1984 E-Book

George Orwell

• Herausgeber: GAEditori
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

The story takes place in an imagined future, the year 1984, when much of the world has fallen victim to perpetual war, omnipresent government surveillance, historical negationism, and propaganda. Great Britain, known as Airstrip One, has become a province of a totalitarian superstate named Oceania that is ruled by the Party who employ the Thought Police to persecute individuality and independent thinking. Big Brother, the leader of the Party, enjoys an intense cult of personality despite the fact that he may not even exist. The protagonist, Winston Smith, is a diligent and skillful rank-and-file worker and Party member who secretly hates the Party and dreams of rebellion. He enters into a forbidden relationship with a colleague, Julia, and starts to remember what life was like before the Party came to power.

Leseprobe

GeorgeOrwell

1984

PartOne

Chapter1

twasabrightcolddayinApril,andtheclockswerestrik- ingthirteen.WinstonSmith,hischinnuzzledintohis breastinanefforttoescapethevilewind,slippedquickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions,thoughnot quicklyenoughtopreventaswirlofgrittydustfromenter-

I

ing along with him.

Thehallwaysmeltofboiledcabbageandoldragmats.At oneendofitacolouredposter,toolargeforindoordisplay, hadbeentackedtothewall.Itdepictedsimplyanenor- mousface,morethanametrewide:thefaceofamanof aboutforty-five,withaheavyblackmoustacheandrugged- ly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was nousetryingthelift.Evenatthebestoftimesitwassel- domworking,andatpresenttheelectriccurrentwascut offduringdaylighthours.Itwaspartoftheeconomydrive inpreparationforHateWeek.Theflatwassevenflightsup, andWinston,whowasthirty-nineandhadavaricoseulcer abovehisrightankle,wentslowly,restingseveraltimeson theway.Oneachlanding,oppositethelift-shaft,theposter withtheenormousfacegazedfromthewall.Itwasoneof thosepictureswhicharesocontrivedthattheeyesfollow youaboutwhenyoumove.BIGBROTHERISWATCHING YOU, the caption beneath itran.

Insidetheflatafruityvoicewasreadingoutalistoffig-

ureswhichhadsomethingtodowiththeproductionof pig-iron.Thevoicecamefromanoblongmetalplaquelike adulledmirrorwhichformedpartofthesurfaceofthe right-handwall.Winstonturnedaswitchandthevoice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguish- able.Theinstrument(thetelescreen,itwascalled)couldbe dimmed,buttherewasnowayofshuttingitoffcomplete- ly.Hemovedovertothewindow:asmallish,frailfigure, themeagrenessofhisbodymerelyemphasizedbytheblue overallswhichweretheuniformoftheparty.Hishairwas veryfair,hisfacenaturallysanguine,hisskinroughenedby coarsesoapandbluntrazorbladesandthecoldofthewin- ter that had justended.

Outside, even through the shut window-pane, theworld

lookedcold.Downinthestreetlittleeddiesofwindwere whirlingdustandtornpaperintospirals,andthoughthe sunwasshiningandtheskyaharshblue,thereseemed tobenocolourinanything,exceptthepostersthatwere plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHINGYOU,thecaptionsaid,whilethedarkeyes lookeddeepintoWinston’sown.Downatstreetlevelan- otherposter,tornatonecorner,flappedfitfullyinthewind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word IN- GSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down betweentheroofs,hoveredforaninstantlikeabluebottle, anddartedawayagainwithacurvingflight.Itwasthepo- licepatrol,snoopingintopeople’swindows.Thepatrolsdid

4

not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.

BehindWinston’sbackthevoicefromthetelescreenwas still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment oftheNinthThree-YearPlan.Thetelescreenreceivedand transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, abovethelevelofaverylowwhisper,wouldbepickedupby it,moreover,solongasheremainedwithinthefieldofvi- sionwhichthemetalplaquecommanded,hecouldbeseen aswellasheard.Therewasofcoursenowayofknowing whetheryouwerebeingwatchedatanygivenmoment.How often,oronwhatsystem,theThoughtPolicepluggedinon any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable thattheywatchedeverybodyallthetime.Butatanyrate theycouldpluginyourwirewhenevertheywantedto.You hadtolive—didlive,fromhabitthatbecameinstinct—in theassumptionthateverysoundyoumadewasoverheard, and,exceptindarkness,everymovementscrutinized.

Winstonkepthisbackturnedtothetelescreen.Itwas

safer,though,ashewellknew,evenabackcanberevealing. AkilometreawaytheMinistryofTruth,hisplaceofwork, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, hethoughtwithasortofvaguedistaste—thiswasLondon, chiefcityofAirstripOne,itselfthethirdmostpopulous oftheprovincesofOceania.Hetriedtosqueezeoutsome childhood memory that should tell him whether London hadalwaysbeenquitelikethis.Weretherealwaysthesevis- tasofrottingnineteenth-centuryhouses,theirsidesshored upwithbaulksoftimber,theirwindowspatchedwithcard- board and their roofs with corrugated iron, theircrazy

gardenwallssagginginalldirections?Andthebombed siteswheretheplasterdustswirledintheairandthewil- low-herbstraggledovertheheapsofrubble;andtheplaces wherethebombshadclearedalargerpatchandtherehad sprungupsordidcoloniesofwoodendwellingslikechick- en-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothingremainedofhischildhoodexceptaseriesofbright- lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.

The Ministry of Truth—Minitrue, in Newspeak [New- speakwastheofficiallanguageofOceania.Foranaccount of its structure and etymology see Appendix.]—was star- tlinglydifferentfromanyotherobjectinsight.Itwasan enormous pyramidal structure of glittering whitecon- crete,soaringup,terraceafterterrace,300metresintothe air.FromwhereWinstonstooditwasjustpossibletoread, pickedoutonitswhitefaceinelegantlettering,thethree slogans of theParty:

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 justthreeotherbuildingsofsimilarappearanceandsize. Socompletelydidtheydwarfthesurroundingarchitec- turethatfromtheroofofVictoryMansionsyoucouldsee

allfourofthemsimultaneously.Theywerethehomesof thefourMinistriesbetweenwhichtheentireapparatus ofgovernmentwasdivided.TheMinistryofTruth,which concerneditselfwithnews,entertainment,education,and thefinearts.TheMinistryofPeace,whichconcerneditself withwar.TheMinistryofLove,whichmaintainedlawand order.AndtheMinistryofPlenty,whichwasresponsible foreconomicaffairs.Theirnames,inNewspeak:Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, andMiniplenty.

TheMinistryofLovewasthereallyfrighteningone. Therewerenowindowsinitatall.Winstonhadneverbeen insidetheMinistryofLove,norwithinhalfakilometreofit. Itwasaplaceimpossibletoenterexceptonofficialbusiness, andthenonlybypenetratingthroughamazeofbarbed- wireentanglements,steeldoors,andhiddenmachine-gun nests.Eventhestreetsleadinguptoitsouterbarrierswere roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointedtruncheons.

Winstonturnedroundabruptly.Hehadsethisfeatures intotheexpressionofquietoptimismwhichitwasadvis- abletowearwhenfacingthetelescreen.Hecrossedthe roomintothetinykitchen.ByleavingtheMinistryatthis timeofdayhehadsacrificedhislunchinthecanteen,and hewasawarethattherewasnofoodinthekitchenexcept ahunkofdark-colouredbreadwhichhadgottobesaved fortomorrow’sbreakfast.Hetookdownfromtheshelfa bottleofcolourlessliquidwithaplainwhitelabelmarked VICTORYGIN.Itgaveoffasickly,oilysmell,asofChinese rice-spirit.Winstonpouredoutnearlyateacupful,nerved

himselfforashock,andgulpeditdownlikeadoseofmedi- cine.

Instantlyhisfaceturnedscarletandthewaterranout ofhiseyes.Thestuffwaslikenitricacid,andmoreover,in swallowingitonehadthesensationofbeinghitontheback oftheheadwitharubberclub.Thenextmoment,however, theburninginhisbellydieddownandtheworldbeganto lookmorecheerful.Hetookacigarettefromacrumpled packetmarkedVICTORYCIGARETTESandincautiously helditupright,whereuponthetobaccofelloutontothe floor.Withthenexthewasmoresuccessful.Hewentback totheliving-roomandsatdownatasmalltablethatstood totheleftofthetelescreen.Fromthetabledrawerhetook outapenholder,abottleofink,andathick,quarto-sized blankbookwitharedbackandamarbledcover.

Forsomereasonthetelescreenintheliving-roomwasin

anunusualposition.Insteadofbeingplaced,aswasnormal, intheendwall,whereitcouldcommandthewholeroom, itwasinthelongerwall,oppositethewindow.Tooneside ofittherewasashallowalcoveinwhichWinstonwasnow sitting,andwhich,whentheflatswerebuilt,hadprobably beenintendedtoholdbookshelves.Bysittinginthealcove, andkeepingwellback,Winstonwasabletoremainoutside therangeofthetelescreen,sofarassightwent.Hecould beheard,ofcourse,butsolongashestayedinhispresent positionhecouldnotbeseen.Itwaspartlytheunusualge- ographyoftheroomthathadsuggestedtohimthething thathewasnowabouttodo.

Butithadalsobeensuggestedbythebookthathehad

justtakenoutofthedrawer.Itwasapeculiarlybeautiful book.Itssmoothcreamypaper,alittleyellowedbyage,was ofakindthathadnotbeenmanufacturedforatleastfor- tyyearspast.Hecouldguess,however,thatthebookwas mucholderthanthat.Hehadseenitlyinginthewindowof afrowsylittlejunk-shopinaslummyquarterofthetown (justwhatquarterhedidnotnowremember)andhadbeen strickenimmediatelybyanoverwhelmingdesiretopossess it.Partymembersweresupposednottogointoordinary shops(’dealingonthefreemarket’,itwascalled),butthe rulewasnotstrictlykept,becausetherewerevariousthings, suchasshoelacesandrazorblades,whichitwasimpossible togetholdofinanyotherway.Hehadgivenaquickglance upanddownthestreetandthenhadslippedinsideand boughtthebookfortwodollarsfifty.Atthetimehewasnot consciousofwantingitforanyparticularpurpose.Hehad carrieditguiltilyhomeinhisbriefcase.Evenwithnothing writteninit,itwasacompromisingpossession.

The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary.

Thiswasnotillegal(nothingwasillegal,sincetherewereno longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain thatitwouldbepunishedbydeath,oratleastbytwenty- fiveyearsinaforced-labourcamp.Winstonfittedanibinto thepenholderandsuckedittogetthegreaseoff.Thepen wasanarchaicinstrument,seldomusedevenforsignatures, andhehadprocuredone,furtivelyandwithsomedifficulty, simplybecauseofafeelingthatthebeautifulcreamypaper deservedtobewrittenonwitharealnibinsteadofbeing scratchedwithanink-pencil.Actuallyhewasnotusedto

writingbyhand.Apartfromveryshortnotes,itwasusu- altodictateeverythingintothespeak-writewhichwasof course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the penintotheinkandthenfalteredforjustasecond.Atrem- orhadgonethroughhisbowels.Tomarkthepaperwasthe decisiveact.Insmallclumsylettershewrote:

April 4th, .

Hesatback.Asenseofcompletehelplessnesshadde- scendeduponhim.Tobeginwith,hedidnotknowwithany certaintythatthiswas.Itmustberoundaboutthat date,sincehewasfairlysurethathisagewasthirty-nine, andhebelievedthathehadbeenbornin1944or1945;but itwasneverpossiblenowadaystopindownanydatewithin a year ortwo.

Forwhom,itsuddenlyoccurredtohimtowonder,washe writingthisdiary?Forthefuture,fortheunborn.Hismind hoveredforamomentroundthedoubtfuldateonthepage, andthenfetchedupwithabumpagainsttheNewspeak wordDOUBLETHINK.Forthefirsttimethemagnitudeof whathehadundertakencamehometohim.Howcouldyou communicatewiththefuture?Itwasofitsnatureimpossi- ble.Eitherthefuturewouldresemblethepresent,inwhich caseitwouldnotlistentohim:oritwouldbedifferentfrom it,andhispredicamentwouldbemeaningless.

Forsometimehesatgazingstupidlyatthepaper.The telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It wascuriousthatheseemednotmerelytohavelostthepow-

erofexpressinghimself,buteventohaveforgottenwhatit wasthathehadoriginallyintendedtosay.Forweekspast hehadbeenmakingreadyforthismoment,andithadnev- ercrossedhismindthatanythingwouldbeneededexcept courage.Theactualwritingwouldbeeasy.Allhehadto dowastotransfertopapertheinterminablerestlessmono- loguethathadbeenrunninginsidehishead,literallyfor years.Atthismoment,however,eventhemonologuehad driedup.Moreoverhisvaricoseulcerhadbegunitching unbearably.Hedarednotscratchit,becauseifhedidsoit alwaysbecameinflamed.Thesecondsweretickingby.He wasconsciousofnothingexcepttheblanknessofthepage infrontofhim,theitchingoftheskinabovehisankle,the blaringofthemusic,andaslightboozinesscausedbythe gin.

Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imper-

fectlyawareofwhathewassettingdown.Hissmallbut childishhandwritingstraggledupanddownthepage,shed- dingfirstitscapitallettersandfinallyevenitsfullstops:

April4th,.Lastnighttotheflicks.Allwarfilms.One verygoodoneofashipfullofrefugeesbeingbombed somewhereintheMediterranean.Audiencemuchamused byshotsofagreathugefatmantryingtoswimawaywith a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along inthewaterlikeaporpoise,thenyousawhimthroughthe helicoptersgunsights,thenhewasfullofholesandthesea roundhimturnedpinkandhesankassuddenlyasthough

theholeshadletinthewater,audienceshoutingwithlaughter

whenhesank.thenyousawalifeboatfullofchildrenwitha helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman mighthavebeenajewesssittingupinthebowwithalittle boyaboutthreeyearsoldinherarms.littleboyscreaming withfrightandhidinghisheadbetweenherbreastsasifhe wastryingtoburrowrightintoherandthewomanputting herarmsroundhimandcomfortinghimalthoughshewas bluewithfrightherself,allthetimecoveringhimupasmuch aspossibleasifshethoughtherarmscouldkeepthebullets offhim.thenthehelicopterplanteda20kilobombinamong them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood. then therewasawonderfulshotofachild’sarmgoingupupup rightupintotheairahelicopterwithacamerainitsnose musthavefolloweditupandtherewasalotofapplausefrom thepartyseatsbutawomandownintheprolepartofthe housesuddenlystartedkickingupafussandshoutingthey didntoughterofshoweditnotinfrontofkidstheydidntit aintrightnotinfrontofkidsitaintuntilthepoliceturned herturnedheroutidontsupposeanythinghappenedtoher nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never——

Winstonstoppedwriting,partlybecausehewassuffer- ingfromcramp.Hedidnotknowwhathadmadehimpour outthisstreamofrubbish.Butthecuriousthingwasthat whilehewasdoingsoatotallydifferentmemoryhadclar- ifieditselfinhismind,tothepointwherehealmostfelt equaltowritingitdown.Itwas,henowrealized,because ofthisotherincidentthathehadsuddenlydecidedtocome

home and begin the diary today.

IthadhappenedthatmorningattheMinistry,ifany- thingsonebulouscouldbesaidtohappen.

Itwasnearlyelevenhundred,andintheRecordsDe- partment,whereWinstonworked,theyweredraggingthe chairsoutofthecubiclesandgroupingtheminthecen- treofthehalloppositethebigtelescreen,inpreparationfor theTwoMinutesHate.Winstonwasjusttakinghisplace inoneofthemiddlerowswhentwopeoplewhomheknew bysight,buthadneverspokento,cameunexpectedlyinto theroom.Oneofthemwasagirlwhomheoftenpassedin thecorridors.Hedidnotknowhername,butheknewthat sheworkedintheFictionDepartment.Presumably—since hehadsometimesseenherwithoilyhandsandcarryinga spanner—shehadsomemechanicaljobononeofthenov- el-writingmachines.Shewasabold-lookinggirl,ofabout twenty-seven,withthickhair,afreckledface,andswift, athleticmovements.Anarrowscarletsash,emblemofthe Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round thewaistofheroveralls,justtightlyenoughtobringoutthe shapelinessofherhips.Winstonhaddislikedherfromthe veryfirstmomentofseeingher.Heknewthereason.Itwas becauseoftheatmosphereofhockey-fieldsandcoldbaths andcommunityhikesandgeneralclean-mindednesswhich shemanagedtocarryaboutwithher.Hedislikednearlyall women,andespeciallytheyoungandprettyones.Itwasal- waysthewomen,andabovealltheyoungones,whowere themostbigotedadherentsoftheParty,theswallowers ofslogans,theamateurspiesandnosers-outofunortho-

doxy.Butthisparticulargirlgavehimtheimpressionof beingmoredangerousthanmost.Oncewhentheypassed inthecorridorshegavehimaquicksidelongglancewhich seemedtopiercerightintohimandforamomenthadfilled himwithblackterror.Theideahadevencrossedhismind thatshemightbeanagentoftheThoughtPolice.That,it wastrue,wasveryunlikely.Still,hecontinuedtofeelape- culiaruneasiness,whichhadfearmixedupinitaswellas hostility,whenevershewasanywherenearhim.

TheotherpersonwasamannamedO’Brien,amember oftheInnerPartyandholderofsomepostsoimportant andremotethatWinstonhadonlyadimideaofitsnature. Amomentaryhushpassedoverthegroupofpeopleround thechairsastheysawtheblackoverallsofanInnerParty memberapproaching.O’Brienwasalarge,burlymanwith athickneckandacoarse,humorous,brutalface.Inspiteof hisformidableappearancehehadacertaincharmofman- ner.Hehadatrickofresettlinghisspectaclesonhisnose whichwascuriouslydisarming—insomeindefinableway, curiouslycivilized.Itwasagesturewhich,ifanyonehad stillthoughtinsuchterms,mighthaverecalledaneigh- teenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston hadseenO’Brienperhapsadozentimesinalmostasmany years.Hefeltdeeplydrawntohim,andnotsolelybecause hewasintriguedbythecontrastbetweenO’Brien’surbane mannerandhisprize-fighter’sphysique.Muchmoreitwas becauseofasecretlyheldbelief—orperhapsnotevenabe- lief,merelyahope—thatO’Brien’spoliticalorthodoxywas notperfect.Somethinginhisfacesuggesteditirresistibly.

Andagain,perhapsitwasnotevenunorthodoxythatwas writteninhisface,butsimplyintelligence.Butatanyrate hehadtheappearanceofbeingapersonthatyoucould talktoifsomehowyoucouldcheatthetelescreenandget himalone.Winstonhadnevermadethesmallesteffortto verifythisguess:indeed,therewasnowayofdoingso.At thismomentO’Brienglancedathiswrist-watch,sawthatit wasnearlyelevenhundred,andevidentlydecidedtostayin the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hatewas over.HetookachairinthesamerowasWinston,acouple ofplacesaway.Asmall,sandy-hairedwomanwhoworked inthenextcubicletoWinstonwasbetweenthem.Thegirl withdarkhairwassittingimmediatelybehind.

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

monstrousmachinerunningwithoutoil,burstfromthe bigtelescreenattheendoftheroom.Itwasanoisethatset one’steethonedgeandbristledthehairatthebackofone’s neck. The Hate hadstarted.

Asusual,thefaceofEmmanuelGoldstein,theEnemyof thePeople,hadflashedontothescreen.Therewerehisses hereandthereamongtheaudience.Thelittlesandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Gold- steinwastherenegadeandbacksliderwhoonce,longago (howlongago,nobodyquiteremembered),hadbeenoneof theleadingfiguresoftheParty,almostonalevelwithBig Brother himself, and then had engaged incounter-revolu- tionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of theTwoMinutesHatevariedfromdaytoday,buttherewas

noneinwhichGoldsteinwasnottheprincipalfigure.He wastheprimaltraitor,theearliestdefileroftheParty’spu- rity.AllsubsequentcrimesagainsttheParty,alltreacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out ofhisteaching.Somewhereorotherhewasstillaliveand hatchinghisconspiracies:perhapssomewherebeyondthe sea,undertheprotectionofhisforeignpaymasters,perhaps even—so it was occasionally rumoured—in some hiding- place in Oceaniaitself.

Winston’s diaphragm was constricted. He could never seethefaceofGoldsteinwithoutapainfulmixtureofemo- tions.ItwasaleanJewishface,withagreatfuzzyaureoleof whitehairandasmallgoateebeard—acleverface,andyet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile sil- linessinthelongthinnose,neartheendofwhichapair ofspectacleswasperched.Itresembledthefaceofasheep, andthevoice,too,hadasheep-likequality.Goldsteinwas delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines oftheParty—anattacksoexaggeratedandperversethata childshouldhavebeenabletoseethroughit,andyetjust plausibleenoughtofillonewithanalarmedfeelingthat otherpeople,lesslevel-headedthanoneself,mightbetaken inbyit.HewasabusingBigBrother,hewasdenouncing thedictatorshipoftheParty,hewasdemandingtheimme- diateconclusionofpeacewithEurasia,hewasadvocating freedomofspeech,freedomofthePress,freedomofas- sembly,freedomofthought,hewascryinghystericallythat therevolutionhadbeenbetrayed—andallthisinrapid polysyllabicspeechwhichwasasortofparodyoftheha-

bitualstyleoftheoratorsoftheParty,andevencontained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Partymemberwouldnormallyuseinreallife.Andallthe while,lestoneshouldbeinanydoubtastotherealitywhich Goldstein’sspeciousclaptrapcovered,behindhisheadon thetelescreentheremarchedtheendlesscolumnsofthe Eurasian army—row after row of solid-looking men with expressionlessAsiaticfaces,whoswamuptothesurface ofthescreenandvanished,tobereplacedbyothersexact- lysimilar.Thedullrhythmictrampofthesoldiers’boots formedthebackgroundtoGoldstein’sbleatingvoice.

BeforetheHatehadproceededforthirtyseconds,uncon- trollableexclamationsofragewerebreakingoutfromhalf thepeopleintheroom.Theself-satisfiedsheep-likefaceon thescreen,andtheterrifyingpoweroftheEurasianarmy behindit,weretoomuchtobeborne:besides,thesightor eventhethoughtofGoldsteinproducedfearandangerau- tomatically.Hewasanobjectofhatredmoreconstantthan eitherEurasiaorEastasia,sincewhenOceaniawasatwar withoneofthesePowersitwasgenerallyatpeacewiththe other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein washatedanddespisedbyeverybody,althougheveryday andathousandtimesaday,onplatforms,onthetelescreen, innewspapers,inbooks,histheorieswererefuted,smashed, ridiculed,helduptothegeneralgazeforthepitifulrub- bishthattheywere—inspiteofallthis,hisinfluencenever seemedtogrowless.Alwaystherewerefreshdupeswaiting tobeseducedbyhim.Adayneverpassedwhenspiesand saboteursactingunderhisdirectionswerenotunmasked

bytheThoughtPolice.Hewasthecommanderofavast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicatedtotheoverthrowoftheState.TheBrotherhood, itsnamewassupposedtobe.Therewerealsowhispered storiesofaterriblebook,acompendiumofalltheheresies, ofwhichGoldsteinwastheauthorandwhichcirculated clandestinelyhereandthere.Itwasabookwithoutatitle. Peoplereferredtoit,ifatall,simplyasTHEBOOK.Butone knewofsuchthingsonlythroughvaguerumours.Neither theBrotherhoodnorTHEBOOKwasasubjectthatanyor- dinaryPartymemberwouldmentioniftherewasawayof avoidingit.

InitssecondminutetheHaterosetoafrenzy.People

wereleapingupanddownintheirplacesandshouting atthetopsoftheirvoicesinanefforttodrownthemad- dening bleating voice that came from the screen. The littlesandy-hairedwomanhadturnedbrightpink,and hermouthwasopeningandshuttinglikethatofalanded fish.EvenO’Brien’sheavyfacewasflushed.Hewassitting verystraightinhischair,hispowerfulchestswellingand quiveringasthoughhewerestandinguptotheassaultofa wave.Thedark-hairedgirlbehindWinstonhadbeguncry- ingout‘Swine!Swine!Swine!’andsuddenlyshepickedup aheavyNewspeakdictionaryandflungitatthescreen.It struckGoldstein’snoseandbouncedoff;thevoicecontin- uedinexorably.InalucidmomentWinstonfoundthathe wasshoutingwiththeothersandkickinghisheelviolent- lyagainsttherungofhischair.Thehorriblethingabout theTwoMinutesHatewasnotthatonewasobligedtoact

apart,but,onthecontrary,thatitwasimpossibletoavoid joiningin.Withinthirtysecondsanypretencewasalways unnecessary.Ahideousecstasyoffearandvindictiveness, adesiretokill,totorture,tosmashfacesinwithasledge- hammer,seemedtoflowthroughthewholegroupofpeople likeanelectriccurrent,turningoneevenagainstone’swill intoagrimacing,screaminglunatic.Andyettheragethat one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could beswitchedfromoneobjecttoanotherliketheflameofa blowlamp.Thus,atonemomentWinston’shatredwasnot turnedagainstGoldsteinatall,but,onthecontrary,against BigBrother,theParty,andtheThoughtPolice;andatsuch momentshisheartwentouttothelonely,deridedheretic onthescreen,soleguardianoftruthandsanityinaworld oflies.Andyettheverynextinstanthewasatonewiththe peopleabouthim,andallthatwassaidofGoldsteinseemed tohimtobetrue.Atthosemomentshissecretloathingof BigBrotherchangedintoadoration,andBigBrotherseemed totowerup,aninvincible,fearlessprotector,standinglike arockagainstthehordesofAsia,andGoldstein,inspite ofhisisolation,hishelplessness,andthedoubtthathung abouthisveryexistence,seemedlikesomesinisterenchant- er,capablebythemerepowerofhisvoiceofwreckingthe structure ofcivilization.

It was even possible, at moments, to switch one’s ha-

tredthiswayorthatbyavoluntaryact.Suddenly,bythe sortofviolenteffortwithwhichonewrenchesone’shead awayfromthepillowinanightmare,Winstonsucceeded intransferringhishatredfromthefaceonthescreento

thedark-hairedgirlbehindhim.Vivid,beautifulhallucina- tionsflashedthroughhismind.Hewouldfloghertodeath witharubbertruncheon.Hewouldtiehernakedtoastake andshootherfullofarrowslikeSaintSebastian.Hewould ravishherandcutherthroatatthemomentofclimax.Bet- terthanbefore,moreover,herealizedWHYitwasthathe hatedher.Hehatedherbecauseshewasyoungandpretty andsexless,becausehewantedtogotobedwithherand wouldneverdoso,becauseroundhersweetsupplewaist, whichseemedtoaskyoutoencircleitwithyourarm,there wasonlytheodiousscarletsash,aggressivesymbolofchas- tity.

TheHaterosetoitsclimax.ThevoiceofGoldsteinhad

becomeanactualsheep’sbleat,andforaninstanttheface changedintothatofasheep.Thenthesheep-facemeltedinto thefigureofaEurasiansoldierwhoseemedtobeadvancing, hugeandterrible,hissub-machinegunroaring,andseem- ingtospringoutofthesurfaceofthescreen,sothatsome ofthepeopleinthefrontrowactuallyflinchedbackwards intheirseats.Butinthesamemoment,drawingadeepsigh ofrelieffromeverybody,thehostilefiguremeltedintothe faceofBigBrother,black-haired,black-moustachio’d,full ofpowerandmysteriouscalm,andsovastthatitalmost filledupthescreen.NobodyheardwhatBigBrotherwas saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sortofwordsthatareutteredinthedinofbattle,notdistin- guishableindividuallybutrestoringconfidencebythefact ofbeingspoken.ThenthefaceofBigBrotherfadedaway again,andinsteadthethreeslogansofthePartystoodout

in bold capitals:

WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

ButthefaceofBigBrotherseemedtopersistforsever- alsecondsonthescreen,asthoughtheimpactthatithad madeoneveryone’seyeballswastoovividtowearoffim- mediately.Thelittlesandy-hairedwomanhadflungherself forwardoverthebackofthechairinfrontofher.Witha tremulousmurmurthatsoundedlike‘MySaviour!’sheex- tendedherarmstowardsthescreen.Thensheburiedher faceinherhands.Itwasapparentthatshewasutteringa prayer.

Atthismomenttheentiregroupofpeoplebrokeintoa deep,slow,rhythmicalchantof‘B-B!...B-B!’—overandover again,veryslowly,withalongpausebetweenthefirst‘B’ and the second—a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiouslysavage,inthebackgroundofwhichoneseemed tohearthestampofnakedfeetandthethrobbingoftom- toms.Forperhapsasmuchasthirtysecondstheykeptit up.Itwasarefrainthatwasoftenheardinmomentsof overwhelmingemotion.Partlyitwasasortofhymntothe wisdomandmajestyofBigBrother,butstillmoreitwas anactofself-hypnosis,adeliberatedrowningofconscious- nessbymeansofrhythmicnoise.Winston’sentrailsseemed togrowcold.IntheTwoMinutesHatehecouldnothelp sharinginthegeneraldelirium,butthissub-humanchant-

ingof‘B-B!...B-B!’alwaysfilledhimwithhorror.Ofcourse hechantedwiththerest:itwasimpossibletodootherwise. Todissembleyourfeelings,tocontrolyourface,todowhat everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction. But therewasaspaceofacoupleofsecondsduringwhichthe expressionofhiseyesmightconceivablyhavebetrayedhim. Anditwasexactlyatthismomentthatthesignificantthing happened—if,indeed,itdidhappen.

MomentarilyhecaughtO’Brien’seye.O’Brienhadstood up.Hehadtakenoffhisspectaclesandwasintheactof resettlingthemonhisnosewithhischaracteristicgesture. Buttherewasafractionofasecondwhentheireyesmet, andforaslongasittooktohappenWinstonknew—yes,he KNEW!—thatO’Brienwasthinkingthesamethingashim- self.Anunmistakablemessagehadpassed.Itwasasthough theirtwomindshadopenedandthethoughtswereflowing fromoneintotheotherthroughtheireyes.‘Iamwithyou,’ O’Brienseemedtobesayingtohim.‘Iknowpreciselywhat youarefeeling.Iknowallaboutyourcontempt,yourha- tred,yourdisgust.Butdon’tworry,Iamonyourside!’And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O’Brien’s face wasasinscrutableaseverybodyelse’s.

Thatwasall,andhewasalreadyuncertainwhetherithad

happened.Suchincidentsneverhadanysequel.Allthatthey didwastokeepaliveinhimthebelief,orhope,thatoth- ersbesideshimselfweretheenemiesoftheParty.Perhaps the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true afterall—perhapstheBrotherhoodreallyexisted!Itwas impossible, in spite of the endless arrests andconfessions

andexecutions,tobesurethattheBrotherhoodwasnot simplyamyth.Somedayshebelievedinit,somedaysnot. There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conver- sation,faintscribblesonlavatorywalls—once,even,when twostrangersmet,asmallmovementofthehandwhich hadlookedasthoughitmightbeasignalofrecognition.It wasallguesswork:verylikelyhehadimaginedeverything. HehadgonebacktohiscubiclewithoutlookingatO’Brien again.Theideaoffollowinguptheirmomentarycontact hardlycrossedhismind.Itwouldhavebeeninconceivably dangerousevenifhehadknownhowtosetaboutdoingit. Forasecond,twoseconds,theyhadexchangedanequivo- calglance,andthatwastheendofthestory.Buteventhat wasamemorableevent,inthelockedlonelinessinwhich one had tolive.

Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out

a belch. The gin was rising from his stomach.

Hiseyesre-focusedonthepage.Hediscoveredthat whilehesathelplesslymusinghehadalsobeenwriting,as thoughbyautomaticaction.Anditwasnolongerthesame cramped,awkwardhandwritingasbefore.Hispenhadslid voluptuouslyoverthesmoothpaper,printinginlargeneat capitals—DOWNWITHBIGBROTHERDOWNWITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITHBIGBROTHERDOWNWITHBIGBROTHER

over and over again, filling half a page.

Hecouldnothelpfeelingatwingeofpanic.Itwasab- surd,sincethewritingofthoseparticularwordswasnot

moredangerousthantheinitialactofopeningthediary, butforamomenthewastemptedtotearoutthespoiled pagesandabandontheenterprisealtogether.

Hedidnotdoso,however,becauseheknewthatitwas useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, orwhetherherefrainedfromwritingit,madenodiffer- ence.Whetherhewentonwiththediary,orwhetherhedid notgoonwithit,madenodifference.TheThoughtPolice would get him just the same. He had committed—would stillhavecommitted,evenifhehadneversetpentopa- per—the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime,theycalledit.Thoughtcrimewasnotathing thatcouldbeconcealedforever.Youmightdodgesuccess- fullyforawhile,evenforyears,butsoonerorlaterthey were bound to getyou.

It was always at night—the arrests invariably happened

atnight.Thesuddenjerkoutofsleep,theroughhandshak- ingyourshoulder,thelightsglaringinyoureyes,theringof hardfacesroundthebed.Inthevastmajorityofcasesthere wasnotrial,noreportofthearrest.Peoplesimplydisap- peared,alwaysduringthenight.Yournamewasremoved fromtheregisters,everyrecordofeverythingyouhadever done was wiped out, your one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished, annihilated: VA- PORIZED was the usualword.

Foramomenthewasseizedbyakindofhysteria.Hebe- ganwritinginahurrieduntidyscrawl:

theyllshootmeidon’tcaretheyllshootmeinthebackofthe

neckidontcaredownwithbigbrothertheyalwaysshootyou inthebackoftheneckidontcaredownwithbigbrother——

Hesatbackinhischair,slightlyashamedofhimself,and laiddownthepen.Thenextmomenthestartedviolently. Therewasaknockingatthedoor.

Already!Hesatasstillasamouse,inthefutilehopethat whoeveritwasmightgoawayafterasingleattempt.Butno, theknockingwasrepeated.Theworstthingofallwouldbe todelay.Hisheartwasthumpinglikeadrum,buthisface, fromlonghabit,wasprobablyexpressionless.Hegotupand movedheavilytowardsthedoor.

Chapter2

sheputhishandtothedoor-knobWinstonsawthat hehadleftthediaryopenonthetable.DOWNWITH BIGBROTHERwaswrittenalloverit,inlettersalmostbig

A

enoughtobelegibleacrosstheroom.Itwasaninconceiv- ablystupidthingtohavedone.But,herealized,eveninhis panichehadnotwantedtosmudgethecreamypaperby shuttingthebookwhiletheinkwaswet.

Hedrewinhisbreathandopenedthedoor.Instantly awarmwaveofreliefflowedthroughhim.Acolourless, crushed-lookingwoman,withwispyhairandalinedface, was standingoutside.

‘Oh,comrade,’shebeganinadreary,whiningsortof voice,‘IthoughtIheardyoucomein.Doyouthinkyou couldcomeacrossandhavealookatourkitchensink?It’s got blocked upand——’

ItwasMrsParsons,thewifeofaneighbouronthesame floor.(’Mrs’wasawordsomewhatdiscountenancedbythe Party—you were supposed to call everyone ‘comrade’— butwithsomewomenoneuseditinstinctively.)Shewas awomanofaboutthirty,butlookingmucholder.Onehad theimpressionthattherewasdustinthecreasesofherface. Winstonfollowedherdownthepassage.Theseamateurre- pairjobswereanalmostdailyirritation.VictoryMansions wereoldflats,builtin1930orthereabouts,andwerefalling

topieces.Theplasterflakedconstantlyfromceilingsand walls,thepipesburstineveryhardfrost,theroofleaked whenevertherewassnow,theheatingsystemwasusually runningathalfsteamwhenitwasnotcloseddownalto- getherfrommotivesofeconomy.Repairs,exceptwhatyou coulddoforyourself,hadtobesanctionedbyremotecom- mitteeswhichwereliabletoholdupeventhemendingofa window-pane for twoyears.

‘Ofcourseit’sonlybecauseTomisn’thome,’saidMrs Parsonsvaguely.

TheParsons’flatwasbiggerthanWinston’s,anddingy inadifferentway.Everythinghadabattered,trampled-on look,asthoughtheplacehadjustbeenvisitedbysomelarge violent animal. Games impedimenta—hockey-sticks,box- ing-gloves,aburstfootball,apairofsweatyshortsturned insideout—layalloverthefloor,andonthetabletherewas alitterofdirtydishesanddog-earedexercise-books.On thewallswerescarletbannersoftheYouthLeagueandthe Spies,andafull-sizedposterofBigBrother.Therewasthe usualboiled-cabbagesmell,commontothewholebuilding, butitwasshotthroughbyasharperreekofsweat,which— oneknewthisatthefirstsniff,thoughitwashardtosay how—wasthesweatofsomepersonnotpresentatthemo- ment.Inanotherroomsomeonewithacombandapieceof toiletpaperwastryingtokeeptunewiththemilitarymusic whichwasstillissuingfromthetelescreen.

‘It’s the children,’ said Mrs Parsons, casting a half-ap-

prehensiveglanceatthedoor.‘Theyhaven’tbeenouttoday. And ofcourse——’

Shehadahabitofbreakingoffhersentencesinthemid- dle.Thekitchensinkwasfullnearlytothebrimwithfilthy greenishwaterwhichsmeltworsethaneverofcabbage. Winstonkneltdownandexaminedtheangle-jointofthe pipe.Hehatedusinghishands,andhehatedbendingdown, whichwasalwaysliabletostarthimcoughing.MrsParsons looked onhelplessly.

‘OfcourseifTomwashomehe’dputitrightinamo- ment,’shesaid.‘Helovesanythinglikethat.He’severso good withhis hands, Tom is.’

Parsons was Winston’s fellow-employee at the Minis- tryofTruth.Hewasafattishbutactivemanofparalysing stupidity,amassofimbecileenthusiasms—oneofthose completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on whom, moreeventhanontheThoughtPolice,thestabilityofthe Partydepended.Atthirty-fivehehadjustbeenunwilling- ly evicted from the Youth League, and before graduating intotheYouthLeaguehehadmanagedtostayoninthe Spiesforayearbeyondthestatutoryage.AttheMinistry hewasemployedinsomesubordinatepostforwhichin- telligencewasnotrequired,butontheotherhandhewas aleadingfigureontheSportsCommitteeandalltheother committeesengagedinorganizingcommunityhikes,spon- taneous demonstrations, savings campaigns, and voluntary activitiesgenerally.Hewouldinformyouwithquietpride, betweenwhiffsofhispipe,thathehadputinanappearance attheCommunityCentreeveryeveningforthepastfour years.Anoverpoweringsmellofsweat,asortofuncon- scioustestimonytothestrenuousnessofhislife,followed

him about wherever he went, and even remainedbehind him after he hadgone.

‘Haveyougotaspanner?’saidWinston,fiddlingwiththe nut on theangle-joint.

‘A spanner,’ said Mrs Parsons, immediately becoming invertebrate.‘Idon’tknow,I’msure.Perhapsthechildren—

—’

Therewasatramplingofbootsandanotherblastonthe combasthechildrenchargedintotheliving-room.Mrs Parsonsbroughtthespanner.Winstonletoutthewater anddisgustedlyremovedtheclotofhumanhairthathad blockedupthepipe.Hecleanedhisfingersasbesthecould inthecoldwaterfromthetapandwentbackintotheother room.

‘Up with your hands!’ yelled a savage voice.

Ahandsome,tough-lookingboyofninehadpoppedup frombehindthetableandwasmenacinghimwithatoy automaticpistol,whilehissmallsister,abouttwoyears younger,madethesamegesturewithafragmentofwood. Bothofthemweredressedintheblueshorts,greyshirts, andredneckerchiefswhichweretheuniformoftheSpies. Winstonraisedhishandsabovehishead,butwithanun- easyfeeling,soviciouswastheboy’sdemeanour,thatitwas not altogether agame.

‘You’reatraitor!’yelledtheboy.‘You’reathought-crimi- nal!You’reaEurasianspy!I’llshootyou,I’llvaporizeyou, I’llsendyoutothesaltmines!’

Suddenlytheywerebothleapingroundhim,shouting ‘Traitor!’and‘Thought-criminal!’thelittlegirlimitating

her brother in every movement. It was somehow slightly frightening,likethegambollingoftigercubswhichwill soongrowupintoman-eaters.Therewasasortofcalculat- ingferocityintheboy’seye,aquiteevidentdesiretohitor kickWinstonandaconsciousnessofbeingverynearlybig enoughtodoso.Itwasagoodjobitwasnotarealpistolhe was holding, Winstonthought.

MrsParsons’eyesflittednervouslyfromWinstontothe children,andbackagain.Inthebetterlightoftheliving- roomhenoticedwithinterestthatthereactuallywasdust in the creases of herface.

‘They do get so noisy,’ she said. ‘They’re disappointed becausetheycouldn’tgotoseethehanging,that’swhatit is.I’mtoobusytotakethem.andTomwon’tbebackfrom work intime.’

‘Whycan’twegoandseethehanging?’roaredtheboyin his hugevoice.

‘Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!’ chanted the little girl, still capering round.

SomeEurasianprisoners,guiltyofwarcrimes,wereto behangedintheParkthatevening,Winstonremembered. Thishappenedaboutonceamonth,andwasapopularspec- tacle.Childrenalwaysclamouredtobetakentoseeit.He tookhisleaveofMrsParsonsandmadeforthedoor.Buthe hadnotgonesixstepsdownthepassagewhensomething hitthebackofhisneckanagonizinglypainfulblow.Itwas asthoughared-hotwirehadbeenjabbedintohim.Hespun roundjustintimetoseeMrsParsonsdragginghersonback intothedoorwaywhiletheboypocketedacatapult.

‘Goldstein!’bellowedtheboyasthedoorclosedonhim. ButwhatmoststruckWinstonwasthelookofhelpless frightonthewoman’sgreyishface.

Backintheflathesteppedquicklypastthetelescreen andsatdownatthetableagain,stillrubbinghisneck.The music from the telescreen had stopped. Instead, a clipped militaryvoicewasreadingout,withasortofbrutalrelish, adescriptionofthearmamentsofthenewFloatingFor- tresswhichhadjustbeenanchoredbetweenIcelandand the Faroelslands.

Withthosechildren,hethought,thatwretchedwom- anmustleadalifeofterror.Anotheryear,twoyears,and theywouldbewatchinghernightanddayforsymptomsof unorthodoxy.Nearlyallchildrennowadayswerehorrible. Whatwasworstofallwasthatbymeansofsuchorgani- zationsastheSpiestheyweresystematicallyturnedinto ungovernablelittlesavages,andyetthisproducedinthem notendencywhatevertorebelagainstthedisciplineofthe Party.Onthecontrary,theyadoredthePartyandevery- thingconnectedwithit.Thesongs,theprocessions,the banners,thehiking,thedrillingwithdummyrifles,the yellingofslogans,theworshipofBigBrother—itwasalla sortofgloriousgametothem.Alltheirferocitywasturned outwards,againsttheenemiesoftheState,againstforeign- ers,traitors,saboteurs,thought-criminals.Itwasalmost normalforpeopleoverthirtytobefrightenedoftheirown children.Andwithgoodreason,forhardlyaweekpassed inwhich‘TheTimes’didnotcarryaparagraphdescribing howsomeeavesdroppinglittlesneak—’childhero’wasthe

phrase generally used—had overheard some compromising remark and denounced its parents to the Thought Police.

Thestingofthecatapultbullethadwornoff.Hepicked uphispenhalf-heartedly,wonderingwhetherhecouldfind somethingmoretowriteinthediary.Suddenlyhebegan thinking of O’Brienagain.

Yearsago—howlongwasit?Sevenyearsitmustbe—he haddreamedthathewaswalkingthroughapitch-dark room.Andsomeonesittingtoonesideofhimhadsaidas hepassed:‘Weshallmeetintheplacewherethereisno darkness.’Itwassaidveryquietly,almostcasually—astate- ment,notacommand.Hehadwalkedonwithoutpausing. Whatwascuriouswasthatatthetime,inthedream,the wordshadnotmademuchimpressiononhim.Itwasonly laterandbydegreesthattheyhadseemedtotakeonsignifi- cance.Hecouldnotnowrememberwhetheritwasbefore orafterhavingthedreamthathehadseenO’Brienforthe firsttime,norcouldherememberwhenhehadfirstidenti- fiedthevoiceasO’Brien’s.Butatanyratetheidentification existed.ItwasO’Brienwhohadspokentohimoutofthe dark.

Winstonhadneverbeenabletofeelsure—evenafterthis

morning’sflashoftheeyesitwasstillimpossibletobesure whetherO’Brienwasafriendoranenemy.Nordiditeven seemtomattergreatly.Therewasalinkofunderstanding betweenthem,moreimportantthanaffectionorpartisan- ship.‘Weshallmeetintheplacewherethereisnodarkness,’ hehadsaid.Winstondidnotknowwhatitmeant,onlythat insomewayoranotheritwouldcometrue.

Thevoicefromthetelescreenpaused.Atrumpetcall, clearandbeautiful,floatedintothestagnantair.Thevoice continuedraspingly:

’Attention!Yourattention,please!Anewsflashhasthis momentarrivedfromtheMalabarfront.OurforcesinSouth Indiahavewonagloriousvictory.Iamauthorizedtosay thattheactionwearenowreportingmaywellbringthewar

within measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash—

—’

Badnewscoming,thoughtWinston.Andsureenough, followingonagorydescriptionoftheannihilationofa Eurasianarmy,withstupendousfiguresofkilledandpris- oners,cametheannouncementthat,asfromnextweek,the chocolaterationwouldbereducedfromthirtygrammesto twenty.

Winstonbelchedagain.Theginwaswearingoff,leaving adeflatedfeeling.Thetelescreen—perhapstocelebratethe victory,perhapstodrownthememoryofthelostchocolate— crashedinto‘Oceania,‘tisforthee’.Youweresupposedto standtoattention.However,inhispresentpositionhewas invisible.

‘Oceania,‘tisforthee’gavewaytolightermusic.Win- stonwalkedovertothewindow,keepinghisbacktothe telescreen.Thedaywasstillcoldandclear.Somewherefar awayarocketbombexplodedwithadull,reverberating roar.Abouttwentyorthirtyofthemaweekwerefallingon London atpresent.

Downinthestreetthewindflappedthetornposterto andfro,andthewordINGSOCfitfullyappearedandvan- ished. Ingsoc. The sacred principles of Ingsoc. Newspeak, doublethink,themutabilityofthepast.Hefeltasthough hewerewanderingintheforestsoftheseabottom,lostin amonstrousworldwherehehimselfwasthemonster.He wasalone.Thepastwasdead,thefuturewasunimaginable. Whatcertaintyhadhethatasinglehumancreaturenow livingwasonhisside?Andwhatwayofknowingthatthe dominionofthePartywouldnotendureFOREVER?Like ananswer,thethreeslogansonthewhitefaceoftheMinis- tryofTruthcamebacktohim:

WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

Hetookatwenty-fivecentpieceoutofhispocket.There, too,intinyclearlettering,thesamesloganswereinscribed, and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Broth- er.Evenfromthecointheeyespursuedyou.Oncoins,on stamps,onthecoversofbooks,onbanners,onposters,and on the wrappings of a cigarette packet—everywhere. Al- waystheeyeswatchingyouandthevoiceenvelopingyou. Asleeporawake,workingoreating,indoorsoroutofdoors, inthebathorinbed—noescape.Nothingwasyourownex- ceptthefewcubiccentimetresinsideyourskull.

Thesunhadshiftedround,andthemyriadwindowsof theMinistryofTruth,withthelightnolongershiningon

them,lookedgrimastheloopholesofafortress.Hisheart quailed before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too strong,itcouldnotbestormed.Athousandrocketbombs wouldnotbatteritdown.Hewonderedagainforwhomhe waswritingthediary.Forthefuture,forthepast—foran agethatmightbeimaginary.Andinfrontofhimtherelay notdeathbutannihilation.Thediarywouldbereduced toashesandhimselftovapour.OnlytheThoughtPolice wouldreadwhathehadwritten,beforetheywipeditoutof existenceandoutofmemory.Howcouldyoumakeappeal tothefuturewhennotatraceofyou,notevenananony- mouswordscribbledonapieceofpaper,couldphysically survive?

The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten min-

utes. He had to be back at work by fourteen-thirty.

Curiously,thechimingofthehourseemedtohaveput newheartintohim.Hewasalonelyghostutteringatruth thatnobodywouldeverhear.Butsolongasheutteredit, insomeobscurewaythecontinuitywasnotbroken.Itwas notbymakingyourselfheardbutbystayingsanethatyou carriedonthehumanheritage.Hewentbacktothetable, dipped his pen, andwrote:

To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free,whenmenaredifferentfromoneanotheranddonot livealone—toatimewhentruthexistsandwhatisdone cannotbeundone:Fromtheageofuniformity,fromthe

ageofsolitude,fromtheageofBigBrother,fromtheageof doublethink—greetings!

Hewasalreadydead,hereflected.Itseemedtohimthat itwasonlynow,whenhehadbeguntobeabletoformulate histhoughts,thathehadtakenthedecisivestep.Theconse- quencesofeveryactareincludedintheactitself.Hewrote:

Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.

Nowhehadrecognizedhimselfasadeadmanitbecame importanttostayaliveaslongaspossible.Twofingersofhis righthandwereinkstained.Itwasexactlythekindofdetail thatmightbetrayyou.SomenosingzealotintheMinistry (a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired womanorthedark-hairedgirlfromtheFictionDepart- ment)mightstartwonderingwhyhehadbeenwriting duringthelunchinterval,whyhehadusedanold-fash- ionedpen,WHAThehadbeenwriting—andthendropa hintintheappropriatequarter.Hewenttothebathroom andcarefullyscrubbedtheinkawaywiththegrittydark- brownsoapwhichraspedyourskinlikesandpaperandwas thereforewelladaptedforthispurpose.

Heputthediaryawayinthedrawer.Itwasquiteuseless

tothinkofhidingit,buthecouldatleastmakesurewhether ornotitsexistencehadbeendiscovered.Ahairlaidacross thepage-endswastooobvious.Withthetipofhisfingerhe pickedupanidentifiablegrainofwhitishdustanddepos- iteditonthecornerofthecover,whereitwasboundtobe shakenoffifthebookwasmoved.

Chapter3

inston was dreaming of his mother.

W

He must, he thought, have been ten or elev- enyearsoldwhenhismotherhaddisappeared.Shewas atall,statuesque,rathersilentwomanwithslowmove- mentsandmagnificentfairhair.Hisfatherheremembered morevaguelyasdarkandthin,dressedalwaysinneatdark clothes(Winstonrememberedespeciallytheverythinsoles ofhisfather’sshoes)andwearingspectacles.Thetwoof themmustevidentlyhavebeenswallowedupinoneofthe firstgreatpurgesofthefifties.

Atthismomenthismotherwassittinginsomeplace deepdownbeneathhim,withhisyoungsisterinherarms. Hedidnotrememberhissisteratall,exceptasatiny,feeble baby,alwayssilent,withlarge,watchfuleyes.Bothofthem werelookingupathim.Theyweredowninsomesubter- raneanplace—thebottomofawell,forinstance,oravery deepgrave—butitwasaplacewhich,alreadyfarbelowhim, wasitselfmovingdownwards.Theywereinthesaloonof asinkingship,lookingupathimthroughthedarkening water.Therewasstillairinthesaloon,theycouldstillsee himandhethem,butallthewhiletheyweresinkingdown, downintothegreenwaterswhichinanothermomentmust hidethemfromsightforever.Hewasoutinthelightand airwhiletheywerebeingsuckeddowntodeath,andthey

weredowntherebecausehewasuphere.Heknewitand theyknewit,andhecouldseetheknowledgeintheirfaces. Therewasnoreproacheitherintheirfacesorintheirhearts, only the knowledge that they must die in order that he mightremainalive,andthatthiswaspartoftheunavoid- able order ofthings.

Hecouldnotrememberwhathadhappened,butheknew inhisdreamthatinsomewaythelivesofhismotherand hissisterhadbeensacrificedtohisown.Itwasoneofthose dreamswhich,whileretainingthecharacteristicdream scenery,areacontinuationofone’sintellectuallife,and inwhichonebecomesawareoffactsandideaswhichstill seemnewandvaluableafteroneisawake.Thethingthat nowsuddenlystruckWinstonwasthathismother’sdeath, nearlythirtyyearsago,hadbeentragicandsorrowfulina waythatwasnolongerpossible.Tragedy,heperceived,be- longedtotheancienttime,toatimewhentherewasstill privacy,love,andfriendship,andwhenthemembersofa familystoodbyoneanotherwithoutneedingtoknowthe reason.Hismother’smemorytoreathisheartbecauseshe haddiedlovinghim,whenhewastooyoungandselfish toloveherinreturn,andbecausesomehow,hedidnotre- memberhow,shehadsacrificedherselftoaconceptionof loyaltythatwasprivateandunalterable.Suchthings,he saw,couldnothappentoday.Todaytherewerefear,hatred, andpain,butnodignityofemotion,nodeeporcomplex sorrows.Allthisheseemedtoseeinthelargeeyesofhis motherandhissister,lookingupathimthroughthegreen water,hundredsoffathomsdownandstillsinking.

Suddenlyhewasstandingonshortspringyturf,ona summer evening when the slanting rays of the sun gilded theground.Thelandscapethathewaslookingatrecurred so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain whetherornothehadseenitintherealworld.Inhiswak- ingthoughtshecalledittheGoldenCountry.Itwasanold, rabbit-bittenpasture,withafoot-trackwanderingacrossit andamolehillhereandthere.Intheraggedhedgeonthe oppositesideofthefieldtheboughsoftheelmtreeswere swayingveryfaintlyinthebreeze,theirleavesjuststirring indensemasseslikewomen’shair.Somewherenearathand, thoughoutofsight,therewasaclear,slow-movingstream wheredacewereswimminginthepoolsunderthewillow trees.

The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across

thefield.Withwhatseemedasinglemovementshetoreoff herclothesandflungthemdisdainfullyaside.Herbody waswhiteandsmooth,butitarousednodesireinhim,in- deedhebarelylookedatit.Whatoverwhelmedhimin