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It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled [1] into his breast in an effort to escape the vile [2] wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty [3] dust from entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag [4] mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked [5] 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 [6] 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 [7] up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose [8] ulcer [9] 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 [10] that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption [11] 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 [12] . The voice came from an oblong metal plaque [13] 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 [14] , but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail [15] figure, the meagreness [16] 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 [17] , 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 [18] 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 [19] in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed [20] down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle [21] , and darted away [22] again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping [23] 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 [24] away about pig iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted [25] simultaneously [26] . 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 [27] 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 [28] , and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized [29] .
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 [30] landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague [31] distaste — this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze [32] out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas [33] of rotting nineteenthcentury houses, their sides shored up [34] with baulks of timber, their windows patched [35] with card-board and their roofs with corrugated [36] iron, their crazy garden wal ls sagging [37] in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled [38] over the heaps of rubble;and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid [39] 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 [40] occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak [41] — was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal [42] structure of glittering white concrete, soaring [43] up, terrace [44] after terrace, three hundred 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
[45]
IS STRENGTH.
The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding [46] ramifications [47] below. Scattered [48] 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 th em simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus [49] of government was divided: the Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, enter-tainment, 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 [50] through a maze [51] of barbed [52] -wire entanglements [53] , steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed [54] by gorilla [55] -faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons [56] .
Winston turned round abruptly [57] . 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 [58] 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 of f [59] a sickly [60] , oily smell, as of Chinese rice-spirit [61] . Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved [62] himself for a sho ck, and gulped [63] it down like a dose of medicine.
Instantly his face turned scarlet [64] and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid [65] , and moreover, in swallowing [66] 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 [67] packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously [68] 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 [69] , 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 [70] 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 t he 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 [71] 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 [72] little junk shop in a slummy [73] quarter of the town (just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming [74] 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 [75] 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 [76] 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 [77] it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twentyfive years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib [78] into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic [79] instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured [80] one, furtively [81] 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 [82] everything into the speak-write which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered [83] for just a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels [84] . To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy [85] letters he wrote:
April 4th, 1984.
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended [86] 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 [87] 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 [88] for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up [89] with a bump against the Newspeak word doublethink .For the first time the magnitude [90] of what he had undertaken came home to [91] him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble [92] the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament [93] would be meaningless.
For some time he sat gazing [94] stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had changed over to strident [95] 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 [96] 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 [97] 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 [98] unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it always became inflamed [99] . 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 [100] 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 [101] first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:
April 4th,1984.Last night to the flicks [102] .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 [103] along in the water like a porpoise [104] ,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 middleaged 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 [105] with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he was trying to burrow [106] right into her and the woman putting her arms round him and comforting him although she was blue [107] 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 [108] .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 [109] part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss [110] 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 [111] . 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 [112] could be said to happen.
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging [113] 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 [114] in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew by sight [115] , but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors [116] . He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably [117] — since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner [118] — 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 [119] face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash [120] , emblem [121] 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 hockeyfields 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 [122] adherents [123] of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur [124] spies and nosers-out [125] of unorthodoxy [126] . 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 [127] 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 [128] , 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 [129] 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 [130] man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable [131] appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick [132] of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming [133] — in some indefinable way, curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eigh-teenth-century nobleman offering his snuff box [134] . Winston had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many years. He felt deeply drawn to [135] him, and not solely because he was intrigued [136] by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane [137] manner and his prizefighter's [138] physique [139] . 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 [140] was not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly [141] . And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy th at was written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate [142] 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 [143] this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At this moment O'Brien glanced at his wristwatch, 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 [144] , grinding [145] speech, as of some monstrous [146] 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 [147] and bristled [148] 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 [149] to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak [150] of mingled [151] fear and disgust. Goldstein was the renegade [152] and backslider [153] 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 [154] counter- revolutionary [155] activities, had been condemned [156] 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 [157] figure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler [158] of the Party's purity. All subsequent [159] crimes against the Party, all treacheries [160] , acts of sabotage [161] , heresies [162] , deviations [163] , sprang [164] directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies [165] : perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters [166] , perhaps even — so it was occasionally rumoured [167] — in some hiding place in Oceania itself.
Winston's diaphragm [168] was constricted [169] . He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean [170] Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole [171] of white hair and a small goatee beard — a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable [172] , with a kind of senile [173] silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched [174] . It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous [175] attack upon the doctrines of the Party — an attack so exaggerated [176] and perverse [177] that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible [178] enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-headed [179] than oneself, might be taken in [180] by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing [181] 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 [182] that the revolution had been betrayed — and all this in rapid polysyllabic [183] speech which was a sort of parody [184] of the habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Ne wspeak 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 [185] claptrap [186] 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 [187] of the soldiers' boots formed the background to Goldstein's bleating [188] 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 sheeplike 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 [189] by everybody, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted [190] , smashed, ridiculed [191] , 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 [192] waiting to be seduced [193] by him. A day never passed when spies and saboteurs [194] acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy [195] army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated [196] 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 [197] of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely [198] 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 [199] . 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 [200] and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault [201] of a wave. The darkhaired girl behind Winston had begun crying out “ Swine [202] ! 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 [203] . In a lucid [204] moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung [205] of his chair. The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to [206] act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Wit hin thirty seconds any pretence [207] was always unnecessary. A hideous [208] ecstasy [209] of fear and vindictiveness [210] , a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer [211] , seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing [212] , screaming lunatic [213] . 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 [214] . 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 [215] the lonely, derided [216] heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity [217] in a world of lies. And yet the very next instant he was at one with [218] the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing [219] of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible [220] , fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes [221] of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister [222] enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking [223] 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 [224] one's head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the darkhaired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations [225] flashed through h is mind. He would flog [226] 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 [227] her and cut her throat at the moment of climax [228] . 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 [229] scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity [230] .
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 [231] into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing [232] , huge and terrible, his submachine gun [233] roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched [234] backwards in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile [235] 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 [236] in the din [237] 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 [238] capitals:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist [239] for several seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had made on everyone's eyeballs was too vivid to wear of f [240] immediately. The little sandy-haired woman had flung herself forward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a tremulous [241] murmur that sounded like “My Saviour [242] ! ” 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 [243] chant of “B-B! ... B-B! ”... B-B! ”— over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first “B” and the second — a heavy, murmurous [244] sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp [245] of naked feet and the throbbing [246] of tom-toms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it up. It was a refrain [247] that was often heard in moments of overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn [248] to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self- hypnosis [249] , a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston's entrails [250] seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general delirium [251] , but this subhuman chanting [252] of “B-B! ...B-B! ” always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with the rest: it was imp ossible to do otherwise. To dissemble [253] your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive [254] reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the expression of his eyes might conceivably [255] 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 [256] 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 [257] , 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 [258] as everybody else's.
That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened. Such incidents never had any sequel [259] . 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 [260] and executions [261] , 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 [262] glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches [263] of overheard conversation, faint scribbles [264] 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 [265] : 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 [266] 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 [267] 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 [268] . The gin was rising from his stomach.
His eyes refocused on the page. He discovered that while he sat helplessly musing [269] he had also been writing, as though by automatic action. And it was no longer the same cramped [270] , awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid voluptuously [271] 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 [272] panic. It was absurd, since the writing of those particular words was not more dangerous than the initial [273] act of opening the diary, but for a moment he was tempted [274] to tear out the spoiled pages and a bandon 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 [275] — 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 [276] for ever. You might dodge [277] successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to [278] get you.
It was always at night — the arrests invariably [279] 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 [280] , your one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished [281] , annihilated [282] : vaporized [283] was the usual word.
For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria [284] . He began writing in a hurried untidy scrawl [285] :
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 ba ck 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 [286] 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 [287] like a drum, but his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless. He got up and moved heavily towards the door.
As he put his hand to the doorknob [288] Winston saw that he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was wr itten all over it, in letters almost big enough to be legible [289] 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 [290] 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 [291] woman, with wispy [292] hair and a lined face, was standing outside.
“Oh, comrade, ” she began in a dreary [293] , whining [294] 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 [295] and —”
It was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same floor. (“Mrs” was a word somewhat discountenanced [296] 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 [297] of her face. Winston followed her down the passage. These amateur [298] repair jobs were an almost daily irritation [299] . Victory Mansions were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were falling to pieces. The plaster flaked [300] constantly from ceilings and walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked whenever there was snow, the he ating 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 [301] by remote committees which were liable [302] to hold up [303] 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 [304] in a different way. Everything had a battered [305] , trampled [306] -on look, as though the place had just been visited by some large violent animal. Games impedimenta [307] — 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 [308] 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 [309] 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 [310] the military music which was still issuing [311] from the telescreen.
“It's the children, ” said Mrs Parsons, casting a half- apprehensive [312] 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 cabba ge. Winston knelt down [313] 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 [314] . 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 [315] but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile [316] enthusiasms—one of those completely unquestioning, devoted drudges [317] on whom, more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party depended. At thirty-five he had just been unwillingly evicted [318] 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 [319] 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 whiff s [320] of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance at the Community Centre every evening for the past four years. An overpowering [321] 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 [322] the nut on the angle-joint.
“A spanner, ” said Mr s Parsons, immediately becoming invertebrate [323] . “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 [324] 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 [325] from behind the table and was menacing [326] 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 [327] was the boy's demeanour [328] , 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 [329] her brother in every movement. It was somehow slightly frightening, like the gambolling [330] of tiger cubs which will soon grow up into man-eaters. There was a sort of calculating ferocity [331] in the boy's eye, a quit e 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 [332] 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 [333] 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 [334] 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 [335] 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 [336] .
“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 tab le again, still rubbing his neck. The music from the telescreen had stopped. Instead, a clipped [337] military voice was reading out, with a sort of brutal relish [338] , a description of the armaments of the new Floating Fortress which had just been anchored between Iceland and the Faroe lslands.
With those children, he thought, that wretched [339] woman must lead a life of terror. Another year, two years, and they would be watching her night and day for symptoms [340] 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 [341] 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 m ore 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 [342] 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 [343] 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 identi-fied 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 [344] . “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 [345] air. The voice continued raspingly [346] :
“Attention! Your attention, please! A newsflash has this moment arrived from the Malabar front. Our forces in South In dia 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 [347] description of the annihilation [348] of a Eurasian army, with stupendous [349] 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 [350] feeling. The telescreen — perhaps to celebrate the victory, perhaps to drown the memory of the lost chocolate — crashed [351] into “Oceania, 'tis for thee.”You were supposed to stand to attention. However, in his present position he was invisible [352] .
“Oceania, 'tis for thee” gave way to [353] 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 [354] roar. About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London at present.
Down in the street the wind flapped [355] the torn poster to and fro, and the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished. Ingsoc. The sacred principles of Ingsoc. Newspeak, doublethink, the mutability [356] 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 [357] of the Party would not endure forever ?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 [358] , and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes pursued [359] 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 [360] 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 [361] windows of the Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on them, looked grim as the loopholes [362] of a fortress. His heart quailed [363] before the enormous pyramidal [364] shape. It was too strong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs would not batter it down [365] . He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary. For the future, for th e 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 [366] 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 [367] the future when not a trace of you, not even an anonymous [368] word scribbled [369] 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 [370] 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 [371] way the continuity [372] was not broken. It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane [373] 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 [374] his thoughts, that he had taken the decisive [375] step. The consequences of every act are included in the act itself. He wrote:
Thoughtcrime does not entail [376] 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 [377] . It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you. Some nosing zealot [378] 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 [379] , 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 [380] the ink away with the gritty [381] dark-brown soap which rasped [382] your skin like sandpaper [383] 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 [384] of whitish dust and deposited [385] it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to [386] be shaken off if the book was moved.
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 [387] , rather silent woman with slow move-ments and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered more vaguely as dark a nd 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 [388] 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 [389] baby, always silent, with large, watchful [390] eyes. Both of them were looking up at him. They were down in some subterranean [391] place—the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very deep grave [392] — but it was a place which, already far below him, was itself moving downwards. They were in the saloon [393] 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 [394] 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 un avoidable [395] 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 [396] to his own. It was one of those dreams which, while retaining [397] 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 [398] Winston was that his mother's death, nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful [399] in a way that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he perceived [400] , 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 [401] 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 [402] down and still sinking.
Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf [403] , on a summer evening when the slanting [404] rays of the sun gilded the ground. The landscape that he was looking at recurred [405] 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 though ts he called it the Golden Country. It was an old, rabbit-bitten pasture [406] , with a foot track wandering across it and a molehill [407] here and there. In the ragged [408] hedge on the opposite side of the field the boughs [409] of the elm trees [410] were swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring in dense masses [411] like women's hair. Somewhere near at hand, though out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream where dace [412] 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 of f [413] her clothes and flung them disdainfully [414] aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, indeed he barely [415] 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 [416] whistle which continued on the same note for thirty seconds. It was nought [417] 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 [418] 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 [419] had swelled with the effort of the cough, and the varicose ulcer had started itching.
“Thirty to forty group! ” yapped [420] 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 [421] but muscular, dressed in tunic [422] and gym shoes, had already appeared.
“Arms bending and stretching! ” she rapped out [423] . “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 [424] 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 [425] records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which had quite proba bly not happened, you remembered the detail of incidents [426] without being able to recapture their atmosphere [427] , 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 [428] remember a time when his country had not been at war, but it was evident [429] that there had been a fairly [430] long interval of peace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an air raid [431] which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was the time when the atomic bomb [432] had fallen on Colchester. He did not remember the raid itself, but he did remember his father's hand clutching [433] 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 [434] his legs that he began whimpering [435] 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 [436] into a noisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube station.
There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged [437] floor, and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks [438] , one above the other. Winston and his mother and fathe r 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 [439] 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 [440] and unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness [441] and could never be remedied [442] , 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 [443] :
“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 [444] . But to trace [445] out the history of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any given [446] moment, would have been utterly imp ossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention of any other alignment [447] 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 [448] 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 [449] knowledge which he happened to possess [450] 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 [451] thing, he reflected [452] for the ten thousandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were gyrating [453] 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 [454] its hand into the past and say of this or that event, it never happened —that, surely, was more terrifying than mere torture [455] 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 [456] , which in any case must soon be an nihilated. And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed [457] — 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 [458] , 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 [459] ! ” barked the instructress, a little more genially [460] .
Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled [461] his lungs with air. His mind slid away into the labyrin-thine world of doublethink. To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed [462] lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory [463] and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate [464] 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 [465] to forget it again:and above all, to apply the same process to the process itself. That was the ultimate [466] subtlety: consciously to induce [467] 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 [468] . “Right over from the hips,please,comrades. One -two! One -two! ...”
Winston loathed [469] this exercise, which sent shooting [470] pains all the way from his heels to his buttocks [471] 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 [472] had been gradually pushed backwards in time until already they extended into the fabulous [473] world of the forties and the thirties, when the capitalists in their strange cylindrical [474] hats still rode through the streets of London in great gleaming [475] motorcars 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 [476] 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 [477] . 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 [478] of an historical fact. And on that occasion [479] —
“Smith! ” screamed the shrewish [480] 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 [481] , and watch me.”
A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston's body. His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay [482] ! Never show resentment! A single flicker [483] 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 [484] 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 [485] of fighting in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit [486] . Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses!Just think what they have to put up with [487] . 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.
With the deep, unc onscious [488] sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent [489] 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 [490] . To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic [491] 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 [492] 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 [493] memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for [494] destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of [495] 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 [496] which were hidden somewhere in the recesses [497] of the building.
Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled [498] . Each contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated [499] 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 [500]
times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify [501] 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 [502] 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 [503] 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 [504] day, had predicted [505] that the South Indian front would remain quiet but that a Eurasian off ensive [506] would shortly be launched in North Africa. As it happened, the Eurasian Higher Command had launched [507] 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 [508] of the output of various classes of consumption goods [509] 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 out-put, 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 [510] 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 [511] 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 [512] 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 hap pened in the unseen labyrinth to [513] 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 [514] , pamphlets [515] , 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 [516] , scraped clean and reinscribed [517] 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 [518] 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 it s original date, and no other copy existed to contradict [519] 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 readjusted the Ministry of Plenty's figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the substitution [520] 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 [521] 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 [522] numbers of b oots 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 [523] 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 [524] 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 [525] of papers and hum [526] 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, ineff ectual [527] , dreamy creature named Ampleforth, with very hairy ears and a surp rising talent for juggling with [528] rhymes and metres, was engaged in producing garbled [529] versions — definitive texts, they were called — of poems which had become ideologically offensive, but which for one reason or another were to be retained [530] in the anthologies [531] . And this hall, with its fifty workers or thereabouts, was only one subsection, a single cell, as it were, in the huge complexity [532] of the Records Department. Beyond, above, below, were other swarms [533] of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude [534] of jobs.There were the huge printing-shops with their subeditors [535] , their typography [536] experts, and their elaborately [537] equipped studios for the faking of photographs. There was the teleprogrammes section with its engineers, its producers, and its teams of actors specially chosen for their skill in imitating [538] voices. There were the armies of reference clerks whose job was simply to draw up [539] 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 coordinated 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 [540] 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, instr uction, 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 [541] needs of the party, but also to repeat the whole operation at a lower level for the benefit of the proletariat [542] . 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 [543] , sensational fivecent novelettes, films oozing [544] with sex, and sentimental songs which were composed entirely by mechanical means on a special kind of kaleidoscope [545] known as a versificator [546] . There was even a whole subsection — Pornosec, it was called in Newspeak — engaged in [547] producing the lowest kind of pornography [548] , 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 [549] 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 [550] 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 [551] pieces of forgery [552] in whic h you had nothing to guide you except your knowledge of the principles of Ingsoc and your estimate [553] 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 nonexistent persons. Rewrite it in full and submit your draft to higher authority before filing [554] .
Winston read through the off ending [555] 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 [556] and other comforts [557] 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 [558] , the Order of Conspicuous Merit, Second Class.
Three months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved [559] with no reasons given. One could assume [560] that Withers and his associates were now in disgrac e, 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 [561] confession of their crimes and were afterwards executed, were special showpieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of years. More commonly, people who had incurred [562] 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 [563] his nose gently with a paper clip. In the cubicle across the way Comrade Tillotson was still crouching [564] secretively over his speakwrite. He raised his head for a moment: again the hostile spectacle-flash. Winston won-dered whether Comrade Tillotson was engaged on the same job as himself. It was perfectly possible. So tricky [565] 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 [566] 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 [567] 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 wo uld pass into the permanent [568] records and become truth.
Winston did not know why Withers had been disgraced. Perhaps it was for corruption [569] or incompetence [570] . Perhaps Big Brother was merely getting rid of a too-popular subordinate. Perhaps Withers or someone close to him had been suspected of heretical [571] 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 [572] 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 [573] where he would implicate [574] hundreds of others by his testimony [575] 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 [576] 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 [577] of traitors and thought-criminals, but that was a little too obvious [578] , while to invent a victory at the front, or some triumph [579] of over-production in the Ninth Three-Year Plan, might complicate [580] the records too much. What was needed was a piece of pure fantasy. Suddenly there sprang into his mind [581] , 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 [582] some humble, rank-and-file [583] 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 speak-write towards him and began dictating in Big Brother's familiar style: a style at once military and pedantic [584] , 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 [585] principles of Ingsoc — that, ”etc., etc.), easy to imitate.
At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys except a drum, a submachine 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 [586] 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 [587] organizer of the Junior Anti-Sex League. At nineteen he had designed a hand-grenade which had been adopted by the Ministry of Peace and which, at its first trial, had killed thirty-one Eurasian prisoners in one burst. At twenty-three he had perished [588] in action. Pursued [589] by enemy jet planes while flying over the Indian Ocean with impor tant despatches [590] , 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 [591] 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 [592] and a nonsmoker, had no recreations [593] except a daily hour in the gymnasium, and had taken a vow of celibacy [594] , believing marriage and the care of a family to be incompatible [595] with a twenty-four-houra-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 [596] Merit: in the end he decided against it because of the unnecessary cross- referencing [597] 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 [598] conviction that it would be his own. Comrade Ogilvy, unimagined an hour ago, was now a fact. It struck him as curious [599] 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.