Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have
rebelled they cannot become conscious.
That, he reected, might almost have been a transcription from one of the
Party textbooks. The Party claimed, of course, to have liberated t
an object seen out of the corner of ones eye. He pushed it away from him,
aware only that it was the memory of some action which he would have liked
to undo but could not.
You are very young, he said. You are ten or fteen years younger than I
am. What cou
she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston followed, still clasping
his bunch of owers. His rst feeling was relief, but as he watched the strong
slender body moving in front of him, with the scarlet sash that was just tight
enough to bring out
used to living without women he did not know the reason. The girl picked
herself up and pulled a bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him, putting
her arm round his waist.
Never mind, dear. Theres no hurry. Weve got the whole afternoon. Isnt
this a s
she murmured nally.
You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gates got no top bar.
Yes. What time?
About fteen. You may have to wait. Ill get there by another way. Are
you sure you remember everything?
Then get away from me as quick a
of Airstrip One. In the street in front of it there was a statue of a man on
horseback which was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell. At ve minutes
past the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the terrible fear seized upon
Winston. She was not c
take the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early. Surely enough, she was
at a table in about the same place, and again alone. The person immediately
ahead of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like man with a
at face and tiny, suspic
he had known where she lived, and at what time she left work, he could have
contrived to meet her somewhere on her way home; but to try to follow her
home was not safe, because it would mean loitering about outside the Ministry,
which was bound to be noti
It was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left the cubicle to go to the
A solitary gure was coming towards him from the other end of the long,
brightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair. Four days had gone past
Winston picked his way up the lane through dappled light and shade, stepping
out into pools of gold wherever the boughs parted. Under the trees to the left
of him the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to kiss ones skin.
It was the
I hate purity, I hate goodness! I dont want any virtue to exist anywhere. I
want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.
Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. Im corrupt to the bones.
You like doing this? I dont mean simply me: I mean the thing in itself?
The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless
similar songs published for the benet of the proles by a sub-section of the Music
Department. The words of these songs were composed without any human
intervention whatever on an in
such thing as happiness, that the only victory lay in the far future, long after
you were dead, that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was
better to think of yourself as a corpse.
We are the dead, he said.
Were not dead yet, said Julia pros
brought the sweat out on his forehead. He began telling Julia of something that
had happened, or rather had failed to happen, on another sweltering summer
afternoon, eleven years ago.
It was three or four months after they were married. They had lost thei
What was she like, your wife? said Julia.
She was do you know the Newspeak word goodthinkful? Meaning naturally orthodox, incapable of thinking a bad thought?
No, I didnt know the word, but I know the kind of person, right enough.
He began telling her the
We can come here once again, said Julia. Its generally safe to use any hide-out
twice. But not for another month or two, of course.
As soon as she woke up her demeanour had changed. She became alert and
business-like, put her clothes on, knotte
But she was not interested in the nished product. She didnt much care for
reading, she said. Books were just a commodity that had to be produced, like
jam or bootlaces.
She had no memories of anything before the early sixties and the only person
she had e
for more than half an hour at a time. In the street it was usually possible to
talk, after a fashion. As they drifted down the crowded pavements, not quite
abreast and never looking at one another, they carried on a curious, intermittent
once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were deliberately showing o
its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped for a few seconds, spread out and resettled
its wings, then swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston
watched it with a
into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was
something small and at. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred
it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his ngers. It was a scrap of paper
folded into a sq
about the preparations for Hate Week. He was particularly enthusiastic about
a papier-mch; model of Big Brothers head, two metres wide, which was being
made for the occasion by his daughters troop of Spies. The irritating thing was
that in the racket
of guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red forearms folded
across thelr aprons were talking outside a doorway. Winston caught scraps of
conversation as he approached.
Yes, I says to er, thats all very well, I says. But if youd of been in
the old man, who must be eighty at the least, had already been middle-aged
when the Revolution happened. He and a few others like him were the last links
that now existed with the vanished world of capitalism. In the Party itself there
were not many peopl
From somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of roasting coee real
coee, not Victory Coee came oating out into the street. Winston paused
involuntarily. For perhaps two seconds he was back in the half-forgotten world
of his childhood. The
studying over his shoulder. Even before he was near enough to make out the
expression on their faces, Winston could see absorption in every line of their
bodies. It was obviously some serious piece of news that they were reading. He
was a few paces away f
be proved or disproved. The Party claimed, for example, that today 40 per cent
of adult proles were literate: before the Revolution, it was said, the number had
only been 15 per cent. The Party claimed that the infant mortality rate was
now only 160 per t
of the Eurasian General Sta, to whom they had betrayed important military
secrets. The date had stuck in Winstons memory because it chanced to be
midsummer day; but the whole story must be on record in countless other
places as well. There was only one po
before glasses of the gin avoured with cloves which was the speciality of the
caf. Of the three, it was Rutherford whose appearance had most impressed
Winston. Rutherford had once been a famous caricaturist, whose brutal cartoons had helped to iname pop
no older than you had to work twelve hours a day for cruel masters who ogged
them with whips if they worked too slowly and fed them on nothing but stale
breadcrusts and water.
But in among all this terrible poverty there were just a few great big beautifu
Brother which formed its frontispiece. The hypnotic eyes gazed into his own.
It was as though some huge force were pressing down upon you something
that penetrated inside your skull, battering against your brain, frightening you
out of your beliefs, persu