Winston had never been able to feel sure even after this morning's
flash of the eyes it was still impossible to be sure whether O'Brien
was a friend or an enemy. Nor did it even seem to matter greatly. There was
a link of understanding between them, more important than affection or partisanship.
"We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness," he had said. Winston
did not know what it meant, only that in some way or another it would come
true.
The voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call, clear and beautiful,
floated into the stagnant air. The voice continued raspingly:
"Attention! Your attention, please! A newsflash has this moment arrived
from the Malabar front. Our forces in South India have won a glorious victory.
I am authorized to say that the action we are now reporting may well bring
the war within measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash
"
Bad news coming, thought Winston. And sure enough, following on a gory description
of the annihilation of a Eurasian army, with stupendous figures of killed
and prisoners, came the announcement that, as from next week, the chocolate
ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty.
Winston belched again. The gin was wearing off, leaving a deflated feeling.
The telescreen - perhaps to celebrate the victory, perhaps to drown the memory
of the lost chocolate - crashed into "Oceania, 'tis for thee". You were supposed
to stand to attention. However, in his present position he was invisible.
"Oceania, 'tis for thee" gave way to lighter music. Winston walked over
to the window, keeping his back to the telescreen. The day was still cold
and clear. Somewhere far away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull, reverberating
roar. About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London at present.
Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and fro, and the
word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished. Ingsoc. The sacred principles
of Ingsoc. Newspeak, doublethink, the mutability of the past. He felt as
though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous
world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was dead,
the future was unimaginable. What certainty had he that a single human creature
now living was on his side? And what way of knowing that the dominion of
the Party would not endure for ever? Like an answer, the three slogans on
the white face of the Ministry of Truth came back to him:
WAR IS PEACE
EREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There, too, in tiny
clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other face of
the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes pursued you.
On coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and
on the wrappings of a cigarette packet - everywhere. Always the eyes watching
you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake, working or eating, indoors
or out of doors, in the bath or in bed - no escape. Nothing was your own except
the few cubic centimetres inside your skull.(...)
The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten minutes. He had to
be back at work by fourteen-thirty.
Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into him.
He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear. But so
long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken.
It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on
the human heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote:
To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are
different from one another and do not live alone - to a time when truth exists
and what is done cannot be undone:
From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big
Brother, from the age of doublethink - greetings!
He was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that it was only now,
when he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had taken
the decisive step. The consequences of every act are included in the act itself.
He wrote:
Thoughterime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.
George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Harmondsworth, 1949, pp.24-26
Text 22 He Loved Big Brother
Winton's "thoughtcrime", his writing a diary and his attempt at a revolt,
have been discovered, and he is submitted to a brain-washing process by O'Brien
in the Ministry of Love. His personality has been changed.
He pushed the picture out of his mind. It was a false memory. He was troubled
by false memories occasionally. They did not matter so long as one knew them
for what they were. Some things had happened, others had not happened. He
turned back to the chessboard and picked up the white knight again. Almost
in the same instant it dropped on to the board with a clatter. He had started
as though a pin had run into him.
A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin! Victory!
It always meant victory when a trumpet-call preceded the news. A sort of electric
thrill ran through the cafe'. Even the waiters had started and pricked up
their ears.
The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an excited
voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started it was almost
drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had run round the streets
like magic. He could hear just enough of what was issuing from the telescreen
to realize that it had all happened as he had foreseen: a vast seaborne armada
secretly assembled, a sudden blow in the enemy's rear, the white arrow tearing
across the tail of the black. Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves
through the din:
"Vast strategic manoeuvre - perfect co-ordination - utter rout - half a
million prisoners - complete demoralization - control of the whole of Africa
- bring the war within measurable distance of its end victory - greatest
victory in human history - victory, victory, victory!"
Under the table Winston's feet made convulsive movements. He had not stirred
from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running,
he was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again
at the portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the world! The
rock against which the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain! He thought
how ten minutes ago - yes, only ten minutes - there had still been equivocation
in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front would be of victory
or defeat. Ah, it was more than a Eurasian army that had perished! Much had
changed in him since that first day in the Ministry of Love, but the final,
indispensable, healing change had never happened, until this moment.
The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners
and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little.
The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the
gin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his
glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back
in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow.
He was in the public dock, confessing everything, implicating everybody. He
was walking down the white4iled corridor, with the feeling of walking in
sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The long-hoped-for bullet was entering
his brain.
He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn
what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. 0 cruel, needless
misunderstanding! 0 stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two
gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right,
everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory
over himself. He loved Big Brother.
Ibid pp.238-239
