees of Ingsoc, but

to make all other modes of thought impossible. It was intended that when

Newspeak had been adopted once and for all and Oldspeak forgotten, a

heretical thought - that is, a thought diverging from the principles of

Ingsoc - should be literally unthinkable, at least so far as thought is

dependent on words. Its vocabulary was so constructed as to give exact and

often very subtle expression to every meaning that a Party member could

properly wish to express, while excluding all other meanings and also the

possibility of arriving at them by indirect methods. This was done partly

by the invention of new words, but chiefly by eliminating undesirable words

and by stripping such words as remained of unorthodox meanings, and so far

as possible of all secondary meanings whatever. To give a single example.

The word free still existed in Newspeak, but it could only be used in such

statements as 'This dog is free from lice' or 'This field is free from

weeds'. It could not be used in its old sense of 'politically free' or

'intellectually free' since political and intellectual freedom no longer

existed even as concepts, and were therefore of necessity nameless. Quite

apart from the suppression of definitely heretical words, reduction of

vocabulary was regarded as an end in itself, and no word that could be

dispensed with was allowed to survive. Newspeak was designed not to extend

but to diminish the range of thought, and this purpose was indirectly

assisted by cutting the choice of words down to a minimum.

Newspeak was founded on the English language as we now know it, though

many Newspeak sentences, even when not containing newly-created words,

would be barely intelligible to an English-speaker of our own day. Newspeak

words were divided into three distinct classes, known as the A vocabulary,

the B vocabulary (also called compound words), and the C vocabulary. It

will be simpler to discuss each class separately, but the grammatical

peculiarities of the language can be dealt with in the section devoted to

the A vocabulary, since the same rules held good for all three categories.

The A vocabulary. The A vocabulary consisted of the words needed for

the business of everyday life - for such things as eating, drinking,

working, putting on one's clothes, going up and down stairs, riding in

vehicles, gardening, cooking, and the like. It was composed almost entirely

of words that we already possess words like hit, run, dog, tree, sugar,

house, field - but in comparison with the present-day English vocabulary

their number was extremely small, while their meanings were far more

rigidly defined. All ambiguities and shades of meaning had been purged out

of them. So far as it could be achieved, a Newspeak word of this class was

simply a staccato sound expressing one clearly understood concept. It would

have been quite impossible to use the A vocabulary for literary purposes or

for political or philosophical discussion. It was intended only to express

simple, purposive thoughts, usually involving concrete objects or physical

actions.

The grammar of Newspeak had two outstanding peculiarities. The first

of these was an almost complete interchangeability between different parts

of speech. Any word in the language (in principle this applied even to very

abstract words such as if or when) could be used either as verb, noun,

adjective, or adverb. Between the verb and the noun form, when they were of

the same root, there was never any variation, this rule of itself involving

the destruction of many archaic forms. The word thought, for example, did

not exist in Newspeak. Its place was taken by think, which did duty for

both noun and verb. No etymological principle was followed here: in some

cases it was the original noun that was chosen for retention, in other

cases the verb. Even where a noun and verb of kindred meaning were not

etymologically connected, one or other of them was frequently suppressed.

There was, for example, no such word as cut, its meaning being sufficiently

covered by the noun-verb knife. Adjectives were formed by adding the suffix

-ful to the noun-verb, and adverbs by adding -wise. Thus for example,

speedful meant 'rapid' and speedwise meant 'quickly'. Certain of our

present-day adjectives, such as good, strong, big, black, soft, were

retained, but their total number was very small. There was little need for

them, since almost any adjectival meaning could be arrived at by adding -

ful to a noun-verb. None of the now-existing adverbs was retained, except

for a very few already ending in -wise: the -wise termination was

invariable. The word well, for example, was replaced by goodwise.

In addition, any word - this again applied in principle to every word

in the language - could be negatived by adding the affix un-, or could be

strengthened by the affix plus-, or, for still greater emphasis,

doubleplus-. Thus, for example, uncold meant 'warm', while pluscold and

doublepluscold meant, respectively, 'very cold' and 'superlatively cold'.

It was also possible, as in present-day English, to modify the meaning of

almost any word by prepositional affixes such as ante-, post-, up-, down-,

etc. By such methods it was found possible to bring about an enormous

diminution of vocabulary. Given, for instance, the word good, there was no

need for such a word as bad, since the required meaning was equally well -

indeed, better - expressed by ungood. All that was necessary, in any case

where two words formed a natural pair of opposites, was to decide which of

them to suppress. Dark, for example, could be replaced by unlight, or light

by undark, according to preference.

The second distinguishing mark of Newspeak grammar was its regularity.

Subject to a few exceptions which are mentioned below all inflexions

followed the same rules. Thus, in all verbs the preterite and the past

participle were the same and ended in -ed. The preterite of steal was

stealed, the preterite of think was thinked, and so on throughout the

language, all such forms as swam, gave, brought, spoke, taken, etc., being

abolished. All plurals were made by adding -s or -es as the case might be.

The plurals of man, ox, life, were mans, oxes, lifes. Comparison of

adjectives was invariably made by adding -er, -est (good, gooder, goodest),

irregular forms and the more, most formation being suppressed.

The only classes of words that were still allowed to inflect

irregularly were the pronouns, the relatives, the demonstrative adjectives,

and the auxiliary verbs. All of these followed their ancient usage, except

that whom had been scrapped as unnecessary, and the shall, should tenses

had been dropped, all their uses being covered by will and would. There

were also certain irregularities in word-formation arising out of the need

for rapid and easy speech. A word which was difficult to utter, or was

liable to be incorrectly heard, was held to be ipso facto a bad word:

occasionally therefore, for the sake of euphony, extra letters were

inserted into a word or an archaic formation was retained. But this need

made itself felt chiefly in connexion with the B vocabulary. Why so great

an importance was attached to ease of pronunciation will be made clear

later in this essay.

The B vocabulary. The B vocabulary consisted of words which had been

deliberately constructed for political purposes: words, that is to say,

which not only had in every case a political implication, but were intended

to impose a desirable mental attitude upon the person using them. Without a

full understanding of the principles of Ingsoc it was difficult to use

these words correctly. In some cases they could be translated into

Oldspeak, or even into words taken from the A vocabulary, but this usually

demanded a long paraphrase and always involved the loss of certain

overtones. The B words were a sort of verbal shorthand, often packing whole

ranges of ideas into a few syllables, and at the same time more accurate

and forcible than ordinary language.

The B words were in all cases compound words[2]. They consisted of two

or more words, or portions of words, welded together in an easily

pronounceable form. The resulting amalgam was always a noun-verb, and

inflected according to the ordinary rules. To take a single example: the

word goodthink, meaning, very roughly, 'orthodoxy', or, if one chose to

regard it as a verb, 'to think in an orthodox manner'. This inflected as

follows: noun-verb, goodthink; past tense and past participle, goodthinked;

present participle, goodthinking; adjective, goodthinkful; adverb,

goodthinkwise; verbal noun, goodthinker.

The B words were not constructed on any etymological plan. The words

of which they were made up could be any parts of speech, and could be

placed in any order and mutilated in any way which made them easy to

pronounce while indicating their derivation. In the word crimethink

(thoughtcrime), for instance, the think came second, whereas in thinkpol

(Thought Police) it came first, and in the latter word police had lost its

second syllable. Because of the great difficulty in securing euphony,

irregular formations were commoner in the B vocabulary than in the A

vocabulary. For example, the adjective forms of Minitrue, Minipax, and

Miniluv were, respectively, Minitruthful, Minipeaceful, and Minilovely,

simply because -trueful, -paxful, and -loveful were slightly awkward to

pronounce. In principle, however, all B words could inflect, and all

inflected in exactly the same way.

Some of the B words had highly subtilized meanings, barely

intelligible to anyone who had not mastered the language as a whole.

Consider, for example, such a typical sentence from a Times leading article

as Oldthinkers unbellyfeel Ingsoc. The shortest rendering that one could

make of this in Oldspeak would be: 'Those whose ideas were formed before

the Revolution cannot have a full emotional understanding of the principles

of English Socialism.' But this is not an adequate translation. To begin

with, in order to grasp the full meaning of the Newspeak sentence quoted

above, one would have to have a clear idea of what is meant by Ingsoc. And

in addition, only a person thoroughly grounded in Ingsoc could appreciate

the full force of the word bellyfeel, which implied a blind, enthusiastic

acceptance difficult to imagine today; or of the word oldthink, which was

inextricably mixed up with the idea of wickedness and decadence. But the

special function of certain Newspeak words, of which oldthink was one, was

not so much to express meanings as to destroy them. These words,

necessarily few in number, had had their meanings extended until they

contained within themselves whole batteries of words which, as they were

sufficiently covered by a single comprehensive term, could now be scrapped

and forgotten. The greatest difficulty facing the compilers of the Newspeak

Dictionary was not to invent new words, but, having invented them, to make

sure what they meant: to make sure, that is to say, what ranges of words

they cancelled by their existence.

As we have already seen in the case of the word free, words which had

once borne a heretical meaning were sometimes retained for the sake of

convenience, but only with the undesirable meanings purged out of them.

Countless other words such as honour, justice, morality, internationalism,

democracy, science, and religion had simply ceased to exist. A few blanket

words covered them, and, in covering them, abolished them. All words

grouping themselves round the concepts of liberty and equality, for

instance, were contained in the single word crimethink, while all words

grouping themselves round the concepts of objectivity and rationalism were

contained in the single word oldthink. Greater precision would have been

dangerous. What was required in a Party member was an outlook similar to

that of the ancient Hebrew who knew, without knowing much else, that all

nations other than his own worshipped 'false gods'. He did not need to know

that these gods were called Baal, Osiris, Moloch, Ashtaroth, and the like:

probably the less he knew about them the better for his orthodoxy. He knew

Jehovah and the commandments of Jehovah: he knew, therefore, that all gods

with other names or other attributes were false gods. In somewhat the same

way, the party member knew what constituted right conduct, and in

exceedingly vague, generalized terms he knew what kinds of departure from

it were possible. His sexual life, for example, was entirely regulated by

the two Newspeak words sexcrime (sexual immorality) and goodsex (chastity).

Sexcrime covered all sexual misdeeds whatever. It covered fornication,

adultery, homosexuality, and other perversions, and, in addition, normal

intercourse practised for its own sake. There was no need to enumerate them

separately, since they were all equally culpable, and, in principle, all

punishable by death. In the C vocabulary, which consisted of scientific and

technical words, it might be necessary to give specialized names to certain

sexual aberrations, but the ordinary citizen had no need of them. He knew

what was meant by goodsex - that is to say, normal intercourse between man

and wife, for the sole purpose of begetting children, and without physical

pleasure on the part of the woman: all else was sexcrime. In Newspeak it

was seldom possible to follow a heretical thought further than the

perception that it was heretical: beyond that point the necessary words

were nonexistent.

No word in the B vocabulary was ideologically neutral. A great many

were euphemisms. Such words, for instance, as joycamp (forced-labour camp)

or Minipax (Ministry of Peace, i.e. Ministry of War) meant almost the exact

opposite of what they appeared to mean. Some words, on the other hand,

displayed a frank and contemptuous understanding of the real nature of

Oceanic society. An example was prolefeed, meaning the rubbishy

entertainment and spurious news which the Party handed out to the masses.

Other words, again, were ambivalent, having the connotation 'good' when

applied to the Party and 'bad' when applied to its enemies. But in addition

there were great numbers of words which at first sight appeared to be mere

abbreviations and which derived their ideological colour not from their

meaning, but from their structure.

So far as it could be contrived, everything that had or might have

political significance of any kind was fitted into the B vocabulary. The

name of every organization, or body of people, or doctrine, or country, or

institution, or public building, was invariably cut down into the familiar

shape; that is, a single easily pronounced word with the smallest number of

syllables that would preserve the original derivation. In the Ministry of

Truth, for example, the Records Department, in which Winston Smith worked,

was called Recdep, the Fiction Department was called Ficdep, the

Teleprogrammes Department was called Teledep, and so on. This was not done

solely with the object of saving time. Even in the early decades of the

twentieth century, telescoped words and phrases had been one of the

characteristic features of political language; and it had been noticed that

the tendency to use abbreviations of this kind was most marked in

totalitarian countries and totalitarian organizations. Examples were such

words as Nazi, Gestapo, Comintern, Inprecorr, Agitprop. In the beginning

the practice had been adopted as it were instinctively, but in Newspeak it

was used with a conscious purpose. It was perceived that in thus

abbreviating a name one narrowed and subtly altered its meaning, by cutting

out most of the associations that would otherwise cling to it. The words

Communist International, for instance, call up a composite picture of

universal human brotherhood, red flags, barricades, Karl Marx, and the

Paris Commune. The word Comintern, on the other hand, suggests merely a

tightly-knit organization and a well-defined body of doctrine. It refers to

something almost as easily recognized, and as limited in purpose, as a

chair or a table. Comintern is a word that can be uttered almost without

taking thought, whereas Communist International is a phrase over which one

is obliged to linger at least momentarily. In the same way, the

associations called up by a word like Minitrue are fewer and more

controllable than those called up by Ministry of Truth. This accounted not

only for the habit of abbreviating whenever possible, but also for the

almost exaggerated care that was taken to make every word easily

pronounceable.

In Newspeak, euphony outweighed every consideration other than

exactitude of meaning. Regularity of grammar was always sacrificed to it

when it seemed necessary. And rightly so, since what was required, above

all for political purposes, was short clipped words of unmistakable meaning

which could be uttered rapidly and which roused the minimum of echoes in

the speaker's mind. The words of the B vocabulary even gained in force from

the fact that nearly all of them were very much alike. Almost invariably

these words - goodthink, Minipax, prolefeed, sexcrime, joycamp, Ingsoc,

bellyfeel, thinkpol, and countless others - were words of two or three

syllables, with the stress distributed equally between the first syllable

and the last. The use of them encouraged a gabbling style of speech, at

once staccato and monotonous. And this was exactly what was aimed at. The

intention was to make speech, and especially speech on any subject not

ideologically neutral, as nearly as possible independent of consciousness.

For the purposes of everyday life it was no doubt necessary, or sometimes

necessary, to reflect before speaking, but a Party member called upon to

make a political or ethical judgement should be able to spray forth the

correct opinions as automatically as a machine gun spraying forth bullets.

His training fitted him to do this, the language gave him an almost

foolproof instrument, and the texture of the words, with their harsh sound

and a certain wilful ugliness which was in accord with the spirit of

Ingsoc, assisted the process still further.

So did the fact of having very few words to choose from. Relative to

our own, the Newspeak vocabulary was tiny, and new ways of reducing it were

constantly being devised. Newspeak, indeed, differed from most all other

languages in that its vocabulary grew smaller instead of larger every year.

Each reduction was a gain, since the smaller the area of choice, the

smaller the temptation to take thought. Ultimately it was hoped to make

articulate speech issue from the larynx without involving the higher brain

centres at all. This aim was frankly admitted in the Newspeak word

duckspeak, meaning 'to quack like a duck'. Like various other words in the

B vocabulary, duckspeak was ambivalent in meaning. Provided that the

opinions which were quacked out were orthodox ones, it implied nothing but

praise, and when the Times referred to one of the orators of the Party as a

doubleplusgood duckspeaker it was paying a warm and valued compliment.

The C vocabulary. The C vocabulary was supplementary to the others and

consisted entirely of scientific and technical terms. These resembled the

scientific terms in use today, and were constructed from the same roots,

but the usual care was taken to define them rigidly and strip them of

undesirable meanings. They followed the same grammatical rules as the words

in the other two vocabularies. Very few of the C words had any currency

either in everyday speech or in political speech. Any scientific worker or

technician could find all the words he needed in the list devoted to his

own speciality, but he seldom had more than a smattering of the words

occurring in the other lists. Only a very few words were common to all

lists, and there was no vocabulary expressing the function of Science as a

habit of mind, or a method of thought, irrespective of its particular

branches. There was, indeed, no word for 'Science', any meaning that it

could possibly bear being already sufficiently covered by the word Ingsoc.

From the foregoing account it will be seen that in Newspeak the

expression of unorthodox opinions, above a very low level, was well-nigh

impossible. It was of course possible to utter heresies of a very crude

kind, a species of blasphemy. It would have been possible, for example, to

say Big Brother is ungood. But this statement, which to an orthodox ear

merely conveyed a self-evident absurdity, could not have been sustained by

reasoned argument, because the necessary words were not available. Ideas

inimical to Ingsoc could only be entertained in a vague wordless form, and

could only be named in very broad terms which lumped together and condemned

whole groups of heresies without defining them in doing so. One could, in

fact, only use Newspeak for unorthodox purposes by illegitimately

translating some of the words back into Oldspeak. For example, All mans are

equal was a possible Newspeak sentence, but only in the same sense in which

All men are redhaired is a possible Oldspeak sentence. It did not contain a

grammatical error, but it expressed a palpable untruth - i.e. that all men

are of equal size, weight, or strength. The concept of political equality

no longer existed, and this secondary meaning had accordingly been purged

out of the word equal. In 1984, when Oldspeak was still the normal means of

communication, the danger theoretically existed that in using Newspeak

words one might remember their original meanings. In practice it was not

difficult for any person well grounded in doublethink to avoid doing this,

but within a couple of generations even the possibility of such a lapse

would have vaished. A person growing up with Newspeak as his sole language

would no more know that equal had once had the secondary meaning of

'politically equal', or that free had once meant 'intellectually free',

than for instance, a person who had never heard of chess would be aware of

the secondary meanings attaching to queen and rook. There would be many

crimes and errors which it would be beyond his power to commit, simply

because they were nameless and therefore unimaginable. And it was to be

foreseen that with the passage of time the distinguishing characteristics

of Newspeak would become more and more pronounced - its words growing

fewer and fewer, their meanings more and more rigid, and the chance of

putting them to improper uses always diminishing.

When Oldspeak had been once and for all superseded, the last link with

the past would have been severed. History had already been rewritten, but

fragments of the literature of the past survived here and there,

imperfectly censored, and so long as one retained one's knowledge of

Oldspeak it was possible to read them. In the future such fragments, even

if they chanced to survive, would be unintelligible and untranslatable. It

was impossible to translate any passage of Oldspeak into Newspeak unless it

either referred to some technical process or some very simple everyday

action, or was already orthodox (goodthinkful would be the Newspeak

expression) in tendency. In practice this meant that no book written before

approximately 1960 could be translated as a whole. Pre-revolutionary

literature could only be subjected to ideological translation - that is,

alteration in sense as well as language. Take for example the well-known

passage from the Declaration of Independence:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created

equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable

rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among men, deriving

their powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of

Government becomes destructive of those ends, it is the right of the People

to alter or abolish it, and to institute new Government...

It would have been quite impossible to render this into Newspeak while

keeping to the sense of the original. The nearest one could come to doing

so would be to swallow the whole passage up in the single word crimethink.

A full translation could only be an ideological translation, whereby

Jefferson's words would be changed into a panegyric on absolute government.

A good deal of the literature of the past was, indeed, already being

transformed in this way. Considerations of prestige made it desirable to

preserve the memory of certain historical figures, while at the same time

bringing their achievements into line with the philosophy of Ingsoc.

Various writers, such as Shakespeare, Milton, Swift, Byron, Dickens, and

some others were therefore in process of translation: when the task had

been completed, their original writings, with all else that survived of the

literature of the past, would be destroyed. These translations were a slow

and difficult business, and it was not expected that they would be finished

before the first or second decade of the twenty-first century. There were

also large quantities of merely utilitarian literature - indispensable

technical manuals, and the like - that had to be treated in the same way.

It was chiefly in order to allow time for the preliminary work of

translation that the final adoption of Newspeak had been fixed for so late

a date as 2050.

1949

________

[1] Newspeak was the official language of Oceania. For an account of its

structure and etymology see Appendix.

[2] Compound words such as speakwrite, were of course to be found in the A

vocabulary, but these were merely convenient abbreviations and had no

special ideologcal colour.

THE END

01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)01:12, 4 October 2006 (EDT)

GEORGE ORWELL: 'NINETEEN EIGHTY-FOUR', A NOVEL

First published by Secker & Warburg, London in 1949

____

ERIC ARTHUR BLAIR (aka GEORGE ORWELL)

Born: June 25, 1903, Motihari in Bengal, India

Died: January 21, 1950, London, GB

____

OCR: Chernyshev Mihail Vladimirovich

Machine-readable version and checking: O. Dag

E-mail: dag@orwell.ru

URL: http://orwell.ru/library/novels/1984/

Last modified on April, 2002

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