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7/11/2021 0 Comments GEORGE ORWELL 1984
1984
By George Orwell
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Part One
1984
Chapter i
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were strik-
ing thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his
breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly
through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not
quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter-
ing along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At
one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display,
had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enor-
mous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of
about forty- five, with a heavy black moustache and rugged-
ly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was
no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was sel-
dom working, and at present the electric current was cut
off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive
in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up,
and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer
above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on
the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster
with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of
those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow
you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING
YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of fig-
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ures which had something to do with the production of
pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like
a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the
right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice
sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguish-
able. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be
dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off complete-
ly. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure,
the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue
overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was
very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by
coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the win-
ter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world
looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were
whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the
sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed
to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were
plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed
down from every commanding corner. There was one on
the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS
WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes
looked deep into Winston's own. Down at street level an-
other poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind,
alternately covering and uncovering the single word IN-
GSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down
between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle,
and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the po-
lice patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did
1984
not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was
still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment
of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and
transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made,
above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by
it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vi-
sion which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen
as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing
whether you were being watched at any given moment. How
often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on
any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable
that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate
they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You
had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in
the assumption that every sound you made was overheard,
and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was
safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing.
A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work,
towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This,
he thought with a sort of vague distaste — this was London,
chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous
of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some
childhood memory that should tell him whether London
had always been quite like this. Were there always these vis-
tas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored
up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with card-
board and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy
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garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed
sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the wil-
low-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places
where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had
sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chick-
en-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember:
nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-
lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly
unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak [New-
speak was the official language of Oceania. For an account
of its structure and etymology see Appendix.] — was star-
tlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an
enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white con-
crete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the
air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read,
picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three
slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three
thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding
ramifications below. Scattered about London there were
just three other buildings of similar appearance and size.
So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architec-
ture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see
1984
all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of
the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus
of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which
concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and
the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself
with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and
order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible
for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue,
Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been
inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it.
It was a place impossible to enter except on official business,
and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-
wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun
nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were
roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed
with jointed truncheons.
Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features
into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advis-
able to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the
room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this
time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and
he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except
a hunk of dark- coloured bread which had got to be saved
for tomorrow's breakfast. He took down from the shelf a
bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked
VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese
rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved
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himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medi-
cine.
Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out
of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in
swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back
of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however,
the burning in his belly died down and the world began to
look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled
packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously
held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the
floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back
to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood
to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took
out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized
blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.
For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in
an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal,
in the end wall, where it could command the whole room,
it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side
of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now
sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably
been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove,
and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside
the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could
be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present
position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual ge-
ography 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
1984
just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful
book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was
of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least for-
ty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was
much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of
a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town
(just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been
stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess
it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary
shops ('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the
rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things,
such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible
to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance
up and down the street and then had slipped inside and
bought the book for two dollars fifty At the time he was not
conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had
carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing
written in it, it was a compromising possession.
The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary.
This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no
longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain
that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-
five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into
the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen
was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures,
and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty,
simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper
deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being
scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to
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writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usu-
al to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of
course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the
pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A trem-
or had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the
decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote:
April 4th, 1984.
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had de-
scended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any
certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that
date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine,
and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but
it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within
a year or two.
For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he
writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind
hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page,
and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak
word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of
what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you
communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossi-
ble. Either the future would resemble the present, in which
case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from
it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The
telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It
was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the pow-
1984
er 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 nev-
er crossed his mind that anything would be needed except
courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to
do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless mono-
logue that had been running inside his head, literally for
years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had
dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching
unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it
always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He
was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page
in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the
blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the
gin-
Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imper-
fectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but
childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shed-
ding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:
April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One
very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed
somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused
by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with
a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along
in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the
helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea
round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though
the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter
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when he sank, then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a
helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman
might have been a Jewess sitting up in the bow with a little
boy about three years old in her arms, little boy screaming
with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he
was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting
her arms round him and comforting him although she was
blue with fright herself all the time covering him up as much
as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets
off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among
them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood, then
there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up
right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose
must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from
the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the
house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they
didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it
aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned
her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her
nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they
Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffer-
ing from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour
out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that
while he was doing so a totally different memory had clar-
ified 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
1984
home and begin the diary today.
It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if any-
thing so nebulous could be said to happen.
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records De-
partment, where Winston worked, they were dragging the
chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the cen-
tre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for
the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place
in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew
by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into
the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in
the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that
she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably — since
he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a
spanner — she had some mechanical job on one of the nov-
el-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about
twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift,
athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the
Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round
the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the
shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the
very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was
because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths
and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which
she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all
women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was al-
ways the women, and above all the young ones, who were
the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers
of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unortho-
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doxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of
being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed
in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which
seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled
him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind
that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it
was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a pe-
culiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as
hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.
The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member
of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important
and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature.
A momentary hush passed over the group of people round
the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party
member approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with
a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of
his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of man-
ner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose
which was curiously disarming — in some indefinable way,
curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had
still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eigh-
teenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston
had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many
years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because
he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane
manner and his prize-fighter's physique. Much more it was
because of a secretly held belief— or perhaps not even a be-
lief, merely a hope — that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was
not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly.
1984
And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was
written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate
he had the appearance of being a person that you could
talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get
him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to
verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At
this moment O'Brien glanced at his wrist-watch, saw that it
was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in
the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was
over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple
of places away. A small, sandy-haired woman who worked
in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl
with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.
The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some
monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the
big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set
one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's
neck. The Hate had started.
As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of
the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses
here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired
woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Gold-
stein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago
(how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of
the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big
Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolu-
tionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had
mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of
the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was
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none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He
was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's pu-
rity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries,
acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out
of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and
hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the
sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps
even — so it was occasionally rumoured — in some hiding-
place in Oceania itself.
Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never
see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emo-
tions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of
white hair and a small goatee beard — a clever face, and yet
somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile sil-
liness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair
of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep,
and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was
delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines
of the Party — an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a
child should have been able to see through it, and yet just
plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that
other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken
in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing
the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the imme-
diate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating
freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of as-
sembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that
the revolution had been betrayed — and all this in rapid
polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the ha-
1984
bitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained
Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any
Party member would normally use in real life. And all the
while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which
Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on
the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the
Eurasian army — row after row of solid-looking men with
expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface
of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exact-
ly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots
formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncon-
trollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half
the people in the room. The self-satisfied sheep-like face on
the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army
behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or
even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger au-
tomatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than
either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war
with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the
other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein
was hated and despised by everybody, although every day
and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen,
in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed,
ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rub-
bish that they were — in spite of all this, his influence never
seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting
to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and
saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked
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by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast
shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators
dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood,
its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered
stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies,
of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated
clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title.
People referred to it, if at all, simply as THE BOOK. But one
knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither
the Brotherhood nor THE BOOK was a subject that any or-
dinary Party member would mention if there was a way of
avoiding it.
In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People
were leaping up and down in their places and shouting
at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the mad-
dening bleating voice that came from the screen. The
little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and
her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed
fish. Even O'Brien's heavy face was flushed. He was sitting
very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and
quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a
wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun cry-
ing out 'Swine! Swine! Swine!' and suddenly she picked up
a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen. It
struck Goldstein's nose and bounced off; the voice contin-
ued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he
was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violent-
ly against the rung of his chair. The horrible thing about
the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act
18 1984
a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid
joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always
unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness,
a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-
hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people
like an electric current, turning one even against one's will
into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that
one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could
be switched from one object to another like the flame of a
blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston's hatred was not
turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against
Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such
moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic
on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world
of lies. And yet the very next instant he was at one with the
people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed
to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing of
Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed
to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like
a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite
of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung
about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchant-
er, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the
structure of civilization.
It was even possible, at moments, to switch one's ha-
tred this way or that by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the
sort of violent effort with which one wrenches one's head
away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded
in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to
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the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucina-
tions flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death
with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake
and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would
ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Bet-
ter than before, moreover, he realized WHY it was that he
hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty
and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and
would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist,
which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there
was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chas-
tity.
The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had
become an actual sheep's bleat, and for an instant the face
changed into that of a sheep. Then the sheep -face melted into
the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing,
huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seem-
ing to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some
of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards
in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh
of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the
face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio'd, full
of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost
filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was
saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the
sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distin-
guishable 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
1984
in bold capitals:
WARE PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for sever-
al seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had
made on everyone's eyeballs was too vivid to wear off im-
mediately. The little sandy-haired woman had flung herself
forward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a
tremulous murmur that sounded like 'My Saviour!' she ex-
tended her arms towards the screen. Then she buried her
face in her hands. It was apparent that she was uttering a
prayer.
At this moment the entire group of people broke into a
deep, slow, rhythmical chant of 'B-BL.B-B!' — over and over
again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first 'B'
and the second — a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow
curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed
to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-
toms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it
up. It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of
overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the
wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was
an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of conscious-
ness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston's entrails seemed
to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help
sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chant-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 21
ing of 'B-BL.B-B!' always filled him with horror. Of course
he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise.
To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what
everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction. But
there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the
expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him.
And it was exactly at this moment that the significant thing
happened — if, indeed, it did happen.
Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye. O'Brien had stood
up. He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of
resettling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture.
But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes met,
and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew — yes, he
KNEW! — that O'Brien was thinking the same thing as him-
self. An unmistakable message had passed. It was as though
their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing
from one into the other through their eyes. 'I am with you,'
O'Brien seemed to be saying to him. 'I know precisely what
you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your ha-
tred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on your side!' And
then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O'Brien's face
was as inscrutable as everybody else's.
That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had
happened. Such incidents never had any sequel. All that they
did was to keep alive in him the belief, or hope, that oth-
ers 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
1984
and executions, to be sure that the Brotherhood was not
simply a myth. Some days he believed in it, some days not.
There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might
mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conver-
sation, faint scribbles on lavatory walls — once, even, when
two strangers met, a small movement of the hand which
had looked as though it might be a signal of recognition. It
was all guesswork: very likely he had imagined everything.
He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at O'Brien
again. The idea of following up their momentary contact
hardly crossed his mind. It would have been inconceivably
dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it.
For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivo-
cal glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that
was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which
one had to live.
Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out
a belch. The gin was rising from his stomach.
His eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that
while he sat helplessly musing he had also been writing, as
though by automatic action. And it was no longer the same
cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid
voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat
capitals— DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH
BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN
WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
over and over again, filling half a page.
He could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was ab-
surd, since the writing of those particular words was not
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 23
more dangerous than the initial act of opening the diary,
but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled
pages and abandon the enterprise altogether.
He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was
useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER,
or whether he refrained from writing it, made no differ-
ence. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did
not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police
would get him just the same. He had committed — would
still have committed, even if he had never set pen to pa-
per — the essential crime that contained all others in itself.
Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing
that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge success-
fully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they
were bound to get you.
It was always at night — the arrests invariably happened
at night. The sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shak-
ing 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 disap-
peared, always during the night. Your name was removed
from the registers, every record of everything you had ever
done was wiped out, your one-time existence was denied
and then forgotten. You were abolished, annihilated: VA-
PORIZED was the usual word.
For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He be-
gan writing in a hurried untidy scrawl:
theyll shoot me i don't care theyll shoot me in the back of the
24 1984
neck i dont care down with big brother they always shoot you
in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother
He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and
laid down the pen. The next moment he started violently.
There was a knocking at the door.
Already! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that
whoever it was might go away after a single attempt. But no,
the knocking was repeated. The worst thing of all would be
to delay. His heart was thumping like a drum, but his face,
from long habit, was probably expressionless. He got up and
moved heavily towards the door.
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Chapter 2
As he put his hand to the door-knob Winston saw that
he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH
BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in letters almost big
enough to be legible across the room. It was an inconceiv-
ably stupid thing to have done. But, he realized, even in his
panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by
shutting the book while the ink was wet.
He drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly
a warm wave of relief flowed through him. A colourless,
crushed-looking woman, with wispy hair and a lined face,
was standing outside.
'Oh, comrade,' she began in a dreary, whining sort of
voice, 'I thought I heard you come in. Do you think you
could come across and have a look at our kitchen sink? It's
got blocked up and '
It was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same
floor. ('Mrs' was a word somewhat discountenanced by the
Party — you were supposed to call everyone 'comrade' —
but with some women one used it instinctively.) She was
a woman of about thirty, but looking much older. One had
the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face.
Winston followed her down the passage. These amateur re-
pair jobs were an almost daily irritation. Victory Mansions
were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were falling
1984
to pieces. The plaster flaked constantly from ceilings and
walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked
whenever there was snow, the heating system was usually
running at half steam when it was not closed down alto-
gether from motives of economy. Repairs, except what you
could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by remote com-
mittees which were liable to hold up even the mending of a
window-pane for two years.
'Of course it's only because Tom isn't home,' said Mrs
Parsons vaguely.
The Parsons' flat was bigger than Winston's, and dingy
in a different way. Everything had a battered, trampled-on
look, as though the place had just been visited by some large
violent animal. Games impedimenta — hockey-sticks, box-
ing-gloves, a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts turned
inside out — lay all over the floor, and on the table there was
a litter of dirty dishes and dog-eared exercise-books. On
the walls were scarlet banners of the Youth League and the
Spies, and a full-sized poster of Big Brother. There was the
usual boiled-cabbage smell, common to the whole building,
but it was shot through by a sharper reek of sweat, which —
one knew this at the first sniff, though it was hard to say
how — was the sweat of some person not present at the mo-
ment. In another room someone with a comb and a piece of
toilet paper was trying to keep tune with the military music
which was still issuing from the telescreen.
'It's the children,' said Mrs Parsons, casting a half-ap-
prehensive glance at the door. 'They haven't been out today.
And of course '
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She had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the mid-
dle. The kitchen sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy
greenish water which smelt worse than ever of cabbage.
Winston knelt down and examined the angle-joint of the
pipe. He hated using his hands, and he hated bending down,
which was always liable to start him coughing. Mrs Parsons
looked on helplessly.
'Of course if Tom was home he'd put it right in a mo-
ment,' 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 Minis-
try of Truth. He was a fattish but active man of paralysing
stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasms — one of those
completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on whom,
more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the
Party depended. At thirty-five he had just been unwilling-
ly evicted from the Youth League, and before graduating
into the Youth League he had managed to stay on in the
Spies for a year beyond the statutory age. At the Ministry
he was employed in some subordinate post for which in-
telligence 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, spon-
taneous demonstrations, savings campaigns, and voluntary
activities generally. He would inform you with quiet pride,
between whiffs of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance
at the Community Centre every evening for the past four
years. An overpowering smell of sweat, a sort of uncon-
scious testimony to the strenuousness of his life, followed
1984
him about wherever he went, and even remained behind
him after he had gone.
'Have you got a spanner?' said Winston, fiddling with the
nut on the angle-joint.
'A spanner,' said Mrs Parsons, immediately becoming
invertebrate. 'I don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps the children —
There was a trampling of boots and another blast on the
comb as the children charged into the living-room. Mrs
Parsons brought the spanner. Winston let out the water
and disgustedly removed the clot of human hair that had
blocked up the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could
in the cold water from the tap and went back into the other
room.
'Up with your hands!' yelled a savage voice.
A handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up
from behind the table and was menacing him with a toy
automatic pistol, while his small sister, about two years
younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood.
Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirts,
and red neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies.
Winston raised his hands above his head, but with an un-
easy feeling, so vicious was the boy's demeanour, that it was
not altogether a game.
'You're a traitor!' yelled the boy. 'You're a thought- crimi-
nal! 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
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 29
her brother in every movement. It was somehow slightly
frightening, like the gambolling of tiger cubs which will
soon grow up into man-eaters. There was a sort of calculat-
ing ferocity in the boy's eye, a quite evident desire to hit or
kick Winston and a consciousness of being very nearly big
enough to do so. It was a good job it was not a real pistol he
was holding, Winston thought.
Mrs Parsons' eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the
children, and back again. In the better light of the living-
room he noticed with interest that there actually was dust
in the creases of her face.
"They do get so noisy' she said. 'They're disappointed
because they couldn't go to see the hanging, that's what it
is. I'm too busy to take them, and Tom won't be back from
work in time.'
'Why can't we go and see the hanging?' roared the boy in
his huge voice.
'Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!'
chanted the little girl, still capering round.
Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to
be hanged in the Park that evening, Winston remembered.
This happened about once a month, and was a popular spec-
tacle. Children always clamoured to be taken to see it. He
took his leave of Mrs Parsons and made for the door. But he
had not gone six steps down the passage when something
hit the back of his neck an agonizingly painful blow. It was
as though a red-hot wire had been jabbed into him. He spun
round just in time to see Mrs Parsons dragging her son back
into the doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult.
1984
'Goldstein!' bellowed the boy as the door closed on him.
But what most struck Winston was the look of helpless
fright on the woman's greyish face.
Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen
and sat down at the table again, still rubbing his neck. The
music from the telescreen had stopped. Instead, a clipped
military voice was reading out, with a sort of brutal relish,
a description of the armaments of the new Floating For-
tress which had just been anchored between Iceland and
the Faroe Islands.
With those children, he thought, that wretched wom-
an must lead a life of terror. Another year, two years, and
they would be watching her night and day for symptoms of
unorthodoxy Nearly all children nowadays were horrible.
What was worst of all was that by means of such organi-
zations 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 every-
thing connected with it. The songs, the processions, the
banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the
yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother — it was all a
sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned
outwards, against the enemies of the State, against foreign-
ers, 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
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phrase generally used — had overheard some compromising
remark and denounced its parents to the Thought Police.
The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked
up his pen half-heartedly, wondering whether he could find
something more to write in the diary. Suddenly he began
thinking of O'Brien again.
Years ago — how long was it? Seven years it must be — he
had dreamed that he was walking through a pitch-dark
room. And someone sitting to one side of him had said as
he passed: 'We shall meet in the place where there is no
darkness.' It was said very quietly, almost casually — a state-
ment, not a command. He had walked on without pausing.
What was curious was that at the time, in the dream, the
words had not made much impression on him. It was only
later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on signifi-
cance. 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 partisan-
ship. '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.
1984
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 pris-
oners, 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. Win-
ston 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.
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 33
Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to
and fro, and the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and van-
ished. 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 Minis-
try of Truth came back to him:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There,
too, in tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed,
and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Broth-
er. 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. Al-
ways 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 ex-
cept the few cubic centimetres inside your skull.
The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of
the Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on
1984
them, looked grim as the loopholes of a fortress. His heart
quailed before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too
strong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs
would not batter it down. He wondered again for whom he
was writing the diary. For the future, for the past — for an
age that might be imaginary. And in front of him there lay
not death but annihilation. The diary would be reduced
to ashes and himself to vapour. Only the Thought Police
would read what he had written, before they wiped it out of
existence and out of memory. How could you make appeal
to the future when not a trace of you, not even an anony-
mous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically
survive?
The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten min-
utes. 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!
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 35
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 conse-
quences of every act are included in the act itself. He wrote:
Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.
Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became
important to stay alive as long as possible. Two fingers of his
right hand were inkstained. It was exactly the kind of detail
that might betray you. Some nosing zealot in the Ministry
(a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired
woman or the dark-haired girl from the Fiction Depart-
ment) might start wondering why he had been writing
during the lunch interval, why he had used an old-fash-
ioned pen, WHAT he had been writing — and then drop a
hint in the appropriate quarter. He went to the bathroom
and carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty dark-
brown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was
therefore well adapted for this purpose.
He put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless
to think of hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether
or not its existence had been discovered. A hair laid across
the page- ends was too obvious. With the tip of his finger he
picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and depos-
ited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be
shaken off if the book was moved.
36 1984
Chapter 3
Winston was dreaming of his mother.
He must, he thought, have been ten or elev-
en years old when his mother had disappeared. She was
a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow move-
ments and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered
more vaguely as dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark
clothes (Winston remembered especially the very thin soles
of his father's shoes) and wearing spectacles. The two of
them must evidently have been swallowed up in one of the
first great purges of the fifties.
At this moment his mother was sitting in some place
deep down beneath him, with his young sister in her arms.
He did not remember his sister at all, except as a tiny, feeble
baby, always silent, with large, watchful eyes. Both of them
were looking up at him. They were down in some subter-
ranean place — the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very
deep grave — but it was a place which, already far below him,
was itself moving downwards. They were in the saloon of
a sinking ship, looking up at him through the darkening
water. There was still air in the saloon, they could still see
him and he them, but all the while they were sinking down,
down into the green waters which in another moment must
hide them from sight for ever. He was out in the light and
air while they were being sucked down to death, and they
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were down there because he was up here. He knew it and
they knew it, and he could see the knowledge in their faces.
There was no reproach either in their faces or in their hearts,
only the knowledge that they must die in order that he
might remain alive, and that this was part of the unavoid-
able order of things.
He could not remember what had happened, but he knew
in his dream that in some way the lives of his mother and
his sister had been sacrificed to his own. It was one of those
dreams which, while retaining the characteristic dream
scenery, are a continuation of one's intellectual life, and
in which one becomes aware of facts and ideas which still
seem new and valuable after one is awake. The thing that
now suddenly struck Winston was that his mother's death,
nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a
way that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he perceived, be-
longed 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 re-
member how, she had sacrificed herself to a conception of
loyalty that was private and unalterable. Such things, he
saw, could not happen today. Today there were fear, hatred,
and pain, but no dignity of emotion, no deep or complex
sorrows. All this he seemed to see in the large eyes of his
mother and his sister, looking up at him through the green
water, hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking.
38 1984
Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a
summer evening when the slanting rays of the sun gilded
the ground. The landscape that he was looking at recurred
so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain
whether or not he had seen it in the real world. In his wak-
ing thoughts he called it the Golden Country. It was an old,
rabbit-bitten pasture, with a foot-track wandering across it
and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on the
opposite side of the field the boughs of the elm trees were
swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring
in dense masses like women's hair. Somewhere near at hand,
though out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream
where dace were swimming in the pools under the willow
trees.
The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across
the field. With what seemed a single movement she tore off
her clothes and flung them disdainfully aside. Her body
was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, in-
deed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that
instant was admiration for the gesture with which she had
thrown her clothes aside. With its grace and carelessness
it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system
of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the
Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a sin-
gle splendid movement of the arm. That too was a gesture
belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the
word 'Shakespeare' on his lips.
The telescreen was giving forth an ear-splitting whistle
which continued on the same note for thirty seconds. It
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 39
was nought seven fifteen, getting-up time for office workers.
Winston wrenched his body out of bed — naked, for a mem-
ber of the Outer Party received only 3,000 clothing coupons
annually, and a suit of pyjamas was 600 — and seized a din-
gy singlet and a pair of shorts that were lying across a chair.
The Physical Jerks would begin in three minutes. The next
moment he was doubled up by a violent coughing fit which
nearly always attacked him soon after waking up. It emptied
his lungs so completely that he could only begin breathing
again by lying on his back and taking a series of deep gasps.
His veins had swelled with the effort of the cough, and the
varicose ulcer had started itching.
'Thirty to forty group!' yapped a piercing female voice.
'Thirty to forty group! Take your places, please. Thirties to
forties!'
Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen,
upon which the image of a youngish woman, scrawny but
muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-shoes, had already ap-
peared.
'Arms bending and stretching!' she rapped out. 'Take
your time by me. ONE, two, three, four! ONE, two, three,
four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of life into it! ONE, two,
three four! ONE two, three, four!...'
The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of
Winston's mind the impression made by his dream, and the
rhythmic movements of the exercise restored it somewhat.
As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, wearing
on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was consid-
ered proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling
1984
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 re-
cords that you could refer to, even the outline of your own
life lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which
had quite probably not happened, you remembered the
detail of incidents without being able to recapture their at-
mosphere, 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 Brit-
ain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had always been
called London.
Winston could not definitely remember a time when his
country had not been at war, but it was evident that there
had been a fairly long interval of peace during his child-
hood, because one of his early memories was of an air raid
which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was
the time when the atomic bomb had fallen on Colchester.
He did not remember the raid itself, but he did remember
his father's hand clutching his own as they hurried down,
down, down into some place deep in the earth, round and
round a spiral staircase which rang under his feet and which
finally so wearied his legs that he began whimpering and
they had to stop and rest. His mother, in her slow, dreamy
way, was following a long way behind them. She was car-
rying his baby sister — or perhaps it was only a bundle of
blankets that she was carrying: he was not certain whether
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his sister had been born then. Finally they had emerged into
a noisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube
station.
There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor,
and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on
metal bunks, one above the other. Winston and his mother
and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near
them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by
side on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and
a black cloth cap pushed back from very white hair: his
face was scarlet and his eyes were blue and full of tears. He
reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his skin in place
of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling
from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he
was also suffering under some grief that was genuine and
unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some
terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness and
could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed
to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old
man loved — a little granddaughter, perhaps — had been
killed. Every few minutes the old man kept repeating:
'We didn't ought to 'ave trusted 'em. I said so, Ma, didn't I?
That's what comes of trusting 'em. I said so all along. We
didn't ought to 'ave trusted the buggers'
But which buggers they didn't ought to have trusted
Winston could not now remember.
Since about that time, war had been literally continu-
1984
ous, though strictly speaking it had not always been the
same war. For several months during his childhood there
had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of
which he remembered vividly But to trace out the history
of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any
given moment, would have been utterly impossible, since
no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention
of any other alignment than the existing one. At this mo-
ment, for example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at
war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. In no pub-
lic or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three
powers had at any time been grouped along different lines.
Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since
Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with
Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge
which he happened to possess because his memory was not
satisfactorily under control. Officially the change of part-
ners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia:
therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The
enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and
it followed that any past or future agreement with him was
impossible.
The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thou-
sandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward
(with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from
the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be good for the
back muscles) — the frightening thing was that it might all
be true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and
say of this or that event, IT NEVER HAPPENED— that,
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surely, was more terrifying than mere torture and death?
The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance
with Eurasia. He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had
been in alliance with Eurasia as short a time as four years
ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own
consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated.
And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed —
if all records told the same tale — then the lie passed into
history and became truth. 'Who controls the past,' ran the
Party slogan, 'controls the future: who controls the present
controls the past.' And yet the past, though of its nature al-
terable, 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 New-
speak, 'doublethink'.
'Stand easy!' barked the instructress, a little more genial-
iy-
Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled
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 care-
fully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions
which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory
and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic,
to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe
that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the
guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary
to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the
1984
moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget
it again: and above all, to apply the same process to the pro-
cess itself. That was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to
induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become
unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed.
Even to understand the word 'doublethink' involved the
use of doublethink.
The instructress had called them to attention again. 'And
now let's see which of us can touch our toes!' she said en-
thusiastically. 'Right over from the hips, please, comrades.
ONE-two! ONE-two!...'
Winston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains
all the way from his heels to his buttocks and often ended by
bringing on another coughing fit. The half-pleasant qual-
ity went out of his meditations. The past, he reflected, had
not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For
how could you establish even the most obvious fact when
there existed no record outside your own memory? He tried
to remember in what year he had first heard mention of
Big Brother. He thought it must have been at some time in
the sixties, but it was impossible to be certain. In the Party
histories, of course, Big Brother figured as the leader and
guardian of the Revolution since its very earliest days. His
exploits had been gradually pushed backwards in time until
already they extended into the fabulous world of the forties
and the thirties, when the capitalists in their strange cylin-
drical hats still rode through the streets of London in great
gleaming motor-cars or horse carriages with glass sides.
There was no knowing how much of this legend was true
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 45
and how much invented. Winston could not even remem-
ber 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 — 'Eng-
lish Socialism', that is to say — it had been current earlier.
Everything melted into mist. Sometimes, indeed, you could
put your finger on a definite lie. It was not true, for example,
as was claimed in the Party history books, that the Party
had invented aeroplanes. He remembered aeroplanes since
his earliest childhood. But you could prove nothing. There
was never any evidence. Just once in his whole life he had
held in his hands unmistakable documentary proof of the
falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion
'Smith!' screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen.
'6079 Smith W.! Yes, YOU! Bend lower, please! You can do
better than that. You're not trying. Lower, please! THAT'S
better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole squad, and
watch me.'
A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston's
body. His face remained completely inscrutable. Nev-
er show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker
of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while
the instructress raised her arms above her head and — one
could not say gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and
efficiency — bent over and tucked the first joint of her fin-
gers under her toes.
'THERE, comrades! THAT'S how I want to see you do-
ing it. Watch me again. I'm thirty-nine and I've had four
children. Now look.' She bent over again. 'You see MY
46 1984
knees aren't bent. You can all do it if you want to,' she add-
ed as she straightened herself up. 'Anyone under forty- five
is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don't all have
the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can
all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And
the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what THEY
have to put up with. Now try again. That's better, comrade,
that's MUCH better,' she added encouragingly as Winston,
with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with
knees unbent, for the first time in several years.
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Chapter 4
With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the
nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from
uttering when his day's work started, Winston pulled the
speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece,
and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped
together four small cylinders of paper which had already
flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side
of his desk.
In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To
the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for writ-
ten messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in
the side wall, within easy reach of Winston's arm, a large
oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the
disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or
tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in ev-
ery room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some
reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one
knew that any document was due for destruction, or even
when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an
automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole
and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a
current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were
hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building.
Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had
1984
unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines,
in the abbreviated jargon — not actually Newspeak, but con-
sisting largely of Newspeak words — which was used in the
Ministry for internal purposes. They ran:
times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify
times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify
current issue
times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify
times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs
unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling
With a faint feeling of satisfaction Winston laid the
fourth message aside. It was an intricate and responsible job
and had better be dealt with last. The other three were rou-
tine matters, though the second one would probably mean
some tedious wading through lists of figures.
Winston dialled 'back numbers' on the telescreen and
called for the appropriate issues of 'The Times', which slid
out of the pneumatic tube after only a few minutes' delay.
The messages he had received referred to articles or news
items which for one reason or another it was thought neces-
sary to alter, or, as the official phrase had it, to rectify. For
example, it appeared from 'The Times' of the seventeenth
of March that Big Brother, in his speech of the previous
day, had predicted that the South Indian front would re-
main quiet but that a Eurasian offensive would shortly be
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 49
launched in North Africa. As it happened, the Eurasian
Higher Command had launched its offensive in South In-
dia 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 hap-
pened. Or again, "The Times' of the nineteenth of December
had published the official forecasts of the output of various
classes of consumption goods in the fourth quarter of 1983,
which was also the sixth quarter of the Ninth Three-Year
Plan. Today's issue contained a statement of the actual 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 minutes. As short a
time ago as February, the Ministry of Plenty had issued a
promise (a 'categorical pledge' were the official words) that
there would be no reduction of the chocolate ration during
1984. Actually, as Winston was aware, the chocolate ration
was to be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty at the end
of the present week. All that was needed was to substitute
for the original promise a warning that it would probably
be necessary to reduce the ration at some time in April.
As soon as Winston had dealt with each of the messages,
he clipped his speakwritten corrections to the appropriate
copy of "The Times' and pushed them into the pneumatic
tube. Then, with a movement which was as nearly as possi-
ble unconscious, he crumpled up the original message and
any notes that he himself had made, and dropped them into
1984
the memory hole to be devoured by the flames.
What happened in the unseen labyrinth to which the
pneumatic tubes led, he did not know in detail, but he did
know in general terms. As soon as all the corrections which
happened to be necessary in any particular number of 'The
Times' had been assembled and collated, that number would
be reprinted, the original copy destroyed, and the corrected
copy placed on the files in its stead. This process of con-
tinuous alteration was applied not only to newspapers, but
to books, periodicals, pamphlets, posters, leaflets, films,
sound-tracks, cartoons, photographs — to every kind of lit-
erature or documentation which might conceivably hold
any political or ideological significance. Day by day and
almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date.
In this way every prediction made by the Party could be
shown by documentary evidence to have been correct, nor
was any item of news, or any expression of opinion, which
conflicted with the needs of the moment, ever allowed to
remain on record. All history was a palimpsest, scraped
clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was necessary. In
no case would it have been possible, once the deed was done,
to prove that any falsification had taken place. The largest
section of the Records Department, far larger than the one
on which Winston worked, consisted simply of persons
whose duty it was to track down and collect all copies of
books, newspapers, and other documents which had been
superseded and were due for destruction. A number of 'The
Times' which might, because of changes in political align-
ment, or mistaken prophecies uttered by Big Brother, have
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been rewritten a dozen times still stood on the files bearing
its original date, and no other copy existed to contradict it.
Books, also, were recalled and rewritten again and again,
and were invariably reissued without any admission that
any alteration had been made. Even the written instruc-
tions 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 misquota-
tions which it was necessary to put right in the interests of
accuracy.
But actually, he thought as he re-adjusted the Ministry
of Plenty's figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the
substitution of one piece of nonsense for another. Most of
the material that you were dealing with had no connexion
with anything in the real world, not even the kind of con-
nexion that is contained in a direct lie. Statistics were just
as much a fantasy in their original version as in their recti-
fied version. A great deal of the time you were expected to
make them up out of your head. For example, the Minis-
try of Plenty's forecast had estimated the output of boots
for the quarter at 145 million pairs. The actual output was
given as sixty-two millions. Winston, however, in rewriting
the forecast, marked the figure down to fifty-seven millions,
so as to allow for the usual claim that the quota had been
overfulfilled. In any case, sixty-two millions was no near-
er 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
1984
cared. All one knew was that every quarter astronomical
numbers of boots were produced on paper, while perhaps
half the population of Oceania went barefoot. And so it was
with every class of recorded fact, great or small. Everything
faded away into a shadow-world in which, finally, even the
date of the year had become uncertain.
Winston glanced across the hall. In the corresponding
cubicle on the other side a small, precise-looking, dark-
chinned man named Tillotson was working steadily away,
with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth very
close to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite. He had the air of
trying to keep what he was saying a secret between himself
and the telescreen. He looked up, and his spectacles darted
a hostile flash in Winston's direction.
Winston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what
work he was employed on. People in the Records Depart-
ment did not readily talk about their jobs. In the long,
windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles and its end-
less rustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into
speakwrites, there were quite a dozen people whom Win-
ston 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, sim-
ply at tracking down and deleting from the Press the names
of people who had been vaporized and were therefore con-
sidered 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, ineffec-
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tual, dreamy creature named Ampleforth, with very hairy
ears and a surprising talent for juggling with rhymes and
metres, was engaged in producing garbled versions — defin-
itive texts, they were called — of poems which had become
ideologically offensive, but which for one reason or another
were to be retained in the anthologies. And this hall, with
its fifty workers or thereabouts, was only one sub-section, a
single cell, as it were, in the huge complexity of the Records
Department. Beyond, above, below, were other swarms
of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude of jobs.
There were the huge printing-shops with their sub-editors,
their typography experts, and their elaborately equipped
studios for the faking of photographs. There was the tele-
programmes section with its engineers, its producers, and
its teams of actors specially chosen for their skill in imitat-
ing voices. There were the armies of reference clerks whose
job was simply to draw up lists of books and periodicals
which were due for recall. There were the vast repositories
where the corrected documents were stored, and the hid-
den furnaces where the original copies were destroyed. And
somewhere or other, quite anonymous, there were the di-
recting brains who co-ordinated the whole effort and laid
down the lines of policy which made it necessary that this
fragment of the past should be preserved, that one falsified,
and the other rubbed out of existence.
And the Records Department, after all, was itself only a
single branch of the Ministry of Truth, whose primary job
was not to reconstruct the past but to supply the citizens
of Oceania with newspapers, films, textbooks, telescreen
1984
programmes, plays, novels — with every conceivable kind of
information, instruction, or entertainment, from a statue to
a slogan, from a lyric poem to a biological treatise, and from
a child's spelling-book to a Newspeak dictionary. And the
Ministry had not only to supply the multifarious needs of
the party, but also to repeat the whole operation at a lower
level for the benefit of the proletariat. There was a whole
chain of separate departments dealing with proletarian lit-
erature, music, drama, and entertainment generally. Here
were produced rubbishy newspapers containing almost
nothing except sport, crime and astrology, sensational
five-cent novelettes, films oozing with sex, and sentimen-
tal songs which were composed entirely by mechanical
means on a special kind of kaleidoscope known as a ver-
sificator. There was even a whole sub-section — Pornosec, it
was called in Newspeak — engaged in producing the lowest
kind of pornography, which was sent out in sealed packets
and which no Party member, other than those who worked
on it, was permitted to look at.
Three messages had slid out of the pneumatic tube while
Winston was working, but they were simple matters, and
he had disposed of them before the Two Minutes Hate in-
terrupted him. When the Hate was over he returned to
his cubicle, took the Newspeak dictionary from the shelf,
pushed the speakwrite to one side, cleaned his spectacles,
and settled down to his main job of the morning.
Winston's greatest pleasure in life was in his work. Most
of it was a tedious routine, but included in it there were also
jobs so difficult and intricate that you could lose yourself in
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them as in the depths of a mathematical problem — delicate
pieces of forgery in which you had nothing to guide you
except your knowledge of the principles of Ingsoc and your
estimate of what the Party wanted you to say Winston was
good at this kind of thing. On occasion he had even been
entrusted with the rectification of "The Times' leading arti-
cles, which were written entirely in Newspeak. He unrolled
the message that he had set aside earlier. It ran:
times 3.12.83 reportingbb dayorder doubleplusungood refs
unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling
In Oldspeak (or standard English) this might be ren-
dered:
The reporting of Big Brother's Order for the Day in 'The Times'
of December 3rd 1983 is extremely unsatisfactory and makes
references to non-existent persons. Rewrite it in full and
submit your draft to higher authority before filing.
Winston read through the offending article. Big Broth-
er's Order for the Day, it seemed, had been chiefly devoted
to praising the work of an organization known as FFCC,
which supplied cigarettes and other comforts to the sailors
in the Floating Fortresses. A certain Comrade Withers, a
prominent member of the Inner Party, had been singled out
for special mention and awarded a decoration, the Order of
Conspicuous Merit, Second Class.
Three months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved
1984
with no reasons given. One could assume that Withers and
his associates were now in disgrace, but there had been no
report of the matter in the Press or on the telescreen. That
was to be expected, since it was unusual for political offend-
ers to be put on trial or even publicly denounced. The great
purges involving thousands of people, with public trials of
traitors and thought- criminals who made abject confession
of their crimes and were afterwards executed, were special
show-pieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of
years. More commonly, people who had incurred the dis-
pleasure 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 Win-
ston, not counting his parents, had disappeared at one time
or another.
Winston stroked his nose gently with a paper-clip. In the
cubicle across the way Comrade Tillotson was still crouch-
ing 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 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 ad-
mit openly that an act of fabrication was taking place. Very
likely as many as a dozen people were now working away
on rival versions of what Big Brother had actually said. And
presently some master brain in the Inner Party would se-
lect this version or that, would re-edit it and set in motion
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the complex processes of cross-referencing that would be
required, and then the chosen lie would pass into the per-
manent records and become truth.
Winston did not know why Withers had been disgraced.
Perhaps it was for corruption or incompetence. Perhaps Big
Brother was merely getting rid of a too-popular subordi-
nate. Perhaps Withers or someone close to him had been
suspected of heretical tendencies. Or perhaps — what was
likeliest of all — the thing had simply happened because
purges and vaporizations were a necessary part of the me-
chanics of government. The only real clue lay in the words
'refs unpersons', which indicated that Withers was already
dead. You could not invariably assume this to be the case
when people were arrested. Sometimes they were released
and allowed to remain at liberty for as much as a year or
two years before being executed. Very occasionally some
person whom you had believed dead long since would make
a ghostly reappearance at some public trial where he would
implicate hundreds of others by his testimony before van-
ishing, this time for ever. Withers, however, was already an
UNPERSON. He did not exist: he had never existed. Win-
ston decided that it would not be enough simply to reverse
the tendency of Big Brother's speech. It was better to make
it deal with something totally unconnected with its origi-
nal subject.
He might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of
traitors and thought-criminals, but that was a little too ob-
vious, while to invent a victory at the front, or some triumph
of over-production in the Ninth Three-Year Plan, might
1984
complicate the records too much. What was needed was a
piece of pure fantasy. Suddenly there sprang into his mind,
ready made as it were, the image of a certain Comrade Ogil-
vy, who had recently died in battle, in heroic circumstances.
There were occasions when Big Brother devoted his Order
for the Day to commemorating some humble, rank-and-file
Party member whose life and death he held up as an exam-
ple 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, 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 fundamen-
tal principles of Ingsoc — that,' etc., etc.), easy to imitate.
At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys
except a drum, a sub-machine gun, and a model helicopter.
At six — a year early, by a special relaxation of the rules — he
had joined the Spies, at nine he had been a troop leader. At
eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought Police
after overhearing a conversation which appeared to him to
have criminal tendencies. At seventeen he had been a dis-
trict 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 twen-
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ty-three he had perished in action. Pursued by enemy jet
planes while flying over the Indian Ocean with important
despatches, he had weighted his body with his machine gun
and leapt out of the helicopter into deep water, despatches
and all — an end, said Big Brother, which it was impossible
to contemplate without feelings of envy. Big Brother added a
few remarks on the purity and single-mindedness of Com-
rade Ogilvy's life. He was a total abstainer and a nonsmoker,
had no recreations except a daily hour in the gymnasium,
and had taken a vow of celibacy, believing marriage and the
care of a family to be incompatible with a twenty- four-hour-
a-day devotion to duty. He had no subjects of conversation
except the principles of Ingsoc, and no aim in life except
the defeat of the Eurasian enemy and the hunting- down of
spies, saboteurs, thoughtcriminals, and traitors generally.
Winston debated with himself whether to award Com-
rade Ogilvy the Order of Conspicuous Merit: in the end he
decided against it because of the unnecessary cross-refer-
encing that it would entail.
Once again he glanced at his rival in the opposite cubicle.
Something seemed to tell him with certainty that Tillotson
was busy on the same job as himself. There was no way of
knowing whose job would finally be adopted, but he felt a
profound conviction that it would be his own. Comrade
Ogilvy, unimagined an hour ago, was now a fact. It struck
him as curious that you could create dead men but not liv-
ing 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 authentical-
1984
ly, and upon the same evidence, as Charlemagne or Julius
Caesar.
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Chapter 5
In the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the
lunch queue jerked slowly forward. The room was al-
ready very full and deafeningly noisy. From the grille at the
counter the steam of stew came pouring forth, with a sour
metallic smell which did not quite overcome the fumes of
Victory Gin. On the far side of the room there was a small
bar, a mere hole in the wall, where gin could be bought at
ten cents the large nip.
'Just the man I was looking for,' said a voice at Winston's
back.
He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in
the Research Department. Perhaps 'friend' was not exact-
ly the right word. You did not have friends nowadays, you
had comrades: but there were some comrades whose society
was pleasanter than that of others. Syme was a philologist, a
specialist in Newspeak. Indeed, he was one of the enormous
team of experts now engaged in compiling the Eleventh
Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a tiny creature,
smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large, protuber-
ant eyes, at once mournful and derisive, which seemed to
search your face closely while he was speaking to you.
'I wanted to ask you whether you'd got any razor blades,'
he said.
'Not one!' said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. 'I've
1984
tried all over the place. They don't exist any longer.'
Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he
had two unused ones which he was hoarding up. There
had been a famine of them for months past. At any given
moment there was some necessary article which the Par-
ty shops were unable to supply. Sometimes it was buttons,
sometimes it was darning wool, sometimes it was shoelaces;
at present it was razor blades. You could only get hold of
them, if at all, by scrounging more or less furtively on the
'free' market.
'I've been using the same blade for six weeks,' he added
untruthfully.
The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he
turned and faced Syme again. Each of them took a greasy
metal tray from a pile at the end of the counter.
'Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday?' said
Syme.
'I was working,' said Winston indifferently. 'I shall see it
on the flicks, I suppose.'
A very inadequate substitute,' said Syme.
His mocking eyes roved over Winston's face. 'I know
you,' the eyes seemed to say, 'I see through you. I know very
well why you didn't go to see those prisoners hanged.' In
an intellectual way, Syme was venomously orthodox. He
would talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of he-
licopter raids on enemy villages, and trials and confessions
of thought-criminals, the executions in the cellars of the
Ministry of Love. Talking to him was largely a matter of
getting him away from such subjects and entangling him,
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 63
if possible, in the technicalities of Newspeak, on which he
was authoritative and interesting. Winston turned his head
a little aside to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark eyes.
'It was a good hanging,' said Syme reminiscently 'I think
it spoils it when they tie their feet together. I like to see them
kicking. And above all, at the end, the tongue sticking right
out, and blue — a quite bright blue. That's the detail that ap-
peals to me.'
'Nex', please!' yelled the white-aproned prole with the la-
dle.
Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille.
On to each was dumped swiftly the regulation lunch — a
metal pannikin of pinkish-grey stew, a hunk of bread, a
cube of cheese, a mug of milkless Victory Coffee, and one
saccharine tablet.
"There's a table over there, under that telescreen,' said
Syme. 'Let's pick up a gin on the way'
The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs.
They threaded their way across the crowded room and un-
packed their trays on to the metal-topped table, on one
corner of which someone had left a pool of stew, a filthy
liquid mess that had the appearance of vomit. Winston
took up his mug of gin, paused for an instant to collect his
nerve, and gulped the oily-tasting stuff down. When he
had winked the tears out of his eyes he suddenly discov-
ered that he was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of
the stew, which, in among its general sloppiness, had cubes
of spongy pinkish stuff which was probably a preparation
of meat. Neither of them spoke again till they had emptied
64 1984
their pannikins. From the table at Winston's left, a little
behind his back, someone was talking rapidly and contin-
uously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck,
which pierced the general uproar of the room.
'How is the Dictionary getting on?' said Winston, raising
his voice to overcome the noise.
'Slowly' said Syme. 'I'm on the adjectives. It's fascinat-
ing.'
He had brightened up immediately at the mention of
Newspeak. He pushed his pannikin aside, took up his hunk
of bread in one delicate hand and his cheese in the other,
and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak without
shouting.
"The Eleventh Edition is the definitive edition,' he said.
'We're getting the language into its final shape— the shape
it's going to have when nobody speaks anything else. When
we've finished with it, people like you will have to learn it
all over again. You think, I dare say, that our chief job is
inventing new words. But not a bit of it! We're destroying
words — scores of them, hundreds of them, every day. We're
cutting the language down to the bone. The Eleventh Edi-
tion won't contain a single word that will become obsolete
before the year 2050.'
He bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple
of mouthfuls, then continued speaking, with a sort of ped-
ant's passion. His thin dark face had become animated, his
eyes had lost their mocking expression and grown almost
dreamy.
'It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 65
the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there
are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well. It isn't
only the synonyms; there are also the antonyms. After all,
what justification is there for a word which is simply the
opposite of some other word? A word contains its opposite
in itself. Take 'good', for instance. If you have a word like
'good', what need is there for a word like 'bad'? 'Ungood'
will do just as well — better, because it's an exact opposite,
which the other is not. Or again, if you want a stronger ver-
sion of 'good', what sense is there in having a whole string
of vague useless words like 'excellent' and 'splendid' and all
the rest of them? 'Plusgood' covers the meaning, or 'double-
plusgood' if you want something stronger still. Of course
we use those forms already, but in the final version of New-
speak there'll be nothing else. In the end the whole notion
of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words —
in reality, only one word. Don't you see the beauty of that,
Winston? It was B.B.'s idea originally, of course,' he added
as an afterthought.
A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston's face at
the mention of Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately
detected a certain lack of enthusiasm.
'You haven't a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,'
he said almost sadly. 'Even when you write it you're still
thinking in Oldspeak. I've read some of those pieces that
you write in 'The Times' occasionally. They're good enough,
but they're translations. In your heart you'd prefer to stick
to Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades of
meaning. You don't grasp the beauty of the destruction of
1984
words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in
the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?'
Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympa-
thetically he hoped, not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit
off another fragment of the dark- coloured bread, chewed it
briefly, and went on:
'Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to
narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make
thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no
words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever
be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its
meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings
rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in the Eleventh Edition,
we're not far from that point. But the process will still be
continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer
and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a
little smaller. Even now, of course, there's no reason or ex-
cuse for committing thoughtcrime. It's merely a question
of self-discipline, reality- control. But in the end there won't
be any need even for that. The Revolution will be com-
plete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and
Ingsoc is Newspeak,' he added with a sort of mystical satis-
faction. 'Has it ever occurred to you, Winston, that by the
year 2050, at the very latest, not a single human being will
be alive who could understand such a conversation as we
are having now?'
'Except ' began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped.
It had been on the tip of his tongue to say 'Except the
proles,' but he checked himself, not feeling fully certain that
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 67
this remark was not in some way unorthodox. Syme, how-
ever, had divined what he was about to say
"The proles are not human beings,' he said carelessly. 'By
2050 — earlier, probably — all real knowledge of Oldspeak
will have disappeared. The whole literature of the past will
have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, By-
ron — they'll exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely
changed into something different, but actually changed
into something contradictory of what they used to be. Even
the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will
change. How could you have a slogan like 'freedom is slav-
ery' when the concept of freedom has been abolished? The
whole climate of thought will be different. In fact there will
be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means
not thinking — not needing to think. Orthodoxy is uncon-
sciousness.'
One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep
conviction, Syme will be vaporized. He is too intelligent. He
sees too clearly and speaks too plainly. The Party does not
like such people. One day he will disappear. It is written in
his face.
Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned
a little sideways in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At
the table on his left the man with the strident voice was
still talking remorselessly away. A young woman who was
perhaps his secretary, and who was sitting with her back
to Winston, was listening to him and seemed to be eagerly
agreeing with everything that he said. From time to time
Winston caught some such remark as 'I think you're so right,
1984
I do so agree with you', uttered in a youthful and rather silly
feminine voice. But the other voice never stopped for an in-
stant, even when the girl was speaking. Winston knew the
man by sight, though he knew no more about him than that
he held some important post in the Fiction Department. He
was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a
large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and
because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles
caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs
instead of eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from
the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was
almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once
Winston caught a phrase — complete and final elimination
of Goldsteinism' — jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed,
all in one piece, like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it
was just a noise, a quack- quack- quacking. And yet, though
you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you
could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might
be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures
against thought- criminals and saboteurs, he might be ful-
minating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he
might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar
front — it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could
be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure
Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving
rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling that
this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. It
was not the man's brain that was speaking, it was his larynx.
The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 69
it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in
unconsciousness, like the quacking of a duck.
Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the han-
dle of his spoon was tracing patterns in the puddle of stew.
The voice from the other table quacked rapidly on, easily
audible in spite of the surrounding din.
"There is a word in Newspeak,' said Syme, 'I don't know
whether you know it: DUCKSPEAK, to quack like a duck. It
is one of those interesting words that have two contradic-
tory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, applied
to someone you agree with, it is praise.'
Unquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston
thought again. He thought it with a kind of sadness, al-
though well knowing that Syme despised him and slightly
disliked him, and was fully capable of denouncing him as
a thought- criminal if he saw any reason for doing so. There
was something subtly wrong with Syme. There was some-
thing that he lacked: discretion, aloofness, a sort of saving
stupidity. You could not say that he was unorthodox. He be-
lieved in the principles of Ingsoc, he venerated Big Brother,
he rejoiced over victories, he hated heretics, not merely with
sincerity but with a sort of restless zeal, an up-to-dateness
of information, which the ordinary Party member did not
approach. Yet a faint air of disreputability always clung to
him. He said things that would have been better unsaid, he
had read too many books, he frequented the Chestnut Tree
Cafe, haunt of painters and musicians. There was no law,
not even an unwritten law, against frequenting the Chest-
nut Tree Cafe, yet the place was somehow ill-omened. The
1984
old, discredited leaders of the Party had been used to gather
there before they were finally purged. Goldstein himself, it
was said, had sometimes been seen there, years and decades
ago. Syme's fate was not difficult to foresee. And yet it was
a fact that if Syme grasped, even for three seconds, the na-
ture of his, Winston's, secret opinions, he would betray him
instantly to the Thought Police. So would anybody else, for
that matter: but Syme more than most. Zeal was not enough.
Orthodoxy was unconsciousness.
Syme looked up. 'Here comes Parsons,' he said.
Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add, 'that
bloody fool'. Parsons, Winston's fellow-tenant at Victory
Mansions, was in fact threading his way across the room —
a tubby, middle-sized man with fair hair and a froglike face.
At thirty- five he was already putting on rolls of fat at neck
and waistline, but his movements were brisk and boyish.
His whole appearance was that of a little boy grown large, so
much so that although he was wearing the regulation over-
alls, it was almost impossible not to think of him as being
dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirt, and red neckerchief
of the Spies. In visualizing him one saw always a picture
of dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy fore-
arms. Parsons did, indeed, invariably revert to shorts when
a community hike or any other physical activity gave him
an excuse for doing so. He greeted them both with a cheery
'Hullo, hullo!' and sat down at the table, giving off an in-
tense smell of sweat. Beads of moisture stood out all over
his pink face. His powers of sweating were extraordinary.
At the Community Centre you could always tell when he
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had been playing table-tennis by the dampness of the bat
handle. Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there
was a long column of words, and was studying it with an
ink-pencil between his fingers.
'Look at him working away in the lunch hour,' said Par-
sons, nudging Winston. 'Keenness, eh? What's that you've
got there, old boy? Something a bit too brainy for me, I ex-
pect. Smith, old boy, I'll tell you why I'm chasing you. It's
that sub you forgot to give me.'
'Which sub is that?' said Winston, automatically feel-
ing for money. About a quarter of one's salary had to be
earmarked for voluntary subscriptions, which were so nu-
merous that it was difficult to keep track of them.
'For Hate Week. You know — the house-by-house fund.
I'm treasurer for our block. We're making an all-out effort —
going to put on a tremendous show. I tell you, it won't be my
fault if old Victory Mansions doesn't have the biggest outfit
of flags in the whole street. Two dollars you promised me.'
Winston found and handed over two creased and filthy
notes, which Parsons entered in a small notebook, in the
neat handwriting of the illiterate.
'By the way, old boy' he said. 'I hear that little beggar of
mine let fly at you with his catapult yesterday. I gave him
a good dressing-down for it. In fact I told him I'd take the
catapult away if he does it again.'
'I think he was a little upset at not going to the execution,'
said Winston.
'Ah, well — what I mean to say, shows the right spirit,
doesn't it? Mischievous little beggars they are, both of them,
1984
but talk about keenness! All they think about is the Spies,
and the war, of course. D'you know what that little girl of
mine did last Saturday, when her troop was on a hike out
Berkhamsted way? She got two other girls to go with her,
slipped off from the hike, and spent the whole afternoon
following a strange man. They kept on his tail for two hours,
right through the woods, and then, when they got into Am-
ersham, handed him over to the patrols.'
'What did they do that for?' said Winston, somewhat tak-
en aback. Parsons went on triumphantly:
'My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent —
might have been dropped by parachute, for instance. But
here's the point, old boy. What do you think put her on to
him in the first place? She spotted he was wearing a funny
kind of shoes — said she'd never seen anyone wearing shoes
like that before. So the chances were he was a foreigner.
Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh?'
'What happened to the man?' said Winston.
Ah, that I couldn't say, of course. But I wouldn't be alto-
gether surprised if ' Parsons made the motion of aiming
a rifle, and clicked his tongue for the explosion.
'Good,' said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from
his strip of paper.
'Of course we can't afford to take chances,' agreed Win-
ston dutifully.
'What I mean to say, there is a war on,' said Parsons.
As though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call float-
ed from the telescreen just above their heads. However, it
was not the proclamation of a military victory this time, but
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merely an announcement from the Ministry of Plenty.
'Comrades!' cried an eager youthful voice. 'Attention,
comrades! We have glorious news for you. We have won the
battle for production! Returns now completed of the output
of all classes of consumption goods show that the standard
of living has risen by no less than 20 per cent over the past
year. All over Oceania this morning there were irrepressible
spontaneous demonstrations when workers marched out of
factories and offices and paraded through the streets with
banners voicing their gratitude to Big Brother for the new,
happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed upon us.
Here are some of the completed figures. Foodstuffs '
The phrase 'our new, happy life' recurred several times. It
had been a favourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Par-
sons, his attention caught by the trumpet call, sat listening
with a sort of gaping solemnity, a sort of edified boredom.
He could not follow the figures, but he was aware that they
were in some way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged out
a huge and filthy pipe which was already half full of charred
tobacco. With the tobacco ration at 100 grammes a week it
was seldom possible to fill a pipe to the top. Winston was
smoking a Victory Cigarette which he held carefully hori-
zontal. The new ration did not start till tomorrow and he
had only four cigarettes left. For the moment he had shut his
ears to the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that
streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that there had
even been demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising
the chocolate ration to twenty grammes a week. And only
yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the ra-
1984
tion was to be REDUCED to twenty grammes a week. Was it
possible that they could swallow that, after only twenty-four
hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons swallowed it easily,
with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature at the
other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a fu-
rious desire to track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone
who should suggest that last week the ration had been thirty
grammes. Syme, too — in some more complex way, involv-
ing doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, ALONE
in the possession of a memory?
The fabulous statistics continued to pour out of the tele-
screen. As compared with last year there was more food,
more clothes, more houses, more furniture, more cook-
ing-pots, more fuel, more ships, more helicopters, more
books, more babies — more of everything except disease,
crime, and insanity. Year by year and minute by minute,
everybody and everything was whizzing rapidly upwards.
As Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up his spoon
and was dabbling in the pale-coloured gravy that dribbled
across the table, drawing a long streak of it out into a pat-
tern. He meditated resentfully on the physical texture of
life. Had it always been like this? Had food always tasted
like this? He looked round the canteen. A low-ceilinged,
crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of innu-
merable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed
so close together that you sat with elbows touching; bent
spoons, dented trays, coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy,
grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad
gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Al-
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ways in your stomach and in your skin there was a sort of
protest, a feeling that you had been cheated of something
that you had a right to. It was true that he had no memories
of anything greatly different. In any time that he could ac-
curately remember, there had never been quite enough to
eat, one had never had socks or underclothes that were not
full of holes, furniture had always been battered and rickety,
rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to
pieces, bread dark- coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tast-
ing, cigarettes insufficient — nothing cheap and plentiful
except synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew worse
as one's body aged, was it not a sign that this was NOT the
natural order of things, if one's heart sickened at the dis-
comfort and dirt and scarcity, the interminable winters, the
stickiness of one's socks, the lifts that never worked, the
cold water, the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to piec-
es, the food with its strange evil tastes? Why should one feel
it to be intolerable unless one had some kind of ancestral
memory that things had once been different?
He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was
ugly, and would still have been ugly even if dressed other-
wise than in the uniform blue overalls. On the far side of the
room, sitting at a table alone, a small, curiously beetle-like
man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting sus-
picious glances from side to side. How easy it was, thought
Winston, if you did not look about you, to believe that the
physical type set up by the Party as an ideal — tall muscu-
lar youths and deep -bosomed maidens, blond-haired, vital,
sunburnt, carefree— existed and even predominated. Ac-
76 1984
tually, so far as he could judge, the majority of people in
Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curi-
ous how that beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries:
little dumpy men, growing stout very early in life, with
short legs, swift scuttling movements, and fat inscrutable
faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to
flourish best under the dominion of the Party.
The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended
on another trumpet call and gave way to tinny music. Par-
sons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by the bombardment of
figures, took his pipe out of his mouth.
"The Ministry of Plenty's certainly done a good job this
year,' he said with a knowing shake of his head. 'By the way,
Smith old boy, I suppose you haven't got any razor blades
you can let me have?'
'Not one,' said Winston. 'I've been using the same blade
for six weeks myself
'Ah, well — just thought I'd ask you, old boy'
'Sorry' said Winston.
The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily si-
lenced during the Ministry's announcement, had started up
again, as loud as ever. For some reason Winston suddenly
found himself thinking of Mrs Parsons, with her wispy hair
and the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years
those children would be denouncing her to the Thought
Police. Mrs Parsons would be vaporized. Syme would be
vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O'Brien would
be vaporized. Parsons, on the other hand, would never be
vaporized. The eyeless creature with the quacking voice
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would never be vaporized. The little beetle-like men who
scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine corridors of
Ministries they, too, would never be vaporized. And the girl
with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction Department — she
would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that he
knew instinctively who would survive and who would per-
ish: though just what it was that made for survival, it was
not easy to say.
At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with
a violent jerk. The girl at the next table had turned partly
round and was looking at him. It was the girl with dark hair.
She was looking at him in a sidelong way, but with curious
intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away
again.
The sweat started out on Winston's backbone. A horri-
ble pang of terror went through him. It was gone almost at
once, but it left a sort of nagging uneasiness behind. Why
was she watching him? Why did she keep following him
about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she
had already been at the table when he arrived, or had come
there afterwards. But yesterday, at any rate, during the Two
Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him when
there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real
object had been to listen to him and make sure whether he
was shouting loudly enough.
His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was
not actually a member of the Thought Police, but then it
was precisely the amateur spy who was the greatest danger
of all. He did not know how long she had been looking at
1984
him, but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was
possible that his features had not been perfectly under con-
trol. It was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander
when you were in any public place or within range of a tele-
screen. The smallest thing could give you away. A nervous
tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering to
yourself— anything that carried with it the suggestion of
abnormality, of having something to hide. In any case, to
wear an improper expression on your face (to look incredu-
lous when a victory was announced, for example) was itself
a punishable offence. There was even a word for it in New-
speak: FACECRIME, it was called.
The girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after
all she was not really following him about, perhaps it was
coincidence that she had sat so close to him two days run-
ning. His cigarette had gone out, and he laid it carefully on
the edge of the table. He would finish smoking it after work,
if he could keep the tobacco in it. Quite likely the person
at the next table was a spy of the Thought Police, and quite
likely he would be in the cellars of the Ministry of Love
within three days, but a cigarette end must not be wasted.
Syme had folded up his strip of paper and stowed it away in
his pocket. Parsons had begun talking again.
'Did I ever tell you, old boy' he said, chuckling round the
stem of his pipe, 'about the time when those two nippers
of mine set fire to the old market-woman's skirt because
they saw her wrapping up sausages in a poster of B.B.?
Sneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of match-
es. Burned her quite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But
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keen as mustard! That's a first-rate training they give them
in the Spies nowadays — better than in my day, even. What
d'you think's the latest thing they've served them out with?
Ear trumpets for listening through keyholes! My little girl
brought one home the other night — tried it out on our sit-
ting-room door, and reckoned she could hear twice as much
as with her ear to the hole. Of course it's only a toy, mind
you. Still, gives 'em the right idea, eh?'
At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle.
It was the signal to return to work. All three men sprang to
their feet to join in the struggle round the lifts, and the re-
maining tobacco fell out of Winston's cigarette.
1984
Chapter 6
w
inston was writing in his diary:
It was three years ago. It was on a dark evening, in a
narrow side-street near one of the big railway stations. She
was standing near a doorway in the wall, under a street lamp
that hardly gave any light. She had a young face, painted
very thick. It was really the paint that appealed to me, the
whiteness of it, like a mask, and the bright red lips. Party
women never paint their faces. There was nobody else in the
street, and no telescreens. She said two dollars. I
For the moment it was too difficult to go on. He shut his
eyes and pressed his fingers against them, trying to squeeze
out the vision that kept recurring. He had an almost over-
whelming temptation to shout a string of filthy words at the
top of his voice. Or to bang his head against the wall, to kick
over the table, and hurl the inkpot through the window — to
do any violent or noisy or painful thing that might black
out the memory that was tormenting him.
Your worst enemy, he reflected, was your own nervous
system. At any moment the tension inside you was liable to
translate itself into some visible symptom. He thought of
a man whom he had passed in the street a few weeks back;
a quite ordinary-looking man, a Party member, aged thir-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 81
ty-five to forty, tallish and thin, carrying a brief-case. They
were a few metres apart when the left side of the man's face
was suddenly contorted by a sort of spasm. It happened
again just as they were passing one another: it was only a
twitch, a quiver, rapid as the clicking of a camera shutter,
but obviously habitual. He remembered thinking at the
time: That poor devil is done for. And what was frighten-
ing was that the action was quite possibly unconscious. The
most deadly danger of all was talking in your sleep. There
was no way of guarding against that, so far as he could see.
He drew his breath and went on writing:
/ went with her through the doorway and across a backyard
into a basement kitchen. There was a bed against the wall,
and a lamp on the table, turned down very low. She
His teeth were set on edge. He would have liked to spit.
Simultaneously with the woman in the basement kitchen
he thought of Katharine, his wife. Winston was married —
had been married, at any rate: probably he still was married,
so far as he knew his wife was not dead. He seemed to
breathe again the warm stuffy odour of the basement kitch-
en, an odour compounded of bugs and dirty clothes and
villainous cheap scent, but nevertheless alluring, because
no woman of the Party ever used scent, or could be imag-
ined as doing so. Only the proles used scent. In his mind the
smell of it was inextricably mixed up with fornication.
When he had gone with that woman it had been his first
lapse in two years or thereabouts. Consorting with prosti-
1984
tutes was forbidden, of course, but it was one of those rules
that you could occasionally nerve yourself to break. It was
dangerous, but it was not a life-and-death matter. To be
caught with a prostitute might mean five years in a forced-
labour camp: not more, if you had committed no other
offence. And it was easy enough, provided that you could
avoid being caught in the act. The poorer quarters swarmed
with women who were ready to sell themselves. Some could
even be purchased for a bottle of gin, which the proles were
not supposed to drink. Tacitly the Party was even inclined
to encourage prostitution, as an outlet for instincts which
could not be altogether suppressed. Mere debauchery did
not matter very much, so long as it was furtive and joyless
and only involved the women of a submerged and despised
class. The unforgivable crime was promiscuity between
Party members. But — though this was one of the crimes
that the accused in the great purges invariably confessed
to — it was difficult to imagine any such thing actually hap-
pening.
The aim of the Party was not merely to prevent men and
women from forming loyalties which it might not be able
to control. Its real, undeclared purpose was to remove all
pleasure from the sexual act. Not love so much as eroti-
cism was the enemy, inside marriage as well as outside it.
All marriages between Party members had to be approved
by a committee appointed for the purpose, and — though
the principle was never clearly stated — permission was al-
ways refused if the couple concerned gave the impression
of being physically attracted to one another. The only rec-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 83
ognized purpose of marriage was to beget children for the
service of the Party. Sexual intercourse was to be looked on
as a slightly disgusting minor operation, like having an en-
ema. This again was never put into plain words, but in an
indirect way it was rubbed into every Party member from
childhood onwards. There were even organizations such
as the Junior Anti-Sex League, which advocated complete
celibacy for both sexes. All children were to be begotten
by artificial insemination (ARTSEM, it was called in New-
speak) and brought up in public institutions. This, Winston
was aware, was not meant altogether seriously, but some-
how it fitted in with the general ideology of the Party. The
Party was trying to kill the sex instinct, or, if it could not be
killed, then to distort it and dirty it. He did not know why
this was so, but it seemed natural that it should be so. And
as far as the women were concerned, the Party's efforts were
largely successful.
He thought again of Katharine. It must be nine, ten —
nearly eleven years since they had parted. It was curious
how seldom he thought of her. For days at a time he was ca-
pable of forgetting that he had ever been married. They had
only been together for about fifteen months. The Party did
not permit divorce, but it rather encouraged separation in
cases where there were no children.
Katharine was a tall, fair-haired girl, very straight, with
splendid movements. She had a bold, aquiline face, a face
that one might have called noble until one discovered that
there was as nearly as possible nothing behind it. Very early
in her married life he had decided — though perhaps it was
1984
only that he knew her more intimately than he knew most
people — that she had without exception the most stupid,
vulgar, empty mind that he had ever encountered. She had
not a thought in her head that was not a slogan, and there
was no imbecility, absolutely none that she was not capable
of swallowing if the Party handed it out to her. 'The hu-
man sound-track' he nicknamed her in his own mind. Yet
he could have endured living with her if it had not been for
just one thing — sex.
As soon as he touched her she seemed to wince and stiff-
en. To embrace her was like embracing a jointed wooden
image. And what was strange was that even when she was
clasping him against her he had the feeling that she was si-
multaneously pushing him away with all her strength. The
rigidity of her muscles managed to convey that impres-
sion. She would lie there with shut eyes, neither resisting
nor co-operating but SUBMITTING. It was extraordinari-
ly embarrassing, and, after a while, horrible. But even then
he could have borne living with her if it had been agreed
that they should remain celibate. But curiously enough it
was Katharine who refused this. They must, she said, pro-
duce a child if they could. So the performance continued to
happen, once a week quite regulariy, whenever it was not
impossible. She even used to remind him of it in the morn-
ing, as something which had to be done that evening and
which must not be forgotten. She had two names for it. One
was 'making a baby', and the other was 'our duty to the Par-
ty' (yes, she had actually used that phrase). Quite soon he
grew to have a feeling of positive dread when the appointed
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 85
day came round. But luckily no child appeared, and in the
end she agreed to give up trying, and soon afterwards they
parted.
Winston sighed inaudibly He picked up his pen again
and wrote:
She threw herself down on the bed, and at once, without any
kind of preliminary in the most coarse, horrible way you can
imagine, pulled up her skirt. I
He saw himself standing there in the dim lamplight,
with the smell of bugs and cheap scent in his nostrils, and
in his heart a feeling of defeat and resentment which even
at that moment was mixed up with the thought of Kath-
arine's white body, frozen for ever by the hypnotic power
of the Party. Why did it always have to be like this? Why
could he not have a woman of his own instead of these filthy
scuffles at intervals of years? But a real love affair was an al-
most unthinkable event. The women of the Party were all
alike. Chastity was as deep ingrained in them as Party loy-
alty. By careful early conditioning, by games and cold water,
by the rubbish that was dinned into them at school and in
the Spies and the Youth League, by lectures, parades, songs,
slogans, and martial music, the natural feeling had been
driven out of them. His reason told him that there must be
exceptions, but his heart did not believe it. They were all im-
pregnable, as the Party intended that they should be. And
what he wanted, more even than to be loved, was to break
down that wall of virtue, even if it were only once in his
1984
whole life. The sexual act, successfully performed, was re-
bellion. Desire was thoughtcrime. Even to have awakened
Katharine, if he could have achieved it, would have been
like a seduction, although she was his wife.
But the rest of the story had got to be written down. He
wrote:
/ turned up the lamp. When I saw her in the light
After the darkness the feeble light of the paraffin lamp
had seemed very bright. For the first time he could see the
woman properly. He had taken a step towards her and then
halted, full of lust and terror. He was painfully conscious of
the risk he had taken in coming here. It was perfectly pos-
sible that the patrols would catch him on the way out: for
that matter they might be waiting outside the door at this
moment. If he went away without even doing what he had
come here to do !
It had got to be written down, it had got to be confessed.
What he had suddenly seen in the lamplight was that the
woman was OLD. The paint was plastered so thick on her
face that it looked as though it might crack like a cardboard
mask. There were streaks of white in her hair; but the truly
dreadful detail was that her mouth had fallen a little open,
revealing nothing except a cavernous blackness. She had no
teeth at all.
He wrote hurriedly, in scrabbling handwriting:
When I saw her in the light she was quite an old woman, fifty
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 87
years old at least. But I went ahead and did it just the same.
He pressed his ringers against his eyelids again. He had
written it down at last, but it made no difference. The thera-
py had not worked. The urge to shout filthy words at the top
of his voice was as strong as ever.
1984
Chapter 7
' If there is hope,' wrote Winston, 'it lies in the proles.'
If there was hope, it MUST lie in the proles, because
only there in those swarming disregarded masses, 85 per
cent of the population of Oceania, could the force to de-
stroy the Party ever be generated. The Party could not be
overthrown from within. Its enemies, if it had any enemies,
had no way of coming together or even of identifying one
another. Even if the legendary Brotherhood existed, as just
possibly it might, it was inconceivable that its members
could ever assemble in larger numbers than twos and threes.
Rebellion meant a look in the eyes, an inflexion of the voice,
at the most, an occasional whispered word. But the proles,
if only they could somehow become conscious of their own
strength, would have no need to conspire. They needed only
to rise up and shake themselves like a horse shaking off flies.
If they chose they could blow the Party to pieces tomorrow
morning. Surely sooner or later it must occur to them to do
it? And yet !
He remembered how once he had been walking down
a crowded street when a tremendous shout of hundreds of
voices women's voices — had burst from a side-street a little
way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger and de-
spair, a deep, loud 'Oh-o-o-o-oh!' that went humming on
like the reverberation of a bell. His heart had leapt. It's start-
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ed! he had thought. A riot! The proles are breaking loose
at last! When he had reached the spot it was to see a mob
of two or three hundred women crowding round the stalls
of a street market, with faces as tragic as though they had
been the doomed passengers on a sinking ship. But at this
moment the general despair broke down into a multitude
of individual quarrels. It appeared that one of the stalls
had been selling tin saucepans. They were wretched, flimsy
things, but cooking-pots of any kind were always difficult
to get. Now the supply had unexpectedly given out. The
successful women, bumped and jostled by the rest, were
trying to make off with their saucepans while dozens of
others clamoured round the stall, accusing the stall-keeper
of favouritism and of having more saucepans somewhere
in reserve. There was a fresh outburst of yells. Two bloat-
ed women, one of them with her hair coming down, had
got hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear it
out of one another's hands. For a moment they were both
tugging, and then the handle came off. Winston watched
them disgustedly. And yet, just for a moment, what almost
frightening power had sounded in that cry from only a few
hundred throats! Why was it that they could never shout
like that about anything that mattered?
He wrote:
Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until
after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.
That, he reflected, might almost have been a transcrip-
90 1984
tion from one of the Party textbooks. The Party claimed, of
course, to have liberated the proles from bondage. Before
the Revolution they had been hideously oppressed by the
capitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had
been forced to work in the coal mines (women still did work
in the coal mines, as a matter of fact), children had been
sold into the factories at the age of six. But simultaneous-
ly, true to the Principles of doublethink, the Party taught
that the proles were natural inferiors who must be kept in
subjection, like animals, by the application of a few simple
rules. In reality very little was known about the proles. It
was not necessary to know much. So long as they contin-
ued to work and breed, their other activities were without
importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned loose
upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of
life that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral
pattern. They were born, they grew up in the gutters, they
went to work at twelve, they passed through a brief blos-
soming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married at
twenty, they were middle-aged at thirty, they died, for the
most part, at sixty. Heavy physical work, the care of home
and children, petty quarrels with neighbours, films, foot-
ball, beer, and above all, gambling, filled up the horizon
of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult.
A few agents of the Thought Police moved always among
them, spreading false rumours and marking down and
eliminating the few individuals who were judged capable of
becoming dangerous; but no attempt was made to indoctri-
nate them with the ideology of the Party. It was not desirable
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that the proles should have strong political feelings. All that
was required of them was a primitive patriotism which
could be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make
them accept longer working-hours or shorter rations. And
even when they became discontented, as they sometimes
did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without
general ideas, they could only focus it on petty specific
grievances. The larger evils invariably escaped their notice.
The great majority of proles did not even have telescreens in
their homes. Even the civil police interfered with them very
little. There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a
whole world-within-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes,
drug-peddlers, and racketeers of every description; but
since it all happened among the proles themselves, it was
of no importance. In all questions of morals they were al-
lowed to follow their ancestral code. The sexual puritanism
of the Party was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity went
unpunished, divorce was permitted. For that matter, even
religious worship would have been permitted if the proles
had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. They were
beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: 'Proles and
animals are free.'
Winston reached down and cautiously scratched his
varicose ulcer. It had begun itching again. The thing you
invariably came back to was the impossibility of knowing
what life before the Revolution had really been like. He took
out of the drawer a copy of a children's history textbook
which he had borrowed from Mrs Parsons, and began copy-
ing a passage into the diary:
1984
In the old days (it ran), before the glorious Revolution,
London was not the beautiful city that we know today. It
was a dark, dirty, miserable place where hardly anybody
had enough to eat and where hundreds and thousands of
poor people had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to
sleep under. Children no older than you had to work twelve
hours a day for cruel masters who flogged them with whips
if they worked too slowly and fed them on nothing but stale
breadcrusts and water. But in among all this terrible poverty
there were just a few great big beautiful houses that were
lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to
look after them. These rich men were called capitalists. They
were fat, ugly men with wicked faces, like the one in the
picture on the opposite page. You can see that he is dressed in
a long black coat which was called a frock coat, and a queer,
shiny hat shaped like a stovepipe, which was called a top hat.
This was the uniform of the capitalists, and no one else was
allowed to wear it. The capitalists owned everything in the
world, and everyone else was their slave. They owned all the
land, all the houses, all the factories, and all the money. If
anyone disobeyed them they could throw them into prison, or
they could take his job away and starve him to death. When
any ordinary person spoke to a capitalist he had to cringe and
bow to him, and take off his cap and address him as 'Sir'. The
chief of all the capitalists was called the King, and
But he knew the rest of the catalogue. There would be
mention of the bishops in their lawn sleeves, the judges in
their ermine robes, the pillory, the stocks, the treadmill, the
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 93
cat-o'-nine tails, the Lord Mayor's Banquet, and the prac-
tice of kissing the Pope's toe. There was also something
called the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, which would probably
not be mentioned in a textbook for children. It was the law
by which every capitalist had the right to sleep with any
woman working in one of his factories.
How could you tell how much of it was lies? It MIGHT
be true that the average human being was better off now
than he had been before the Revolution. The only evidence
to the contrary was the mute protest in your own bones, the
instinctive feeling that the conditions you lived in were in-
tolerable and that at some other time they must have been
different. It struck him that the truly characteristic thing
about modern life was not its cruelty and insecurity, but
simply its bareness, its dinginess, its listlessness. Life, if you
looked about you, bore no resemblance not only to the lies
that streamed out of the telescreens, but even to the ideals
that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it, even
for a Party member, were neutral and non-political, a mat-
ter of slogging through dreary jobs, fighting for a place on
the Tube, darning a worn-out sock, cadging a saccharine
tablet, saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the Par-
ty was something huge, terrible, and glittering — a world of
steel and concrete, of monstrous machines and terrifying
weapons — a nation of warriors and fanatics, marching for-
ward in perfect unity, all thinking the same thoughts and
shouting the same slogans, perpetually working, fighting,
triumphing, persecuting — three hundred million people all
with the same face. The reality was decaying, dingy cities
1984
where underfed people shuffled to and fro in leaky shoes,
in patched-up nineteenth-century houses that smelt always
of cabbage and bad lavatories. He seemed to see a vision of
London, vast and ruinous, city of a million dustbins, and
mixed up with it was a picture of Mrs Parsons, a woman
with lined face and wispy hair, fiddling helplessly with a
blocked waste-pipe.
He reached down and scratched his ankle again. Day
and night the telescreens bruised your ears with statistics
proving that people today had more food, more clothes,
better houses, better recreations — that they lived longer,
worked shorter hours, were bigger, healthier, stronger, hap-
pier, more intelligent, better educated, than the people of
fifty years ago. Not a word of it could ever be proved or dis-
proved. The Party claimed, for example, that today 40 per
cent of adult proles were literate: before the Revolution, it
was said, the number had only been 15 per cent. The Party
claimed that the infant mortality rate was now only 160 per
thousand, whereas before the Revolution it had been 300 —
and so it went on. It was like a single equation with two
unknowns. It might very well be that literally every word in
the history books, even the things that one accepted with-
out question, was pure fantasy. For all he knew there might
never have been any such law as the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS,
or any such creature as a capitalist, or any such garment as
a top hat.
Everything faded into mist. The past was erased, the era-
sure was forgotten, the lie became truth. Just once in his
life he had possessed— AFTER the event: that was what
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counted — concrete, unmistakable evidence of an act of fal-
sification. He had held it between his fingers for as long as
thirty seconds. In 1973, it must have been — at any rate, it
was at about the time when he and Katharine had parted.
But the really relevant date was seven or eight years earlier.
The story really began in the middle sixties, the period of
the great purges in which the original leaders of the Revolu-
tion were wiped out once and for all. By 1970 none of them
was left, except Big Brother himself. All the rest had by that
time been exposed as traitors and counter-revolutionar-
ies. Goldstein had fled and was hiding no one knew where,
and of the others, a few had simply disappeared, while the
majority had been executed after spectacular public trials
at which they made confession of their crimes. Among the
last survivors were three men named Jones, Aaronson, and
Rutherford. It must have been in 1965 that these three had
been arrested. As often happened, they had vanished for a
year or more, so that one did not know whether they were
alive or dead, and then had suddenly been brought forth
to incriminate themselves in the usual way. They had con-
fessed to intelligence with the enemy (at that date, too, the
enemy was Eurasia), embezzlement of public funds, the
murder of various trusted Party members, intrigues against
the leadership of Big Brother which had started long before
the Revolution happened, and acts of sabotage causing the
death of hundreds of thousands of people. After confess-
ing to these things they had been pardoned, reinstated in
the Party, and given posts which were in fact sinecures but
which sounded important. All three had written long, ab-
96 1984
ject articles in "The Times', analysing the reasons for their
defection and promising to make amends.
Some time after their release Winston had actually seen
all three of them in the Chestnut Tree Cafe. He remembered
the sort of terrified fascination with which he had watched
them out of the corner of his eye. They were men far old-
er than himself, relics of the ancient world, almost the last
great figures left over from the heroic days of the Party. The
glamour of the underground struggle and the civil war still
faintly clung to them. He had the feeling, though already at
that time facts and dates were growing blurry, that he had
known their names years earlier than he had known that of
Big Brother. But also they were outlaws, enemies, untouch-
ables, doomed with absolute certainty to extinction within
a year or two. No one who had once fallen into the hands
of the Thought Police ever escaped in the end. They were
corpses waiting to be sent back to the grave.
There was no one at any of the tables nearest to them. It
was not wise even to be seen in the neighbourhood of such
people. They were sitting in silence before glasses of the gin
flavoured with cloves which was the speciality of the cafe.
Of the three, it was Rutherford whose appearance had most
impressed Winston. Rutherford had once been a famous
caricaturist, whose brutal cartoons had helped to inflame
popular opinion before and during the Revolution. Even
now, at long intervals, his cartoons were appearing in The
Times. They were simply an imitation of his earlier manner,
and curiously lifeless and unconvincing. Always they were
a rehashing of the ancient themes — slum tenements, starv-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 97
ing children, street battles, capitalists in top hats — even on
the barricades the capitalists still seemed to cling to their
top hats an endless, hopeless effort to get back into the past.
He was a monstrous man, with a mane of greasy grey hair,
his face pouched and seamed, with thick negroid lips. At
one time he must have been immensely strong; now his
great body was sagging, sloping, bulging, falling away in
every direction. He seemed to be breaking up before one's
eyes, like a mountain crumbling.
It was the lonely hour of fifteen. Winston could not
now remember how he had come to be in the cafe at such
a time. The place was almost empty. A tinny music was
trickling from the telescreens. The three men sat in their
corner almost motionless, never speaking. Uncommanded,
the waiter brought fresh glasses of gin. There was a chess-
board on the table beside them, with the pieces set out but
no game started. And then, for perhaps half a minute in all,
something happened to the telescreens. The tune that they
were playing changed, and the tone of the music changed
too. There came into it — but it was something hard to de-
scribe. It was a peculiar, cracked, braying, jeering note: in
his mind Winston called it a yellow note. And then a voice
from the telescreen was singing:
Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree.
1984
The three men never stirred. But when Winston glanced
again at Rutherford's ruinous face, he saw that his eyes
were full of tears. And for the first time he noticed, with a
kind of inward shudder, and yet not knowing AT WHAT
he shuddered, that both Aaronson and Rutherford had bro-
ken noses.
A little later all three were re- arrested. It appeared that
they had engaged in fresh conspiracies from the very mo-
ment of their release. At their second trial they confessed to
all their old crimes over again, with a whole string of new
ones. They were executed, and their fate was recorded in
the Party histories, a warning to posterity. About five years
after this, in 1973, Winston was unrolling a wad of docu-
ments which had just flopped out of the pneumatic tube on
to his desk when he came on a fragment of paper which
had evidently been slipped in among the others and then
forgotten. The instant he had flattened it out he saw its sig-
nificance. It was a half-page torn out of 'The Times' of about
ten years earlier — the top half of the page, so that it included
the date — and it contained a photograph of the delegates at
some Party function in New York. Prominent in the middle
of the group were Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. There
was no mistaking them, in any case their names were in the
caption at the bottom.
The point was that at both trials all three men had con-
fessed that on that date they had been on Eurasian soil. They
had flown from a secret airfield in Canada to a rendezvous
somewhere in Siberia, and had conferred with members of
the Eurasian General Staff, to whom they had betrayed im-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 99
portant military secrets. The date had stuck in Winston's
memory because it chanced to be midsummer day; but the
whole story must be on record in countless other places as
well. There was only one possible conclusion: the confes-
sions were lies.
Of course, this was not in itself a discovery. Even at that
time Winston had not imagined that the people who were
wiped out in the purges had actually committed the crimes
that they were accused of. But this was concrete evidence;
it was a fragment of the abolished past, like a fossil bone
which turns up in the wrong stratum and destroys a geo-
logical theory. It was enough to blow the Party to atoms, if
in some way it could have been published to the world and
its significance made known.
He had gone straight on working. As soon as he saw what
the photograph was, and what it meant, he had covered it
up with another sheet of paper. Luckily, when he unrolled
it, it had been upside-down from the point of view of the
telescreen.
He took his scribbling pad on his knee and pushed back
his chair so as to get as far away from the telescreen as pos-
sible. To keep your face expressionless was not difficult, and
even your breathing could be controlled, with an effort:
but you could not control the beating of your heart, and
the telescreen was quite delicate enough to pick it up. He
let what he judged to be ten minutes go by, tormented all
the while by the fear that some accident — a sudden draught
blowing across his desk, for instance — would betray him.
Then, without uncovering it again, he dropped the photo-
1984
graph into the memory hole, along with some other waste
papers. Within another minute, perhaps, it would have
crumbled into ashes.
That was ten — eleven years ago. Today, probably, he
would have kept that photograph. It was curious that the
fact of having held it in his fingers seemed to him to make
a difference even now, when the photograph itself, as well
as the event it recorded, was only memory. Was the Party's
hold upon the past less strong, he wondered, because a piece
of evidence which existed no longer HAD ONCE existed?
But today, supposing that it could be somehow resur-
rected from its ashes, the photograph might not even be
evidence. Already, at the time when he made his discov-
ery, Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia, and it must
have been to the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men
had betrayed their country. Since then there had been oth-
er changes — two, three, he could not remember how many.
Very likely the confessions had been rewritten and rewritten
until the original facts and dates no longer had the small-
est significance. The past not only changed, but changed
continuously. What most afflicted him with the sense of
nightmare was that he had never clearly understood why
the huge imposture was undertaken. The immediate advan-
tages of falsifying the past were obvious, but the ultimate
motive was mysterious. He took up his pen again and
wrote:
/ understand HOW: I do not understand WHY.
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He wondered, as he had many times wondered before,
whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was
simply a minority of one. At one time it had been a sign of
madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; today,
to believe that the past is inalterable. He might be ALONE
in holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the
thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him: the
horror was that he might also be wrong.
He picked up the children's history book and looked at
the portrait of Big Brother which formed its frontispiece.
The hypnotic eyes gazed into his own. It was as though
some huge force were pressing down upon you — something
that penetrated inside your skull, battering against your
brain, frightening you out of your beliefs, persuading you,
almost, to deny the evidence of your senses. In the end the
Party would announce that two and two made five, and you
would have to believe it. It was inevitable that they should
make that claim sooner or later: the logic of their position
demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the
very existence of external reality, was tacitly denied by their
philosophy. The heresy of heresies was common sense. And
what was terrifying was not that they would kill you for
thinking otherwise, but that they might be right. For, after
all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that
the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchange-
able? If both the past and the external world exist only in
the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable what then?
But no! His courage seemed suddenly to stiffen of its
own accord. The face of O'Brien, not called up by any obvi-
1984
ous association, had floated into his mind. He knew, with
more certainty than before, that O'Brien was on his side.
He was writing the diary for O'Brien — TO O'Brien: it was
like an interminable letter which no one would ever read,
but which was addressed to a particular person and took its
colour from that fact.
The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and
ears. It was their final, most essential command. His heart
sank as he thought of the enormous power arrayed against
him, the ease with which any Party intellectual would over-
throw him in debate, the subtle arguments which he would
not be able to understand, much less answer. And yet he
was in the right! They were wrong and he was right. The
obvious, the silly, and the true had got to be defended. Tru-
isms are true, hold on to that! The solid world exists, its laws
do not change. Stones are hard, water is wet, objects unsup-
ported fall towards the earth's centre. With the feeling that
he was speaking to O'Brien, and also that he was setting
forth an important axiom, he wrote:
Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If
that is granted, all else follows.
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Chapter 8
From somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of
roasting coffee — real coffee, not Victory Coffee — came
floating out into the street. Winston paused involuntarily.
For perhaps two seconds he was back in the half-forgotten
world of his childhood. Then a door banged, seeming to cut
off the smell as abruptly as though it had been a sound.
He had walked several kilometres over pavements, and
his varicose ulcer was throbbing. This was the second time
in three weeks that he had missed an evening at the Com-
munity Centre: a rash act, since you could be certain that
the number of your attendances at the Centre was care-
fully checked. In principle a Party member had no spare
time, and was never alone except in bed. It was assumed
that when he was not working, eating, or sleeping he would
be taking part in some kind of communal recreation: to do
anything that suggested a taste for solitude, even to go for a
walk by yourself, was always slightly dangerous. There was
a word for it in Newspeak: OWNLIFE, it was called, mean-
ing individualism and eccentricity. But this evening as he
came out of the Ministry the balminess of the April air had
tempted him. The sky was a warmer blue than he had seen it
that year, and suddenly the long, noisy evening at the Cen-
tre, the boring, exhausting games, the lectures, the creaking
camaraderie oiled by gin, had seemed intolerable. On im-
1984
pulse he had turned away from the bus-stop and wandered
off into the labyrinth of London, first south, then east, then
north again, losing himself among unknown streets and
hardly bothering in which direction he was going.
'If there is hope,' he had written in the diary, 'it lies in
the proles.' The words kept coming back to him, statement
of a mystical truth and a palpable absurdity. He was some-
where in the vague, brown-coloured slums to the north and
east of what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He was
walking up a cobbled street of little two-storey houses with
battered doorways which gave straight on the pavement
and which were somehow curiously suggestive of ratholes.
There were puddles of filthy water here and there among the
cobbles. In and out of the dark doorways, and down narrow
alley- ways that branched off on either side, people swarmed
in astonishing numbers — girls in full bloom, with crude-
ly lipsticked mouths, and youths who chased the girls, and
swollen waddling women who showed you what the girls
would be like in ten years' time, and old bent creatures shuf-
fling along on splayed feet, and ragged barefooted children
who played in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells
from their mothers. Perhaps a quarter of the windows in
the street were broken and boarded up. Most of the people
paid no attention to Winston; a few eyed him with a sort of
guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red
forearms folded across their aprons were talking outside a
doorway. Winston caught scraps of conversation as he ap-
proached.
"Yes,' I says to 'er, 'that's all very well,' I says. 'But if you'd
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of been in my place you'd of done the same as what I done.
It's easy to criticize,' I says, 'but you ain't got the same prob-
lems as what I got."
'Ah,' said the other, 'that's jest it. That's jest where it is.'
The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women stud-
ied him in hostile silence as he went past. But it was not
hostility, exactly; merely a kind of wariness, a momentary
stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar animal. The
blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in
a street like this. Indeed, it was unwise to be seen in such
places, unless you had definite business there. The patrols
might stop you if you happened to run into them. 'May I see
your papers, comrade? What are you doing here? What time
did you leave work? Is this your usual way home?' — and so
on and so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking
home by an unusual route: but it was enough to draw atten-
tion to you if the Thought Police heard about it.
Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There
were yells of warning from all sides. People were shooting
into the doorways like rabbits. A young woman leapt out
of a doorway a little ahead of Winston, grabbed up a tiny
child playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it, and
leapt back again, all in one movement. At the same instant a
man in a concertina-like black suit, who had emerged from
a side alley, ran towards Winston, pointing excitedly to the
sky.
'Steamer!' he yelled. 'Look out, guv'nor! Bang over'ead!
Lay down quick!'
'Steamer' was a nickname which, for some reason, the
1984
proles applied to rocket bombs. Winston promptly flung
himself on his face. The proles were nearly always right
when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed
to possess some kind of instinct which told them several
seconds in advance when a rocket was coming, although
the rockets supposedly travelled faster than sound. Win-
ston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar
that seemed to make the pavement heave; a shower of light
objects pattered on to his back. When he stood up he found
that he was covered with fragments of glass from the near-
est window.
He walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of
houses 200 metres up the street. A black plume of smoke
hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of plaster dust in which
a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There was a
little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him, and
in the middle of it he could see a bright red streak. When he
got up to it he saw that it was a human hand severed at the
wrist. Apart from the bloody stump, the hand was so com-
pletely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast.
He kicked the thing into the gutter, and then, to avoid
the crowd, turned down a side-street to the right. With-
in three or four minutes he was out of the area which the
bomb had affected, and the sordid swarming life of the
streets was going on as though nothing had happened. It
was nearly twenty hours, and the drinking-shops which the
proles frequented (pubs', they called them) were choked
with customers. From their grimy swing doors, endlessly
opening and shutting, there came forth a smell of urine,
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sawdust, and sour beer. In an angle formed by a projecting
house-front three men were standing very close togeth-
er, the middle one of them holding a folded- up newspaper
which the other two were studying over his shoulder. Even
before he was near enough to make out the expression on
their faces, Winston could see absorption in every line of
their bodies. It was obviously some serious piece of news
that they were reading. He was a few paces away from them
when suddenly the group broke up and two of the men were
in violent altercation. For a moment they seemed almost on
the point of blows.
'Can't you bleeding well listen to what I say? I tell you
no number ending in seven ain't won for over fourteen
months!'
'Yes, it 'as, then!'
'No, it 'as not! Back 'ome I got the 'ole lot of 'em for over
two years wrote down on a piece of paper. I takes 'em down
reg'lar as the clock. An' I tell you, no number ending in
seven '
'Yes, a seven 'AS won! I could pretty near tell you the
bleeding number. Four oh seven, it ended in. It were in Feb-
ruary — second week in February'
'February your grandmother! I got it all down in black
and white. An' I tell you, no number '
'Oh, pack it in!' said the third man.
They were talking about the Lottery. Winston looked
back when he had gone thirty metres. They were still ar-
guing, with vivid, passionate faces. The Lottery, with its
weekly pay-out of enormous prizes, was the one public event
1984
to which the proles paid serious attention. It was probable
that there were some millions of proles for whom the Lot-
tery was the principal if not the only reason for remaining
alive. It was their delight, their folly, their anodyne, their
intellectual stimulant. Where the Lottery was concerned,
even people who could barely read and write seemed capa-
ble of intricate calculations and staggering feats of memory.
There was a whole tribe of men who made a living simply by
selling systems, forecasts, and lucky amulets. Winston had
nothing to do with the running of the Lottery, which was
managed by the Ministry of Plenty, but he was aware (in-
deed everyone in the party was aware) that the prizes were
largely imaginary. Only small sums were actually paid out,
the winners of the big prizes being non-existent persons. In
the absence of any real intercommunication between one
part of Oceania and another, this was not difficult to ar-
range.
But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling
on to that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable:
it was when you looked at the human beings passing you on
the pavement that it became an act of faith. The street into
which he had turned ran downhill. He had a feeling that he
had been in this neighbourhood before, and that there was
a main thoroughfare not far away. From somewhere ahead
there came a din of shouting voices. The street took a sharp
turn and then ended in a flight of steps which led down into
a sunken alley where a few stall-keepers were selling tired-
looking vegetables. At this moment Winston remembered
where he was. The alley led out into the main street, and
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down the next turning, not five minutes away, was the junk-
shop where he had bought the blank book which was now
his diary. And in a small stationer's shop not far away he
had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink.
He paused for a moment at the top of the steps. On the
opposite side of the alley there was a dingy little pub whose
windows appeared to be frosted over but in reality were
merely coated with dust. A very old man, bent but active,
with white moustaches that bristled forward like those of a
prawn, pushed open the swing door and went in. As Win-
ston stood watching, it occurred to him that the old man,
who must be eighty at the least, had already been middle-
aged when the Revolution happened. He and a few others
like him were the last links that now existed with the van-
ished world of capitalism. In the Party itself there were not
many people left whose ideas had been formed before the
Revolution. The older generation had mostly been wiped out
in the great purges of the fifties and sixties, and the few who
survived had long ago been terrified into complete intellec-
tual surrender. If there was any one still alive who could
give you a truthful account of conditions in the early part
of the century, it could only be a prole. Suddenly the pas-
sage from the history book that he had copied into his diary
came back into Winston's mind, and a lunatic impulse took
hold of him. He would go into the pub, he would scrape ac-
quaintance with that old man and question him. He would
say to him: 'Tell me about your life when you were a boy.
What was it like in those days? Were things better than they
are now, or were they worse?'
1984
Hurriedly, lest he should have time to become frightened,
he descended the steps and crossed the narrow street. It
was madness of course. As usual, there was no definite rule
against talking to proles and frequenting their pubs, but it
was far too unusual an action to pass unnoticed. If the pa-
trols appeared he might plead an attack of faintness, but it
was not likely that they would believe him. He pushed open
the door, and a hideous cheesy smell of sour beer hit him in
the face. As he entered the din of voices dropped to about
half its volume. Behind his back he could feel everyone eye-
ing his blue overalls. A game of darts which was going on at
the other end of the room interrupted itself for perhaps as
much as thirty seconds. The old man whom he had followed
was standing at the bar, having some kind of altercation
with the barman, a large, stout, hook-nosed young man
with enormous forearms. A knot of others, standing round
with glasses in their hands, were watching the scene.
'I arst you civil enough, didn't I?' said the old man,
straightening his shoulders pugnaciously. 'You telling me
you ain't got a pint mug in the 'ole bleeding boozer?'
And what in hell's name IS a pint?' said the barman, lean-
ing forward with the tips of his fingers on the counter.
"Ark at 'im! Calls 'isself a barman and don't know what
a pint is! Why, a pint's the 'alf of a quart, and there's four
quarts to the gallon. Ave to teach you the A, B, C next.'
'Never heard of 'em,' said the barman shortly. 'Litre and
half litre — that's all we serve. There's the glasses on the shelf
in front of you.'
'I likes a pint,' persisted the old man. 'You could 'a drawed
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 111
me off a pint easy enough. We didn't 'ave these bleeding li-
tres when I was a young man.'
'When you were a young man we were all living in the
treetops,' said the barman, with a glance at the other cus-
tomers.
There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused
by Winston's entry seemed to disappear. The old man's whit-
estubbled face had flushed pink. He turned away, muttering
to himself, and bumped into Winston. Winston caught him
gently by the arm.
'May I offer you a drink?' he said.
'You're a gent,' said the other, straightening his shoul-
ders again. He appeared not to have noticed Winston's blue
overalls. 'Pint!' he added aggressively to the barman. 'Pint
of wallop.'
The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer
into thick glasses which he had rinsed in a bucket under
the counter. Beer was the only drink you could get in prole
pubs. The proles were supposed not to drink gin, though in
practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The game of
darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar
had begun talking about lottery tickets. Winston's presence
was forgotten for a moment. There was a deal table under
the window where he and the old man could talk without
fear of being overheard. It was horribly dangerous, but at
any rate there was no telescreen in the room, a point he had
made sure of as soon as he came in.
"E could 'a drawed me off a pint,' grumbled the old man
as he settled down behind a glass. 'A 'alf litre ain't enough. It
1984
don't satisfy. And a 'ole litre's too much. It starts my bladder
running. Let alone the price.'
'You must have seen great changes since you were a young
man,' said Winston tentatively.
The old man's pale blue eyes moved from the darts board
to the bar, and from the bar to the door of the Gents, as
though it were in the bar-room that he expected the chang-
es to have occurred.
"The beer was better,' he said finally. 'And cheaper! When
I was a young man, mild beer — wallop we used to call it —
was fourpence a pint. That was before the war, of course.'
'Which war was that?' said Winston.
'It's all wars,' said the old man vaguely. He took up his
glass, and his shoulders straightened again. "Ere's wishing
you the very best of 'ealth!'
In his lean throat the sharp -pointed Adam's apple made
a surprisingly rapid up-and-down movement, and the beer
vanished. Winston went to the bar and came back with two
more half-litres. The old man appeared to have forgotten
his prejudice against drinking a full litre.
'You are very much older than I am,' said Winston. 'You
must have been a grown man before I was born. You can
remember what it was like in the old days, before the Revo-
lution. People of my age don't really know anything about
those times. We can only read about them in books, and
what it says in the books may not be true. I should like your
opinion on that. The history books say that life before the
Revolution was completely different from what it is now.
There was the most terrible oppression, injustice, poverty
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 113
worse than anything we can imagine. Here in London, the
great mass of the people never had enough to eat from birth
to death. Half of them hadn't even boots on their feet. They
worked twelve hours a day, they left school at nine, they
slept ten in a room. And at the same time there were a very
few people, only a few thousands — the capitalists, they were
called — who were rich and powerful. They owned every-
thing that there was to own. They lived in great gorgeous
houses with thirty servants, they rode about in motor-cars
and four-horse carriages, they drank champagne, they wore
top hats '
The old man brightened suddenly.
'Top 'ats!' he said. 'Funny you should mention 'em. The
same thing come into my 'ead only yesterday, I dono why. I
was jest thinking, I ain't seen a top 'at in years. Gorn right
out, they 'ave. The last time I wore one was at my sister-in-
law's funeral. And that was — well, I couldn't give you the
date, but it must 'a been fifty years ago. Of course it was only
'ired for the occasion, you understand.'
'It isn't very important about the top hats,' said Winston
patiently. 'The point is, these capitalists — they and a few
lawyers and priests and so forth who lived on them — were
the lords of the earth. Everything existed for their benefit.
You — the ordinary people, the workers — were their slaves.
They could do what they liked with you. They could ship
you off to Canada like cattle. They could sleep with your
daughters if they chose. They could order you to be flogged
with something called a cat-o'-nine tails. You had to take
your cap off when you passed them. Every capitalist went
1984
about with a gang of lackeys who '
The old man brightened again.
'Lackeys!' he said. 'Now there's a word I ain't 'eard since
ever so long. Lackeys! That reg'lar takes me back, that does.
I recollect oh, donkey's years ago — I used to sometimes go
to 'Yde Park of a Sunday afternoon to 'ear the blokes making
speeches. Salvation Army, Roman Catholics, Jews, Indi-
ans — all sorts there was. And there was one bloke — well, I
couldn't give you 'is name, but a real powerful speaker 'e
was. 'E didn't 'alf give it 'em! 'Lackeys!' 'e says, 'lackeys of
the bourgeoisie! Flunkies of the ruling class!' Parasites —
that was another of them. And 'yenas — 'e definitely called
'em 'yenas. Of course 'e was referring to the Labour Party,
you understand.'
Winston had the feeling that they were talking at cross-
purposes.
'What I really wanted to know was this,' he said. 'Do you
feel that you have more freedom now than you had in those
days? Are you treated more like a human being? In the old
days, the rich people, the people at the top '
'The 'Ouse of Lords,' put in the old man reminiscently
'The House of Lords, if you like. What I am asking is,
were these people able to treat you as an inferior, simply
because they were rich and you were poor? Is it a fact, for
instance, that you had to call them 'Sir' and take off your
cap when you passed them?'
The old man appeared to think deeply. He drank off
about a quarter of his beer before answering.
'Yes,' he said. "They liked you to touch your cap to 'em.
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It showed respect, like. I didn't agree with it, myself, but I
done it often enough. Had to, as you might say'
'And was it usual — I'm only quoting what I've read in his-
tory books — was it usual for these people and their servants
to push you off the pavement into the gutter?'
'One of 'em pushed me once,' said the old man. 'I recol-
lect it as if it was yesterday. It was Boat Race night — terribly
rowdy they used to get on Boat Race night — and I bumps
into a young bloke on Shaftesbury Avenue. Quite a gent,
'e was — dress shirt, top 'at, black overcoat. 'E was kind of
zig-zagging across the pavement, and I bumps into 'im acci-
dental-like. 'E says, 'Why can't you look where you're going?'
'e says. I say, 'Ju think you've bought the bleeding pavement?'
'E says, 'I'll twist your bloody 'ead off if you get fresh with
me.' I says, 'You're drunk. I'll give you in charge in 'alf a
minute,' I says. An' if you'll believe me, 'e puts 'is 'and on my
chest and gives me a shove as pretty near sent me under the
wheels of a bus. Well, I was young in them days, and I was
going to 'ave fetched 'im one, only '
A sense of helplessness took hold of Winston. The old
man's memory was nothing but a rubbish-heap of details.
One could question him all day without getting any real
information. The party histories might still be true, after a
fashion: they might even be completely true. He made a last
attempt.
'Perhaps I have not made myself clear,' he said. 'What I'm
trying to say is this. You have been alive a very long time;
you lived half your life before the Revolution. In 1925, for
instance, you were already grown up. Would you say from
1984
what you can remember, that life in 1925 was better than it
is now, or worse? If you could choose, would you prefer to
live then or now?'
The old man looked meditatively at the darts board. He
finished up his beer, more slowly than before. When he
spoke it was with a tolerant philosophical air, as though the
beer had mellowed him.
'I know what you expect me to say' he said. 'You expect
me to say as I'd sooner be young again. Most people'd say
they'd sooner be young, if you arst' 'em. You got your 'ealth
and strength when you're young. When you get to my time
of life you ain't never well. I suffer something wicked from
my feet, and my bladder's jest terrible. Six and seven times
a night it 'as me out of bed. On the other 'and, there's great
advantages in being a old man. You ain't got the same wor-
ries. No truck with women, and that's a great thing. I ain't
'ad a woman for near on thirty year, if you'd credit it. Nor
wanted to, what's more.'
Winston sat back against the window-sill. It was no use
going on. He was about to buy some more beer when the old
man suddenly got up and shuffled rapidly into the stink-
ing urinal at the side of the room. The extra half-litre was
already working on him. Winston sat for a minute or two
gazing at his empty glass, and hardly noticed when his feet
carried him out into the street again. Within twenty years
at the most, he reflected, the huge and simple question,
'Was life better before the Revolution than it is now?' would
have ceased once and for all to be answerable. But in effect
it was unanswerable even now, since the few scattered sur-
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vivors from the ancient world were incapable of comparing
one age with another. They remembered a million useless
things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicy-
cle pump, the expression on a long- dead sister's face, the
swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but
all the relevant facts were outside the range of their vision.
They were like the ant, which can see small objects but not
large ones. And when memory failed and written records
were falsified — when that happened, the claim of the Party
to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be
accepted, because there did not exist, and never again could
exist, any standard against which it could be tested.
At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly.
He halted and looked up. He was in a narrow street, with a
few dark little shops, interspersed among dwelling-houses.
Immediately above his head there hung three discoloured
metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded.
He seemed to know the place. Of course! He was standing
outside the junk-shop where he had bought the diary.
A twinge of fear went through him. It had been a suf-
ficiently rash act to buy the book in the beginning, and he
had sworn never to come near the place again. And yet the
instant that he allowed his thoughts to wander, his feet had
brought him back here of their own accord. It was precisely
against suicidal impulses of this kind that he had hoped to
guard himself by opening the diary. At the same time he
noticed that although it was nearly twenty-one hours the
shop was still open. With the feeling that he would be less
conspicuous inside than hanging about on the pavement,
1984
he stepped through the doorway. If questioned, he could
plausibly say that he was trying to buy razor blades.
The proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp which
gave off an unclean but friendly smell. He was a man of per-
haps sixty, frail and bowed, with a long, benevolent nose,
and mild eyes distorted by thick spectacles. His hair was al-
most white, but his eyebrows were bushy and still black. His
spectacles, his gentle, fussy movements, and the fact that he
was wearing an aged jacket of black velvet, gave him a vague
air of intellectuality, as though he had been some kind of
literary man, or perhaps a musician. His voice was soft, as
though faded, and his accent less debased than that of the
majority of proles.
'I recognized you on the pavement,' he said immediately.
'You're the gentleman that bought the young lady's keepsake
album. That was a beautiful bit of paper, that was. Cream-
laid, it used to be called. There's been no paper like that
made for — oh, I dare say fifty years.' He peered at Winston
over the top of his spectacles. 'Is there anything special I
can do for you? Or did you just want to look round?'
T was passing,' said Winston vaguely. T just looked in. I
don't want anything in particular.'
'It's just as well,' said the other, 'because I don't suppose
I could have satisfied you.' He made an apologetic gesture
with his softpalmed hand. 'You see how it is; an empty shop,
you might say. Between you and me, the antique trade's just
about finished. No demand any longer, and no stock either.
Furniture, china, glass it's all been broken up by degrees.
And of course the metal stuff's mostly been melted down. I
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haven't seen a brass candlestick in years.'
The tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably
full, but there was almost nothing in it of the slightest val-
ue. The floorspace was very restricted, because all round
the walls were stacked innumerable dusty picture-frames.
In the window there were trays of nuts and bolts, worn-out
chisels, penknives with broken blades, tarnished watches
that did not even pretend to be in going order, and other
miscellaneous rubbish. Only on a small table in the corner
was there a litter of odds and ends — lacquered snuffbox-
es, agate brooches, and the like — which looked as though
they might include something interesting. As Winston
wandered towards the table his eye was caught by a round,
smooth thing that gleamed softly in the lamplight, and he
picked it up.
It was a heavy lump of glass, curved on one side, flat
on the other, making almost a hemisphere. There was a
peculiar softness, as of rainwater, in both the colour and
the texture of the glass. At the heart of it, magnified by the
curved surface, there was a strange, pink, convoluted object
that recalled a rose or a sea anemone.
'What is it?' said Winston, fascinated.
'That's coral, that is,' said the old man. 'It must have come
from the Indian Ocean. They used to kind of embed it in
the glass. That wasn't made less than a hundred years ago.
More, by the look of it.'
'It's a beautiful thing,' said Winston.
'It is a beautiful thing,' said the other appreciatively. 'But
there's not many that' d say so nowadays.' He coughed. 'Now,
1984
if it so happened that you wanted to buy it, that'd cost you
four dollars. I can remember when a thing like that would
have fetched eight pounds, and eight pounds was — well, I
can't work it out, but it was a lot of money. But who cares
about genuine antiques nowadays — even the few that's
left?'
Winston immediately paid over the four dollars and slid
the coveted thing into his pocket. What appealed to him
about it was not so much its beauty as the air it seemed to
possess of belonging to an age quite different from the pres-
ent one. The soft, rainwatery glass was not like any glass that
he had ever seen. The thing was doubly attractive because
of its apparent uselessness, though he could guess that it
must once have been intended as a paperweight. It was very
heavy in his pocket, but fortunately it did not make much
of a bulge. It was a queer thing, even a compromising thing,
for a Party member to have in his possession. Anything old,
and for that matter anything beautiful, was always vaguely
suspect. The old man had grown noticeably more cheerful
after receiving the four dollars. Winston realized that he
would have accepted three or even two.
"There's another room upstairs that you might care to
take a look at,' he said. 'There's not much in it. Just a few
pieces. We'll do with a light if we're going upstairs.'
He lit another lamp, and, with bowed back, led the way
slowly up the steep and worn stairs and along a tiny passage,
into a room which did not give on the street but looked out
on a cobbled yard and a forest of chimney-pots. Winston
noticed that the furniture was still arranged as though the
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room were meant to be lived in. There was a strip of car-
pet on the floor, a picture or two on the walls, and a deep,
slatternly arm-chair drawn up to the fireplace. An old-fash-
ioned glass clock with a twelve-hour face was ticking away
on the mantelpiece. Under the window, and occupying
nearly a quarter of the room, was an enormous bed with
the mattress still on it.
'We lived here till my wife died,' said the old man half
apologetically. 'I'm selling the furniture off by little and
little. Now that's a beautiful mahogany bed, or at least it
would be if you could get the bugs out of it. But I dare say
you'd find it a little bit cumbersome.'
He was holding the lamp high up, so as to illuminate the
whole room, and in the warm dim light the place looked
curiously inviting. The thought flitted through Winston's
mind that it would probably be quite easy to rent the room
for a few dollars a week, if he dared to take the risk. It was a
wild, impossible notion, to be abandoned as soon as thought
of; but the room had awakened in him a sort of nostalgia, a
sort of ancestral memory. It seemed to him that he knew
exactly what it felt like to sit in a room like this, in an arm-
chair beside an open fire with your feet in the fender and a
kettle on the hob; utterly alone, utterly secure, with nobody
watching you, no voice pursuing you, no sound except the
singing of the kettle and the friendly ticking of the clock.
'There's no telescreen!' he could not help murmuring.
'Ah,' said the old man, 'I never had one of those things.
Too expensive. And I never seemed to feel the need of it,
somehow. Now that's a nice gateleg table in the corner there.
1984
Though of course you'd have to put new hinges on it if you
wanted to use the flaps.'
There was a small bookcase in the other corner, and
Winston had already gravitated towards it. It contained
nothing but rubbish. The hunting-down and destruction of
books had been done with the same thoroughness in the
prole quarters as everywhere else. It was very unlikely that
there existed anywhere in Oceania a copy of a book printed
earlier than 1960. The old man, still carrying the lamp, was
standing in front of a picture in a rosewood frame which
hung on the other side of the fireplace, opposite the bed.
'Now, if you happen to be interested in old prints at all —
— ' he began delicately.
Winston came across to examine the picture. It was a
steel engraving of an oval building with rectangular win-
dows, and a small tower in front. There was a railing
running round the building, and at the rear end there was
what appeared to be a statue. Winston gazed at it for some
moments. It seemed vaguely familiar, though he did not re-
member the statue.
'The frame's fixed to the wall,' said the old man, 'but I
could unscrew it for you, I dare say'
'I know that building,' said Winston finally 'It's a ruin
now. It's in the middle of the street outside the Palace of
Justice.'
"That's right. Outside the Law Courts. It was bombed in —
oh, many years ago. It was a church at one time, St Clement
Danes, its name was.' He smiled apologetically, as though
conscious of saying something slightly ridiculous, and add-
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ed: 'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's!'
'What's that?' said Winston.
'Oh — 'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's.'
That was a rhyme we had when I was a little boy. How it goes
on I don't remember, but I do know it ended up, 'Here comes
a candle to light you to bed, Here comes a chopper to chop
off your head.' It was a kind of a dance. They held out their
arms for you to pass under, and when they came to 'Here
comes a chopper to chop off your head' they brought their
arms down and caught you. It was just names of churches.
All the London churches were in it — all the principal ones,
that is.'
Winston wondered vaguely to what century the church
belonged. It was always difficult to determine the age of a
London building. Anything large and impressive, if it was
reasonably new in appearance, was automatically claimed
as having been built since the Revolution, while anything
that was obviously of earlier date was ascribed to some dim
period called the Middle Ages. The centuries of capitalism
were held to have produced nothing of any value. One could
not learn history from architecture any more than one
could learn it from books. Statues, inscriptions, memori-
al stones, the names of streets — anything that might throw
light upon the past had been systematically altered.
'I never knew it had been a church,' he said.
'There's a lot of them left, really' said the old man, 'though
they've been put to other uses. Now, how did that rhyme go?
Ah! I've got it!
'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's, You
1984
owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's '
there, now, that's as far as I can get. A farthing, that was
a small copper coin, looked something like a cent.'
'Where was St Martin's?' said Winston.
'St Martin's? That's still standing. It's in Victory Square,
alongside the picture gallery. A building with a kind of a tri-
angular porch and pillars in front, and a big flight of steps.'
Winston knew the place well. It was a museum used
for propaganda displays of various kinds — scale models of
rocket bombs and Floating Fortresses, waxwork tableaux il-
lustrating enemy atrocities, and the like.
'St Martin's-in-the-Fields it used to be called,' supple-
mented the old man, 'though I don't recollect any fields
anywhere in those parts.'
Winston did not buy the picture. It would have been an
even more incongruous possession than the glass paper-
weight, and impossible to carry home, unless it were taken
out of its frame. But he lingered for some minutes more,
talking to the old man, whose name, he discovered, was not
Weeks — as one might have gathered from the inscription
over the shop-front — but Charrington. Mr Charrington, it
seemed, was a widower aged sixty-three and had inhabit-
ed this shop for thirty years. Throughout that time he had
been intending to alter the name over the window, but had
never quite got to the point of doing it. All the while that
they were talking the half-remembered rhyme kept run-
ning through Winston's head. Oranges and lemons say the
bells of St Clement's, You owe me three farthings, say the
bells of St Martin's! It was curious, but when you said it to
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yourself you had the illusion of actually hearing bells, the
bells of a lost London that still existed somewhere or other,
disguised and forgotten. From one ghostly steeple after an-
other he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so far as
he could remember he had never in real life heard church
bells ringing.
He got away from Mr Charrington and went down the
stairs alone, so as not to let the old man see him recon-
noitring the street before stepping out of the door. He had
already made up his mind that after a suitable interval — a
month, say — he would take the risk of visiting the shop
again. It was perhaps not more dangerous than shirking an
evening at the Centre. The serious piece of folly had been to
come back here in the first place, after buying the diary and
without knowing whether the proprietor of the shop could
be trusted. However !
Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He would
buy further scraps of beautiful rubbish. He would buy the
engraving of St Clement Danes, take it out of its frame, and
carry it home concealed under the jacket of his overalls. He
would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr Charrington's
memory. Even the lunatic project of renting the room up-
stairs flashed momentarily through his mind again. For
perhaps five seconds exaltation made him careless, and he
stepped out on to the pavement without so much as a pre-
liminary glance through the window. He had even started
humming to an improvised tune
Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's, You
owe me three farthings, say the
1984
Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bow-
els to water. A figure in blue overalls was coming down
the pavement, not ten metres away. It was the girl from the
Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The light was
failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She
looked him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as
though she had not seen him.
For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move.
Then he turned to the right and walked heavily away, not
noticing for the moment that he was going in the wrong
direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There was
no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She
must have followed him here, because it was not credible
that by pure chance she should have happened to be walk-
ing on the same evening up the same obscure backstreet,
kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members
lived. It was too great a coincidence. Whether she was really
an agent of the Thought Police, or simply an amateur spy
actuated by officiousness, hardly mattered. It was enough
that she was watching him. Probably she had seen him go
into the pub as well.
It was an effort to walk. The lump of glass in his pocket
banged against his thigh at each step, and he was half mind-
ed to take it out and throw it away. The worst thing was the
pain in his belly. For a couple of minutes he had the feeling
that he would die if he did not reach a lavatory soon. But
there would be no public lavatories in a quarter like this.
Then the spasm passed, leaving a dull ache behind.
The street was a blind alley. Winston halted, stood
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for several seconds wondering vaguely what to do, then
turned round and began to retrace his steps. As he turned
it occurred to him that the girl had only passed him three
minutes ago and that by running he could probably catch
up with her. He could keep on her track till they were in
some quiet place, and then smash her skull in with a cob-
blestone. The piece of glass in his pocket would be heavy
enough for the job. But he abandoned the idea immediately,
because even the thought of making any physical effort was
unbearable. He could not run, he could not strike a blow.
Besides, she was young and lusty and would defend herself.
He thought also of hurrying to the Community Centre and
staying there till the place closed, so as to establish a partial
alibi for the evening. But that too was impossible. A deadly
lassitude had taken hold of him. All he wanted was to get
home quickly and then sit down and be quiet.
It was after twenty-two hours when he got back to the
flat. The lights would be switched off at the main at twenty-
three thirty. He went into the kitchen and swallowed nearly
a teacup ful of Victory Gin. Then he went to the table in the
alcove, sat down, and took the diary out of the drawer. But
he did not open it at once. From the telescreen a brassy fe-
male voice was squalling a patriotic song. He sat staring at
the marbled cover of the book, trying without success to
shut the voice out of his consciousness.
It was at night that they came for you, always at night. The
proper thing was to kill yourself before they got you. Un-
doubtedly some people did so. Many of the disappearances
were actually suicides. But it needed desperate courage to
1984
kill yourself in a world where firearms, or any quick and
certain poison, were completely unprocurable. He thought
with a kind of astonishment of the biological uselessness
of pain and fear, the treachery of the human body which
always freezes into inertia at exactly the moment when a
special effort is needed. He might have silenced the dark-
haired girl if only he had acted quickly enough: but precisely
because of the extremity of his danger he had lost the power
to act. It struck him that in moments of crisis one is nev-
er fighting against an external enemy, but always against
one's own body. Even now, in spite of the gin, the dull ache
in his belly made consecutive thought impossible. And it
is the same, he perceived, in all seemingly heroic or trag-
ic situations. On the battlefield, in the torture chamber, on
a sinking ship, the issues that you are fighting for are al-
ways forgotten, because the body swells up until it fills the
universe, and even when you are not paralysed by fright or
screaming with pain, life is a moment-to-moment struggle
against hunger or cold or sleeplessness, against a sour stom-
ach or an aching tooth.
He opened the diary. It was important to write some-
thing down. The woman on the telescreen had started a new
song. Her voice seemed to stick into his brain like jagged
splinters of glass. He tried to think of O'Brien, for whom,
or to whom, the diary was written, but instead he began
thinking of the things that would happen to him after the
Thought Police took him away. It would not matter if they
killed you at once. To be killed was what you expected. But
before death (nobody spoke of such things, yet everybody
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knew of them) there was the routine of confession that had
to be gone through: the grovelling on the floor and scream-
ing for mercy, the crack of broken bones, the smashed teeth,
and bloody clots of hair.
Why did you have to endure it, since the end was al-
ways the same? Why was it not possible to cut a few days
or weeks out of your life? Nobody ever escaped detection,
and nobody ever failed to confess. When once you had suc-
cumbed to thoughtcrime it was certain that by a given date
you would be dead. Why then did that horror, which altered
nothing, have to lie embedded in future time?
He tried with a little more success than before to sum-
mon up the image of O'Brien. 'We shall meet in the place
where there is no darkness,' O'Brien had said to him. He
knew what it meant, or thought he knew. The place where
there is no darkness was the imagined future, which one
would never see, but which, by foreknowledge, one could
mystically share in. But with the voice from the telescreen
nagging at his ears he could not follow the train of thought
further. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Half the tobacco
promptly fell out on to his tongue, a bitter dust which was
difficult to spit out again. The face of Big Brother swam into
his mind, displacing that of O'Brien. Just as he had done a
few days earlier, he slid a coin out of his pocket and looked
at it. The face gazed up at him, heavy, calm, protecting: but
what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache?
Like a leaden knell the words came back at him:
WAR IS PEACE
130 1984
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
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Part Two
1984
Chapter i
It was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left
the cubicle to go to the lavatory.
A solitary figure was coming towards him from the oth-
er end of the long, brightly- lit corridor. It was the girl with
dark hair. Four days had gone past since the evening when
he had run into her outside the junk-shop. As she came
nearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling, not notice-
able at a distance because it was of the same colour as her
overalls. Probably she had crushed her hand while swing-
ing round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots
of novels were 'roughed in'. It was a common accident in the
Fiction Department.
They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stum-
bled and fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was
wrung out of her. She must have fallen right on the injured
arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees.
Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which
her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed
on his, with an appealing expression that looked more like
fear than pain.
A curious emotion stirred in Winston's heart. In front of
him was an enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of
him, also, was a human creature, in pain and perhaps with
a broken bone. Already he had instinctively started forward
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 133
to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the
bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his
own body.
'You're hurt?' he said.
'It's nothing. My arm. It'll be all right in a second.'
She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had
certainly turned very pale.
'You haven't broken anything?'
'No, I'm all right. It hurt for a moment, that's all.'
She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up.
She had regained some of her colour, and appeared very
much better.
'It's nothing,' she repeated shortly. 'I only gave my wrist a
bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!'
And with that she walked on in the direction in which
she had been going, as briskly as though it had really been
nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much
as half a minute. Not to let one's feelings appear in one's
face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct,
and in any case they had been standing straight in front of
a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had
been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for
in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up
the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no
question that she had done it intentionally. It was some-
thing small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door
he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his
fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square.
While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little
1984
more fingering, to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be
a message of some kind written on it. For a moment he was
tempted to take it into one of the water-closets and read it
at once. But that would be shocking folly, as he well knew.
There was no place where you could be more certain that
the telescreens were watched continuously
He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the frag-
ment of paper casually among the other papers on the desk,
put on his spectacles and hitched the speakwrite towards
him. 'Five minutes,' he told himself, 'five minutes at the
very least!' His heart bumped in his breast with frightening
loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on
was mere routine, the rectification of a long list of figures,
not needing close attention.
Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some
kind of political meaning. So far as he could see there were
two possibilities. One, much the more likely, was that the
girl was an agent of the Thought Police, just as he had feared.
He did not know why the Thought Police should choose to
deliver their messages in such a fashion, but perhaps they
had their reasons. The thing that was written on the paper
might be a threat, a summons, an order to commit suicide,
a trap of some description. But there was another, wilder
possibility that kept raising its head, though he tried vain-
ly to suppress it. This was, that the message did not come
from the Thought Police at all, but from some kind of un-
derground organization. Perhaps the Brotherhood existed
after all! Perhaps the girl was part of it! No doubt the idea
was absurd, but it had sprung into his mind in the very in-
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stant of feeling the scrap of paper in his hand. It was not till
a couple of minutes later that the other, more probable ex-
planation had occurred to him. And even now, though his
intellect told him that the message probably meant death —
still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable
hope persisted, and his heart banged, and it was with diffi-
culty that he kept his voice from trembling as he murmured
his figures into the speakwrite.
He rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it
into the pneumatic tube. Eight minutes had gone by. He re-
adjusted his spectacles on his nose, sighed, and drew the
next batch of work towards him, with the scrap of paper on
top of it. He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large un-
formed handwriting:
I LOVE YOU.
For several seconds he was too stunned even to throw
the incriminating thing into the memory hole. When he
did so, although he knew very well the danger of showing
too much interest, he could not resist reading it once again,
just to make sure that the words were really there.
For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work.
What was even worse than having to focus his mind on a
series of niggling jobs was the need to conceal his agitation
from the telescreen. He felt as though a fire were burning
in his belly. Lunch in the hot, crowded, noise-filled canteen
was torment. He had hoped to be alone for a little while
during the lunch hour, but as bad luck would have it the
136 1984
imbecile Parsons flopped down beside him, the tang of his
sweat almost defeating the tinny smell of stew, and kept up
a stream of talk about the preparations for Hate Week. He
was particularly enthusiastic about a papier-mache model of
Big Brother's head, two metres wide, which was being made
for the occasion by his daughter's troop of Spies. The irri-
tating thing was that in the racket of voices Winston could
hardly hear what Parsons was saying, and was constantly
having to ask for some fatuous remark to be repeated. Just
once he caught a glimpse of the girl, at a table with two oth-
er girls at the far end of the room. She appeared not to have
seen him, and he did not look in that direction again.
The afternoon was morebearable. Immediately after lunch
there arrived a delicate, difficult piece of work which would
take several hours and necessitated putting everything else
aside. It consisted in falsifying a series of production re-
ports of two years ago, in such a way as to cast discredit on a
prominent member of the Inner Party, who was now under
a cloud. This was the kind of thing that Winston was good
at, and for more than two hours he succeeded in shutting
the girl out of his mind altogether. Then the memory of her
face came back, and with it a raging, intolerable desire to
be alone. Until he could be alone it was impossible to think
this new development out. Tonight was one of his nights at
the Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal
in the canteen, hurried off to the Centre, took part in the
solemn foolery of a 'discussion group', played two games
of table tennis, swallowed several glasses of gin, and sat for
half an hour through a lecture entitled Tngsoc in relation to
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chess'. His soul writhed with boredom, but for once he had
had no impulse to shirk his evening at the Centre. At the
sight of the words I LOVE YOU the desire to stay alive had
welled up in him, and the taking of minor risks suddenly
seemed stupid. It was not till twenty-three hours, when he
was home and in bed — in the darkness, where you were safe
even from the telescreen so long as you kept silent — that he
was able to think continuously.
It was a physical problem that had to be solved: how to
get in touch with the girl and arrange a meeting. He did
not consider any longer the possibility that she might be
laying some kind of trap for him. He knew that it was not
so, because of her unmistakable agitation when she handed
him the note. Obviously she had been frightened out of her
wits, as well she might be. Nor did the idea of refusing her
advances even cross his mind. Only five nights ago he had
contemplated smashing her skull in with a cobblestone, but
that was of no importance. He thought of her naked, youth-
ful body, as he had seen it in his dream. He had imagined
her a fool like all the rest of them, her head stuffed with lies
and hatred, her belly full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at
the thought that he might lose her, the white youthful body
might slip away from him! What he feared more than any-
thing else was that she would simply change her mind if he
did not get in touch with her quickly. But the physical dif-
ficulty of meeting was enormous. It was like trying to make
a move at chess when you were already mated. Whichever
way you turned, the telescreen faced you. Actually, all the
possible ways of communicating with her had occurred to
138 1984
him within five minutes of reading the note; but now, with
time to think, he went over them one by one, as though lay-
ing out a row of instruments on a table.
Obviously the kind of encounter that had happened this
morning could not be repeated. If she had worked in the Re-
cords Department it might have been comparatively simple,
but he had only a very dim idea whereabouts in the building
the Fiction Department lay, and he had no pretext for going
there. If he had known where she lived, and at what time
she left work, he could have contrived to meet her some-
where on her way home; but to try to follow her home was
not safe, because it would mean loitering about outside the
Ministry, which was bound to be noticed. As for sending
a letter through the mails, it was out of the question. By
a routine that was not even secret, all letters were opened
in transit. Actually, few people ever wrote letters. For the
messages that it was occasionally necessary to send, there
were printed postcards with long lists of phrases, and you
struck out the ones that were inapplicable. In any case he
did not know the girl's name, let alone her address. Final-
ly he decided that the safest place was the canteen. If he
could get her at a table by herself, somewhere in the middle
of the room, not too near the telescreens, and with a suf-
ficient buzz of conversation all round — if these conditions
endured for, say, thirty seconds, it might be possible to ex-
change a few words.
For a week after this, life was like a restless dream. On
the next day she did not appear in the canteen until he
was leaving it, the whistle having already blown. Presum-
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ably she had been changed on to a later shift. They passed
each other without a glance. On the day after that she was
in the canteen at the usual time, but with three other girls
and immediately under a telescreen. Then for three dread-
ful days she did not appear at all. His whole mind and body
seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable sensitivity, a sort
of transparency, which made every movement, every sound,
every contact, every word that he had to speak or listen
to, an agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape
from her image. He did not touch the diary during those
days. If there was any relief, it was in his work, in which he
could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at a stretch.
He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her.
There was no enquiry he could make. She might have been
vaporized, she might have committed suicide, she might
have been transferred to the other end of Oceania: worst
and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind
and decided to avoid him.
The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling
and she had a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The
relief of seeing her was so great that he could not resist star-
ing directly at her for several seconds. On the following day
he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he came
into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the
wall, and was quite alone. It was early, and the place was
not very full. The queue edged forward till Winston was
almost at the counter, then was held up for two minutes
because someone in front was complaining that he had not
received his tablet of saccharine. But the girl was still alone
1984
when Winston secured his tray and began to make for her
table. He walked casually towards her, his eyes searching
for a place at some table beyond her. She was perhaps three
metres away from him. Another two seconds would do it.
Then a voice behind him called, 'Smith!' He pretended not
to hear. 'Smith!' repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no
use. He turned round. A blond-headed, silly-faced young
man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, was inviting
him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was not
safe to refuse. After having been recognized, he could not
go and sit at a table with an unattended girl. It was too no-
ticeable. He sat down with a friendly smile. The silly blond
face beamed into his. Winston had a hallucination of him-
self smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it. The
girl's table filled up a few minutes later.
But she must have seen him coming towards her, and
perhaps she would take the hint. Next day he took care to
arrive early. Surely enough, she was at a table in about the
same place, and again alone. The person immediately ahead
of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like
man with a flat face and tiny, suspicious eyes. As Winston
turned away from the counter with his tray, he saw that the
little man was making straight for the girl's table. His hopes
sank again. There was a vacant place at a table further away,
but something in the little man's appearance suggested
that he would be sufficiently attentive to his own comfort
to choose the emptiest table. With ice at his heart Winston
followed. It was no use unless he could get the girl alone.
At this moment there was a tremendous crash. The little
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man was sprawling on all fours, his tray had gone flying,
two streams of soup and coffee were flowing across the floor.
He started to his feet with a malignant glance at Winston,
whom he evidently suspected of having tripped him up. But
it was all right. Five seconds later, with a thundering heart,
Winston was sitting at the girl's table.
He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and prompt-
ly began eating. It was all-important to speak at once,
before anyone else came, but now a terrible fear had taken
possession of him. A week had gone by since she had first
approached him. She would have changed her mind, she
must have changed her mind! It was impossible that this af-
fair should end successfully; such things did not happen in
real life. He might have flinched altogether from speaking if
at this moment he had not seen Ampleforth, the hairy-eared
poet, wandering limply round the room with a tray, look-
ing for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth
was attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at
his table if he caught sight of him. There was perhaps a min-
ute in which to act. Both Winston and the girl were eating
steadily. The stuff they were eating was a thin stew, actually
a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began
speaking. Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned
the watery stuff into their mouths, and between spoonfuls
exchanged the few necessary words in low expressionless
voices.
'What time do you leave work?'
'Eighteen-thirty'
'Where can we meet?'
1984
'Victory Square, near the monument.'
'It's full of telescreens.'
'It doesn't matter if there's a crowd.'
'Any signal?'
'No. Don't come up to me until you see me among a lot
of people. And don't look at me. Just keep somewhere near
me.'
'What time?'
'Nineteen hours.'
All right.'
Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at an-
other table. They did not speak again, and, so far as it was
possible for two people sitting on opposite sides of the same
table, they did not look at one another. The girl finished her
lunch quickly and made off, while Winston stayed to smoke
a cigarette.
Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed
time. He wandered round the base of the enormous flut-
ed column, at the top of which Big Brother's statue gazed
southward towards the skies where he had vanquished the
Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been,
a few years ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One. In the street
in front of it there was a statue of a man on horseback which
was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell. At five minutes
past the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the ter-
rible fear seized upon Winston. She was not coming, she
had changed her mind! He walked slowly up to the north
side of the square and got a sort of pale- coloured pleasure
from identifying St Martin's Church, whose bells, when it
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 143
had bells, had chimed 'You owe me three farthings.' Then
he saw the girl standing at the base of the monument, read-
ing or pretending to read a poster which ran spirally up the
column. It was not safe to go near her until some more peo-
ple had accumulated. There were telescreens all round the
pediment. But at this moment there was a din of shouting
and a zoom of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left.
Suddenly everyone seemed to be running across the square.
The girl nipped nimbly round the lions at the base of the
monument and joined in the rush. Winston followed. As he
ran, he gathered from some shouted remarks that a convoy
of Eurasian prisoners was passing.
Already a dense mass of people was blocking the south
side of the square. Winston, at normal times the kind of
person who gravitates to the outer edge of any kind of
scrimmage, shoved, butted, squirmed his way forward into
the heart of the crowd. Soon he was within arm's length of
the girl, but the way was blocked by an enormous prole and
an almost equally enormous woman, presumably his wife,
who seemed to form an impenetrable wall of flesh. Winston
wriggled himself sideways, and with a violent lunge man-
aged to drive his shoulder between them. For a moment it
felt as though his entrails were being ground to pulp be-
tween the two muscular hips, then he had broken through,
sweating a little. He was next to the girl. They were shoulder
to shoulder, both staring fixedly in front of them.
A long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed
with sub -machine guns standing upright in each corner, was
passing slowly down the street. In the trucks little yellow
1984
men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting, jammed
close together. Their sad, Mongolian faces gazed out over
the sides of the trucks utterly incurious. Occasionally when
a truck jolted there was a clank-clank of metal: all the pris-
oners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-load after truck-load of
the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there but he
saw them only intermittently. The girl's shoulder, and her
arm right down to the elbow, were pressed against his. Her
cheek was almost near enough for him to feel its warmth.
She had immediately taken charge of the situation, just as
she had done in the canteen. She began speaking in the
same expressionless voice as before, with lips barely mov-
ing, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and
the rumbling of the trucks.
'Can you hear me?'
'Yes.'
'Can you get Sunday afternoon off?'
'Yes.'
'Then listen carefully. You'll have to remember this. Go
to Paddington Station '
With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she
outlined the route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway
journey; turn left outside the station; two kilometres along
the road; a gate with the top bar missing; a path across a
field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes; a dead
tree with moss on it. It was as though she had a map inside
her head. 'Can you remember all that?' she murmured fi-
nally
'Yes.'
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'You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate's
got no top bar.'
'Yes. What time?'
'About fifteen. You may have to wait. I'll get there by an-
other way. Are you sure you remember everything?'
'Yes.'
"Then get away from me as quick as you can.'
She need not have told him that. But for the moment
they could not extricate themselves from the crowd. The
trucks were still filing past, the people still insatiably gap-
ing. At the start there had been a few boos and hisses, but
it came only from the Party members among the crowd,
and had soon stopped. The prevailing emotion was simply
curiosity. Foreigners, whether from Eurasia or from Easta-
sia, were a kind of strange animal. One literally never saw
them except in the guise of prisoners, and even as prison-
ers one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them.
Nor did one know what became of them, apart from the
few who were hanged as war- criminals: the others simply
vanished, presumably into forced-labour camps. The round
Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more European type,
dirty, bearded and exhausted. From over scrubby cheek-
bones eyes looked into Winston's, sometimes with strange
intensity, and flashed away again. The convoy was drawing
to an end. In the last truck he could see an aged man, his
face a mass of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists
crossed in front of him, as though he were used to having
them bound together. It was almost time for Winston and
the girl to part. But at the last moment, while the crowd still
146 1984
hemmed them in, her hand felt for his and gave it a fleeting
squeeze.
It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a
long time that their hands were clasped together. He had
time to learn every detail of her hand. He explored the long
fingers, the shapely nails, the work-hardened palm with its
row of callouses, the smooth flesh under the wrist. Merely
from feeling it he would have known it by sight. In the same
instant it occurred to him that he did not know what colour
the girl's eyes were. They were probably brown, but people
with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To turn his head
and look at her would have been inconceivable folly. With
hands locked together, invisible among the press of bodies,
they stared steadily in front of them, and instead of the eyes
of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully
at Winston out of nests of hair.
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Chapter 2
Winston picked his way up the lane through dappled
light and shade, stepping out into pools of gold wher-
ever the boughs parted. Under the trees to the left of him
the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to kiss
one's skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deep-
er in the heart of the wood came the droning of ring doves.
He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about
the journey, and the girl was so evidently experienced that
he was less frightened than he would normally have been.
Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe place. In
general you could not assume that you were much safer in
the country than in London. There were no telescreens, of
course, but there was always the danger of concealed mi-
crophones by which your voice might be picked up and
recognized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey by
yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less
than 100 kilometres it was not necessary to get your pass-
port endorsed, but sometimes there were patrols hanging
about the railway stations, who examined the papers of any
Party member they found there and asked awkward ques-
tions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk
from the station he had made sure by cautious backward
glances that he was not being followed. The train was full
of proles, in holiday mood because of the summery weather.
148 1984
The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was filled
to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from
a toothless great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going
out to spend an afternoon with 'in-laws' in the country, and,
as they freely explained to Winston, to get hold of a little
blackmarket butter.
The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the foot-
path she had told him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged
between the bushes. He had no watch, but it could not be
fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick underfoot that it was
impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and began
picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from
a vague idea that he would like to have a bunch of flowers
to offer to the girl when they met. He had got together a
big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly scent when a
sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle of a
foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best
thing to do. It might be the girl, or he might have been fol-
lowed after all. To look round was to show guilt. He picked
another and another. A hand fell lightly on his shoulder.
He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evi-
dently as a warning that he must keep silent, then parted
the bushes and quickly led the way along the narrow track
into the wood. Obviously she had been that way before, for
she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston fol-
lowed, still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling
was relief, but as he watched the strong slender body mov-
ing in front of him, with the scarlet sash that was just tight
enough to bring out the curve of her hips, the sense of his
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own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it seemed
quite likely that when she turned round and looked at him
she would draw back after all. The sweetness of the air and
the greenness of the leaves daunted him. Already on the
walk from the station the May sunshine had made him feel
dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors, with the sooty
dust of London in the pores of his skin. It occurred to him
that till now she had probably never seen him in broad day-
light in the open. They came to the fallen tree that she had
spoken of. The girl hopped over and forced apart the bush-
es, in which there did not seem to be an opening. When
Winston followed her, he found that they were in a natural
clearing, a tiny grassy knoll surrounded by tall saplings that
shut it in completely. The girl stopped and turned.
'Here we are,' she said.
He was facing her at several paces' distance. As yet he did
not dare move nearer to her.
T didn't want to say anything in the lane,' she went on,
'in case there's a mike hidden there. I don't suppose there is,
but there could be. There's always the chance of one of those
swine recognizing your voice. We're all right here.'
He still had not the courage to approach her. 'We're all
right here?' he repeated stupidly.
'Yes. Look at the trees.' They were small ashes, which at
some time had been cut down and had sprouted up again
into a forest of poles, none of them thicker than one's wrist.
'There's nothing big enough to hide a mike in. Besides, I've
been here before.'
They were only making conversation. He had managed
1984
to move closer to her now. She stood before him very up-
right, with a smile on her face that looked faintly ironical, as
though she were wondering why he was so slow to act. The
bluebells had cascaded on to the ground. They seemed to
have fallen of their own accord. He took her hand.
'Would you believe,' he said, 'that till this moment I
didn't know what colour your eyes were?' They were brown,
he noted, a rather light shade of brown, with dark lashes.
'Now that you've seen what I'm really like, can you still bear
to look at me?'
'Yes, easily'
'I'm thirty-nine years old. I've got a wife that I can't get
rid of. I've got varicose veins. I've got five false teeth.'
T couldn't care less,' said the girl.
The next moment, it was hard to say by whose act, she was
in his his arms. At the beginning he had no feeling except
sheer incredulity. The youthful body was strained against
his own, the mass of dark hair was against his face, and yes!
actually she had turned her face up and he was kissing the
wide red mouth. She had clasped her arms about his neck,
she was calling him darling, precious one, loved one. He
had pulled her down on to the ground, she was utterly un-
resisting, he could do what he liked with her. But the truth
was that he had no physical sensation, except that of mere
contact. All he felt was incredulity and pride. He was glad
that this was happening, but he had no physical desire. It
was too soon, her youth and prettiness had frightened him,
he was too much used to living without women — he did
not know the reason. The girl picked herself up and pulled
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 151
a bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him, putting her
arm round his waist.
'Never mind, dear. There's no hurry. We've got the whole
afternoon. Isn't this a splendid hide-out? I found it when I
got lost once on a community hike. If anyone was coming
you could hear them a hundred metres away'
'What is your name?' said Winston.
'Julia. I know yours. It's Winston — Winston Smith.'
'How did you find that out?'
'I expect I'm better at finding things out than you are,
dear. Tell me, what did you think of me before that day I
gave you the note?'
He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was
even a sort of love-offering to start off by telling the worst.
'I hated the sight of you,' he said. 'I wanted to rape you
and then murder you afterwards. Two weeks ago I thought
seriously of smashing your head in with a cobblestone. If
you really want to know, I imagined that you had some-
thing to do with the Thought Police.'
The girl laughed delightedly, evidently taking this as a
tribute to the excellence of her disguise.
'Not the Thought Police! You didn't honestly think that?'
'Well, perhaps not exactly that. But from your general
appearance — merely because you're young and fresh and
healthy, you understand — I thought that probably '
'You thought I was a good Party member. Pure in word
and deed. Banners, processions, slogans, games, commu-
nity hikes all that stuff. And you thought that if I had a
quarter of a chance I'd denounce you as a thought- criminal
1984
and get you killed off?'
'Yes, something of that kind. A great many young girls
are like that, you know.'
'It's this bloody thing that does it,' she said, ripping off
the scarlet sash of the Junior Anti-Sex League and flinging
it on to a bough. Then, as though touching her waist had
reminded her of something, she felt in the pocket of her
overalls and produced a small slab of chocolate. She broke
it in half and gave one of the pieces to Winston. Even be-
fore he had taken it he knew by the smell that it was very
unusual chocolate. It was dark and shiny, and was wrapped
in silver paper. Chocolate normally was dull-brown crum-
bly stuff that tasted, as nearly as one could describe it, like
the smoke of a rubbish fire. But at some time or another he
had tasted chocolate like the piece she had given him. The
first whiff of its scent had stirred up some memory which
he could not pin down, but which was powerful and trou-
bling.
'Where did you get this stuff?' he said.
'Black market,' she said indifferently. Actually I am that
sort of girl, to look at. I'm good at games. I was a troop -lead-
er in the Spies. I do voluntary work three evenings a week
for the Junior Anti-Sex League. Hours and hours I've spent
pasting their bloody rot all over London. I always carry one
end of a banner in the processions. I always look cheer-
ful and I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd,
that's what I say. It's the only way to be safe.'
The first fragment of chocolate had melted on Win-
ston's tongue. The taste was delightful. But there was still
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that memory moving round the edges of his consciousness,
something strongly felt but not reducible to definite shape,
like an object seen out of the corner of one's eye. He pushed
it away from him, aware only that it was the memory of
some action which he would have liked to undo but could
not.
'You are very young,' he said. 'You are ten or fifteen years
younger than I am. What could you see to attract you in a
man like me?'
'It was something in your face. I thought I'd take a chance.
I'm good at spotting people who don't belong. As soon as I
saw you I knew you were against THEM.'
THEM, it appeared, meant the Party, and above all the
Inner Party, about whom she talked with an open jeering
hatred which made Winston feel uneasy, although he knew
that they were safe here if they could be safe anywhere. A
thing that astonished him about her was the coarseness of
her language. Party members were supposed not to swear,
and Winston himself very seldom did swear, aloud, at any
rate. Julia, however, seemed unable to mention the Party,
and especially the Inner Party, without using the kind of
words that you saw chalked up in dripping alley-ways. He
did not dislike it. It was merely one symptom of her revolt
against the Party and all its ways, and somehow it seemed
natural and healthy, like the sneeze of a horse that smells
bad hay. They had left the clearing and were wandering
again through the chequered shade, with their arms round
each other's waists whenever it was wide enough to walk
two abreast. He noticed how much softer her waist seemed
1984
to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not speak above
a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was better to
go quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the little
wood. She stopped him.
'Don't go out into the open. There might be someone
watching. We're all right if we keep behind the boughs.'
They were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The
sunlight, filtering through innumerable leaves, was still hot
on their faces. Winston looked out into the field beyond,
and underwent a curious, slow shock of recognition. He
knew it by sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a foot-
path wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In
the ragged hedge on the opposite side the boughs of the elm
trees swayed just perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves
stirred faintly in dense masses like women's hair. Surely
somewhere nearby, but out of sight, there must be a stream
with green pools where dace were swimming?
'Isn't there a stream somewhere near here?' he whis-
pered.
"That's right, there is a stream. It's at the edge of the next
field, actually. There are fish in it, great big ones. You can
watch them lying in the pools under the willow trees, wav-
ing their tails.'
'It's the Golden Country — almost,' he murmured.
'The Golden Country?'
'It's nothing, really. A landscape I've seen sometimes in
a dream.'
'Look!' whispered Julia.
A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away,
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almost at the level of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen
them. It was in the sun, they in the shade. It spread out its
wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its
head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to
the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In
the afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Win-
ston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on
and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations,
never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were
deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped
for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then
swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Win-
ston watched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for
what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watch-
ing it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and
pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether af-
ter all there was a microphone hidden somewhere near. He
and Julia had spoken only in low whispers, and it would not
pick up what they had said, but it would pick up the thrush.
Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, bee-
tle-like man was listening intently — listening to that. But
by degrees the flood of music drove all speculations out of
his mind. It was as though it were a kind of liquid stuff that
poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight
that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and
merely felt. The girl's waist in the bend of his arm was soft
and warm. He pulled her round so that they were breast
to breast; her body seemed to melt into his. Wherever his
hands moved it was all as yielding as water. Their mouths
156 1984
clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses
they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces
apart again both of them sighed deeply. The bird took fright
and fled with a clatter of wings.
Winston put his lips against her ear. 'NOW,' he whis-
pered.
'Not here,' she whispered back. 'Come back to the hide-
out. It's safer.'
Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they
threaded their way back to the clearing. When they were
once inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him.
They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared
round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him
for an instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And,
yes! it was almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he
had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she
flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture
by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her
body gleamed white in the sun. But for a moment he did
not look at her body; his eyes were anchored by the freckled
face with its faint, bold smile. He knelt down before her and
took her hands in his.
'Have you done this before?'
'Of course. Hundreds of times — well, scores of times,
anyway'
'With Party members?'
'Yes, always with Party members.'
'With members of the Inner Party?'
'Not with those swine, no. But there's plenty that WOULD
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if they got half a chance. They're not so holy as they make
out.'
His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: he wished
it had been hundreds — thousands. Anything that hinted at
corruption always filled him with a wild hope. Who knew,
perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, its cult of
strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing in-
iquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with
leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Any-
thing to rot, to weaken, to undermine! He pulled her down
so that they were kneeling face to face.
'Listen. The more men you've had, the more I love you.
Do you understand that?'
'Yes, perfectly'
'I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want any virtue
to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the
bones.'
'Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to the
bones.'
'You like doing this? I don't mean simply me: I mean the
thing in itself?'
'I adore it.'
That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely
the love of one person but the animal instinct, the simple
undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear
the Party to pieces. He pressed her down upon the grass,
among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no difficul-
ty Presently the rising and falling of their breasts slowed
to normal speed, and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they
1984
fell apart. The sun seemed to have grown hotter. They were
both sleepy. He reached out for the discarded overalls and
pulled them partly over her. Almost immediately they fell
asleep and slept for about half an hour.
Winston woke first. He sat up and watched the freck-
led face, still peacefully asleep, pillowed on the palm of her
hand. Except for her mouth, you could not call her beauti-
ful. There was a line or two round the eyes, if you looked
closely. The short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and
soft. It occurred to him that he still did not know her sur-
name or where she lived.
The young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in
him a pitying, protecting feeling. But the mindless tender-
ness that he had felt under the hazel tree, while the thrush
was singing, had not quite come back. He pulled the over-
alls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the old
days, he thought, a man looked at a girl's body and saw that
it was desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you
could not have pure love or pure lust nowadays. No emo-
tion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear
and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a
victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a po-
litical act.
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Chapter 3
^ We can come here once again,' said Julia. 'It's generally safe
to use any hide-out twice. But not for another month or
two, of course.'
As soon as she woke up her demeanour had changed. She
became alert and business-like, put her clothes on, knot-
ted the scarlet sash about her waist, and began arranging
the details of the journey home. It seemed natural to leave
this to her. She obviously had a practical cunning which
Winston lacked, and she seemed also to have an exhaus-
tive knowledge of the countryside round London, stored
away from innumerable community hikes. The route she
gave him was quite different from the one by which he had
come, and brought him out at a different railway station.
'Never go home the same way as you went out,' she said, as
though enunciating an important general principle. She
would leave first, and Winston was to wait half an hour be-
fore following her.
She had named a place where they could meet after work,
four evenings hence. It was a street in one of the poorer
quarters, where there was an open market which was gener-
ally crowded and noisy. She would be hanging about among
the stalls, pretending to be in search of shoelaces or sewing-
thread. If she judged that the coast was clear she would blow
her nose when he approached; otherwise he was to walk
1984
past her without recognition. But with luck, in the middle
of the crowd, it would be safe to talk for a quarter of an hour
and arrange another meeting.
'And now I must go,' she said as soon as he had mastered
his instructions. 'I'm due back at nineteen-thirty. I've got to
put in two hours for the Junior Anti-Sex League, handing
out leaflets, or something. Isn't it bloody? Give me a brush-
down, would you? Have I got any twigs in my hair? Are you
sure? Then good-bye, my love, good-bye!'
She flung herself into his arms, kissed him almost vi-
olently, and a moment later pushed her way through the
saplings and disappeared into the wood with very little
noise. Even now he had not found out her surname or her
address. However, it made no difference, for it was incon-
ceivable that they could ever meet indoors or exchange any
kind of written communication.
As it happened, they never went back to the clearing in
the wood. During the month of May there was only one
further occasion on which they actually succeeded in mak-
ing love. That was in another hiding-place known to Julia,
the belfry of a ruinous church in an almost- deserted stretch
of country where an atomic bomb had fallen thirty years
earlier. It was a good hiding-place when once you got there,
but the getting there was very dangerous. For the rest they
could meet only in the streets, in a different place every eve-
ning and never for more than half an hour at a time. In the
street it was usually possible to talk, after a fashion. As they
drifted down the crowded pavements, not quite abreast
and never looking at one another, they carried on a curi-
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ous, intermittent conversation which flicked on and off like
the beams of a lighthouse, suddenly nipped into silence by
the approach of a Party uniform or the proximity of a tele-
screen, then taken up again minutes later in the middle of
a sentence, then abruptly cut short as they parted at the
agreed spot, then continued almost without introduction
on the following day Julia appeared to be quite used to this
kind of conversation, which she called 'talking by instal-
ments'. She was also surprisingly adept at speaking without
moving her lips. Just once in almost a month of nightly
meetings they managed to exchange a kiss. They were pass-
ing in silence down a side-street (Julia would never speak
when they were away from the main streets) when there was
a deafening roar, the earth heaved, and the air darkened,
and Winston found himself lying on his side, bruised and
terrified. A rocket bomb must have dropped quite near at
hand. Suddenly he became aware of Julia's face a few centi-
metres from his own, deathly white, as white as chalk. Even
her lips were white. She was dead! He clasped her against
him and found that he was kissing a live warm face. But
there was some powdery stuff that got in the way of his lips.
Both of their faces were thickly coated with plaster.
There were evenings when they reached their rendezvous
and then had to walk past one another without a sign, be-
cause a patrol had just come round the corner or a helicopter
was hovering overhead. Even if it had been less dangerous,
it would still have been difficult to find time to meet. Win-
ston's working week was sixty hours, Julia's was even longer,
and their free days varied according to the pressure of work
1984
and did not often coincide. Julia, in any case, seldom had an
evening completely free. She spent an astonishing amount
of time in attending lectures and demonstrations, distrib-
uting literature for the junior Anti-Sex League, preparing
banners for Hate Week, making collections for the savings
campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said, it was
camouflage. If you kept the small rules, you could break the
big ones. She even induced Winston to mortgage yet an-
other of his evenings by enrolling himself for the part-time
munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Par-
ty members. So, one evening every week, Winston spent
four hours of paralysing boredom, screwing together small
bits of metal which were probably parts of bomb fuses, in a
draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers
mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens.
When they met in the church tower the gaps in their
fragmentary conversation were filled up. It was a blazing af-
ternoon. The air in the little square chamber above the bells
was hot and stagnant, and smelt overpoweringly of pigeon
dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty, twig-littered
floor, one or other of them getting up from time to time to
cast a glance through the arrowslits and make sure that no
one was coming.
Julia was twenty- six years old. She lived in a hostel with
thirty other girls ('Always in the stink of women! How I
hate women!' she said parenthetically), and she worked, as
he had guessed, on the novel-writing machines in the Fic-
tion Department. She enjoyed her work, which consisted
chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky elec-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 163
trie motor. She was 'not clever', but was fond of using her
hands and felt at home with machinery. She could describe
the whole process of composing a novel, from the general
directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the
final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not in-
terested in the finished product. She 'didn't much care for
reading,' she said. Books were just a commodity that had to
be produced, like jam or bootlaces.
She had no memories of anything before the early six-
ties and the only person she had ever known who talked
frequently of the days before the Revolution was a grand-
father who had disappeared when she was eight. At school
she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the
gymnastics trophy two years running. She had been a troop-
leader in the Spies and a branch secretary in the Youth
League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex League. She had
always borne an excellent character. She had even (an infal-
lible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in
Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which
turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the
proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who
worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for a
year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with ti-
tles like 'Spanking Stories' or 'One Night in a Girls' School',
to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were un-
der the impression that they were buying something illegal.
'What are these books like?' said Winston curiously.
'Oh, ghastly rubbish. They're boring, really. They only
have six plots, but they swap them round a bit. Of course
164 1984
I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I was never in the Rewrite
Squad. I'm not literary, dear — not even enough for that.'
He learned with astonishment that all the workers in
Pornosec, except the heads of the departments, were girls.
The theory was that men, whose sex instincts were less con-
trollable than those of women, were in greater danger of
being corrupted by the filth they handled.
"They don't even like having married women there,' she
added. Girls are always supposed to be so pure. Here's one
who isn't, anyway.
She had had her first love-affair when she was sixteen,
with a Party member of sixty who later committed suicide
to avoid arrest. 'And a good job too,' said Julia, 'otherwise
they'd have had my name out of him when he confessed.'
Since then there had been various others. Life as she saw it
was quite simple. You wanted a good time; 'they', meaning
the Party, wanted to stop you having it; you broke the rules
as best you could. She seemed to think it just as natural that
'they' should want to rob you of your pleasures as that you
should want to avoid being caught. She hated the Party, and
said so in the crudest words, but she made no general criti-
cism of it. Except where it touched upon her own life she
had no interest in Party doctrine. He noticed that she never
used Newspeak words except the ones that had passed into
everyday use. She had never heard of the Brotherhood, and
refused to believe in its existence. Any kind of organized
revolt against the Party, which was bound to be a failure,
struck her as stupid. The clever thing was to break the rules
and stay alive all the same. He wondered vaguely how many
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 165
others like her there might be in the younger generation
people who had grown up in the world of the Revolution,
knowing nothing else, accepting the Party as something
unalterable, like the sky, not rebelling against its authority
but simply evading it, as a rabbit dodges a dog.
They did not discuss the possibility of getting married.
It was too remote to be worth thinking about. No imagin-
able committee would ever sanction such a marriage even
if Katharine, Winston's wife, could somehow have been got
rid of. It was hopeless even as a daydream.
'What was she like, your wife?' said Julia.
'She was — do you know the Newspeak word GOOD-
THINKFUL? Meaning naturally orthodox, incapable of
thinking a bad thought?'
'No, I didn't know the word, but I know the kind of per-
son, right enough.'
He began telling her the story of his married life, but cu-
riously enough she appeared to know the essential parts of
it already. She described to him, almost as though she had
seen or felt it, the stiffening of Katharine's body as soon
as he touched her, the way in which she still seemed to be
pushing him from her with all her strength, even when her
arms were clasped tightly round him. With Julia he felt no
difficulty in talking about such things: Katharine, in any
case, had long ceased to be a painful memory and became
merely a distasteful one.
'I could have stood it if it hadn't been for one thing,' he
said. He told her about the frigid little ceremony that Kath-
arine had forced him to go through on the same night every
1984
week. 'She hated it, but nothing would make her stop doing
it. She used to call it — but you'll never guess.'
'Our duty to the Party' said Julia promptly.
'How did you know that?'
'I've been at school too, dear. Sex talks once a month for
the over-sixteens. And in the Youth Movement. They rub it
into you for years. I dare say it works in a lot of cases. But of
course you can never tell; people are such hypocrites.'
She began to enlarge upon the subject. With Julia, every-
thing came back to her own sexuality. As soon as this was
touched upon in any way she was capable of great acuteness.
Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner meaning of the
Party's sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex
instinct created a world of its own which was outside the
Party's control and which therefore had to be destroyed if
possible. What was more important was that sexual priva-
tion induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could
be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship. The way
she put it was:
'When you make love you're using up energy; and after-
wards you feel happy and don't give a damn for anything.
They can't bear you to feel like that. They want you to be
bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and
down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour.
If you're happy inside yourself, why should you get excited
about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two
Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot?'
That was very true, he thought. There was a direct inti-
mate connexion between chastity and political orthodoxy.
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 167
For how could the fear, the hatred, and the lunatic credulity
which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right
pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and
using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to
the Party, and the Party had turned it to account. They had
played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood. The
family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people
were encouraged to be fond of their children, in almost the
old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand, were
systematically turned against their parents and taught to
spy on them and report their deviations. The family had
become in effect an extension of the Thought Police. It was
a device by means of which everyone could be surrounded
night and day by informers who knew him intimately.
Abruptly his mind went back to Katharine. Katharine
would unquestionably have denounced him to the Thought
Police if she had not happened to be too stupid to detect the
unorthodoxy of his opinions. But what really recalled her
to him at this moment was the stifling heat of the afternoon,
which had brought the sweat out on his forehead. He began
telling Julia of something that had happened, or rather had
failed to happen, on another sweltering summer afternoon,
eleven years ago.
It was three or four months after they were married. They
had lost their way on a community hike somewhere in Kent.
They had only lagged behind the others for a couple of min-
utes, but they took a wrong turning, and presently found
themselves pulled up short by the edge of an old chalk
quarry. It was a sheer drop of ten or twenty metres, with
1984
boulders at the bottom. There was nobody of whom they
could ask the way As soon as she realized that they were
lost Katharine became very uneasy To be away from the
noisy mob of hikers even for a moment gave her a feeling of
wrong-doing. She wanted to hurry back by the way they had
come and start searching in the other direction. But at this
moment Winston noticed some tufts of loosestrife growing
in the cracks of the cliff beneath them. One tuft was of two
colours, magenta and brick-red, apparently growing on the
same root. He had never seen anything of the kind before,
and he called to Katharine to come and look at it.
'Look, Katharine! Look at those flowers. That clump
down near the bottom. Do you see they're two different co-
lours?'
She had already turned to go, but she did rather fretfully
come back for a moment. She even leaned out over the cliff
face to see where he was pointing. He was standing a little
behind her, and he put his hand on her waist to steady her.
At this moment it suddenly occurred to him how completely
alone they were. There was not a human creature anywhere,
not a leaf stirring, not even a bird awake. In a place like
this the danger that there would be a hidden microphone
was very small, and even if there was a microphone it would
only pick up sounds. It was the hottest sleepiest hour of the
afternoon. The sun blazed down upon them, the sweat tick-
led his face. And the thought struck him...
'Why didn't you give her a good shove?' said Julia. 'I
would have.'
'Yes, dear, you would have. I would, if I'd been the same
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 169
person then as I am now. Or perhaps I would — I'm not cer-
tain.'
'Are you sorry you didn't?'
'Yes. On the whole I'm sorry I didn't.'
They were sitting side by side on the dusty floor. He
pulled her closer against him. Her head rested on his shoul-
der, the pleasant smell of her hair conquering the pigeon
dung. She was very young, he thought, she still expected
something from life, she did not understand that to push an
inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing.
'Actually it would have made no difference,' he said.
"Then why are you sorry you didn't do it?'
'Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this
game that we're playing, we can't win. Some kinds of failure
are better than other kinds, that's all.'
He felt her shoulders give a wriggle of dissent. She al-
ways contradicted him when he said anything of this kind.
She would not accept it as a law of nature that the individ-
ual is always defeated. In a way she realized that she herself
was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would
catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind
she believed that it was somehow possible to construct a se-
cret world in which you could live as you chose. All you
needed was luck and cunning and boldness. She did not un-
derstand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the
only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead,
that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was
better to think of yourself as a corpse.
'We are the dead,' he said.
1984
'We're not dead yet,' said Julia prosaically.
'Not physically Six months, a year — five years, conceiv-
ably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably
you're more afraid of it than I am. Obviously we shall put it
off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So
long as human beings stay human, death and life are the
same thing.'
'Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or
a skeleton? Don't you enjoy being alive? Don't you like feel-
ing: This is me, this is my hand, this is my leg, I'm real, I'm
solid, I'm alive! Don't you like THIS?'
She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against
him. He could feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her
overalls. Her body seemed to be pouring some of its youth
and vigour into his.
'Yes, I like that,' he said.
"Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear,
we've got to fix up about the next time we meet. We may as
well go back to the place in the wood. We've given it a good
long rest. But you must get there by a different way this time.
I've got it all planned out. You take the train — but look, I'll
draw it out for you.'
And in her practical way she scraped together a small
square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began
drawing a map on the floor.
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Chapter 4
Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr
Charrington's shop. Beside the window the enormous
bed was made up, with ragged blankets and a coverless bol-
ster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was
ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gate-
leg table, the glass paperweight which he had bought on his
last visit gleamed softly out of the half-darkness.
In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and
two cups, provided by Mr Charrington. Winston lit the
burner and set a pan of water to boil. He had brought an
envelope full of Victory Coffee and some saccharine tablets.
The clock's hands said seventeen-twenty: it was nineteen-
twenty really. She was coming at nineteen-thirty
Folly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous,
suicidal folly. Of all the crimes that a Party member could
commit, this one was the least possible to conceal. Actu-
ally the idea had first floated into his head in the form of a
vision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the surface of
the gateleg table. As he had foreseen, Mr Charrington had
made no difficulty about letting the room. He was obviously
glad of the few dollars that it would bring him. Nor did he
seem shocked or become offensively knowing when it was
made clear that Winston wanted the room for the purpose
of a love-affair. Instead he looked into the middle distance
1984
and spoke in generalities, with so delicate an air as to give
the impression that he had become partly invisible. Privacy,
he said, was a very valuable thing. Everyone wanted a place
where they could be alone occasionally. And when they had
such a place, it was only common courtesy in anyone else
who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even,
seeming almost to fade out of existence as he did so, add-
ed that there were two entries to the house, one of them
through the back yard, which gave on an alley.
Under the window somebody was singing. Winston
peeped out, secure in the protection of the muslin curtain.
The June sun was still high in the sky, and in the sun-filled
court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pil-
lar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped
about her middle, was stumping to and fro between a wash-
tub and a clothes line, pegging out a series of square white
things which Winston recognized as babies' diapers. When-
ever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she was
singing in a powerful contralto:
It was only an 'opeless fancy.
It passed like an Ipril dye,
But a look an a word an the dreams they stirred!
They 'ave
stolen my 'eart awye!
The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It
was one of countless similar songs published for the ben-
efit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department.
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 173
The words of these songs were composed without any hu-
man intervention whatever on an instrument known as a
versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the
dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound. He could
hear the woman singing and the scrape of her shoes on the
flagstones, and the cries of the children in the street, and
somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and yet
the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of
a telescreen.
Folly, folly, folly! he thought again. It was inconceiv-
able that they could frequent this place for more than a few
weeks without being caught. But the temptation of having a
hiding-place that was truly their own, indoors and near at
hand, had been too much for both of them. For some time
after their visit to the church belfry it had been impossible
to arrange meetings. Working hours had been drastically
increased in anticipation of Hate Week. It was more than
a month distant, but the enormous, complex preparations
that it entailed were throwing extra work on to everybody.
Finally both of them managed to secure a free afternoon on
the same day. They had agreed to go back to the clearing
in the wood. On the evening beforehand they met briefly
in the street. As usual, Winston hardly looked at Julia as
they drifted towards one another in the crowd, but from
the short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was
paler than usual.
'It's all off,' she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to
speak. 'Tomorrow, I mean.'
'What?'
1984
'Tomorrow afternoon. I can't come.'
'Why not?'
'Oh, the usual reason. It's started early this time.'
For a moment he was violently angry. During the month
that he had known her the nature of his desire for her had
changed. At the beginning there had been little true sensu-
ality in it. Their first love-making had been simply an act
of the will. But after the second time it was different. The
smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her
skin seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round
him. She had become a physical necessity, something that
he not only wanted but felt that he had a right to. When she
said that she could not come, he had the feeling that she was
cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd pressed
them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave
the tips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to in-
vite not desire but affection. It struck him that when one
lived with a woman this particular disappointment must be
a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness, such as
he had not felt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He
wished that they were a married couple of ten years' stand-
ing. He wished that he were walking through the streets
with her just as they were doing now but openly and with-
out fear, talking of trivialities and buying odds and ends
for the household. He wished above all that they had some
place where they could be alone together without feeling
the obligation to make love every time they met. It was not
actually at that moment, but at some time on the following
day, that the idea of renting Mr Charrington's room had oc-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 175
curred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed
with unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was
lunacy. It was as though they were intentionally stepping
nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the edge of the
bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love.
It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and
out of one's consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times,
preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not
avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it: and yet instead,
every now and again, by a conscious, wilful act, one chose
to shorten the interval before it happened.
At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia
burst into the room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse
brown canvas, such as he had sometimes seen her carrying
to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward to take her in
his arms, but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly, partly
because she was still holding the tool-bag.
'Half a second,' she said. 'Just let me show you what I've
brought. Did you bring some of that filthy Victory Coffee?
I thought you would. You can chuck it away again, because
we shan't be needing it. Look here.'
She fell on her knees, threw open the bag, and tumbled
out some spanners and a screwdriver that filled the top part
of it. Underneath were a number of neat paper packets. The
first packet that she passed to Winston had a strange and
yet vaguely familiar feeling. It was filled with some kind of
heavy, sand-like stuff which yielded wherever you touched
it.
'It isn't sugar?' he said.
176 1984
'Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here's a loaf of
bread — proper white bread, not our bloody stuff— and a lit-
tle pot of jam. And here's a tin of milk — but look! This is the
one I'm really proud of. I had to wrap a bit of sacking round
it, because '
But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it
up. The smell was already filling the room, a rich hot smell
which seemed like an emanation from his early childhood,
but which one did occasionally meet with even now, blow-
ing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or diffusing
itself mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant
and then lost again.
'It's coffee,' he murmured, 'real coffee.'
'It's Inner Party coffee. There's a whole kilo here,' she
said.
'How did you manage to get hold of all these things?'
'It's all Inner Party stuff. There's nothing those swine
don't have, nothing. But of course waiters and servants and
people pinch things, and — look, I got a little packet of tea
as well.'
Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a
corner of the packet.
'It's real tea. Not blackberry leaves.'
"There's been a lot of tea about lately. They've captured In-
dia, or something,' she said vaguely. 'But listen, dear. I want
you to turn your back on me for three minutes. Go and sit
on the other side of the bed. Don't go too near the window.
And don't turn round till I tell you.'
Winston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain.
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Down in the yard the red-armed woman was still marching
to and fro between the washtub and the line. She took two
more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep feeling:
They sye that time 'eals all things,
They sye you can always forget;
But the smiles an the tears acrorss the years
They twist my
'eart-strings yet!
She knew the whole drivelling song by heart, it seemed.
Her voice floated upward with the sweet summer air, very
tuneful, charged with a sort of happy melancholy. One had
the feeling that she would have been perfectly content, if the
June evening had been endless and the supply of clothes in-
exhaustible, to remain there for a thousand years, pegging
out diapers and singing rubbish. It struck him as a curious
fact that he had never heard a member of the Party singing
alone and spontaneously. It would even have seemed slightly
unorthodox, a dangerous eccentricity, like talking to one-
self. Perhaps it was only when people were somewhere near
the starvation level that they had anything to sing about.
'You can turn round now,' said Julia.
He turned round, and for a second almost failed to rec-
ognize her. What he had actually expected was to see her
naked. But she was not naked. The transformation that had
happened was much more surprising than that. She had
painted her face.
She must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian
178 1984
quarters and bought herself a complete set of make-up ma-
terials. Her lips were deeply reddened, her cheeks rouged,
her nose powdered; there was even a touch of something
under the eyes to make them brighter. It was not very skil-
fully done, but Winston's standards in such matters were
not high. He had never before seen or imagined a woman of
the Party with cosmetics on her face. The improvement in
her appearance was startling. With just a few dabs of colour
in the right places she had become not only very much pret-
tier, but, above all, far more feminine. Her short hair and
boyish overalls merely added to the effect. As he took her in
his arms a wave of synthetic violets flooded his nostrils. He
remembered the half- darkness of a basement kitchen, and a
woman's cavernous mouth. It was the very same scent that
she had used; but at the moment it did not seem to matter.
'Scent too!' he said.
'Yes, dear, scent too. And do you know what I'm going to
do next? I'm going to get hold of a real woman's frock from
somewhere and wear it instead of these bloody trousers. I'll
wear silk stockings and high-heeled shoes! In this room I'm
going to be a woman, not a Party comrade.'
They flung their clothes off and climbed into the huge
mahogany bed. It was the first time that he had stripped
himself naked in her presence. Until now he had been too
much ashamed of his pale and meagre body, with the vari-
cose veins standing out on his calves and the discoloured
patch over his ankle. There were no sheets, but the blanket
they lay on was threadbare and smooth, and the size and
springiness of the bed astonished both of them. 'It's sure
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to be full of bugs, but who cares?' said Julia. One never saw
a double bed nowadays, except in the homes of the proles.
Winston had occasionally slept in one in his boyhood: Julia
had never been in one before, so far as she could remember.
Presently they fell asleep for a little while. When Win-
ston woke up the hands of the clock had crept round to
nearly nine. He did not stir, because Julia was sleeping with
her head in the crook of his arm. Most of her make-up had
transferred itself to his own face or the bolster, but a light
stain of rouge still brought out the beauty of her cheekbone.
A yellow ray from the sinking sun fell across the foot of the
bed and lighted up the fireplace, where the water in the pan
was boiling fast. Down in the yard the woman had stopped
singing, but the faint shouts of children floated in from the
street. He wondered vaguely whether in the abolished past
it had been a normal experience to lie in bed like this, in
the cool of a summer evening, a man and a woman with no
clothes on, making love when they chose, talking of what
they chose, not feeling any compulsion to get up, simply ly-
ing there and listening to peaceful sounds outside. Surely
there could never have been a time when that seemed ordi-
nary? Julia woke up, rubbed her eyes, and raised herself on
her elbow to look at the oilstove.
'Half that water's boiled away' she said. 'I'll get up and
make some coffee in another moment. We've got an hour.
What time do they cut the lights off at your flats?'
'Twenty-three thirty'
'It's twenty-three at the hostel. But you have to get in ear-
lier than that, because— Hi! Get out, you filthy brute!'
1984
She suddenly twisted herself over in the bed, seized a
shoe from the floor, and sent it hurtling into the corner with
a boyish jerk of her arm, exactly as he had seen her fling the
dictionary at Goldstein, that morning during the Two Min-
utes Hate.
'What was it?' he said in surprise.
'A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wain-
scoting. There's a hole down there. I gave him a good fright,
anyway'
'Rats!' murmured Winston. 'In this room!'
'They're all over the place,' said Julia indifferently as she
lay down again. 'We've even got them in the kitchen at the
hostel. Some parts of London are swarming with them. Did
you know they attack children? Yes, they do. In some of
these streets a woman daren't leave a baby alone for two
minutes. It's the great huge brown ones that do it. And the
nasty thing is that the brutes always '
'DON'T GO ON!' said Winston, with his eyes tightly
shut.
'Dearest! You've gone quite pale. What's the matter? Do
they make you feel sick?'
'Of all horrors in the world — a rat!'
She pressed herself against him and wound her limbs
round him, as though to reassure him with the warmth
of her body. He did not reopen his eyes immediately. For
several moments he had had the feeling of being back in a
nightmare which had recurred from time to time through-
out his life. It was always very much the same. He was
standing in front of a wall of darkness, and on the other
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side of it there was something unendurable, something too
dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was
always one of self-deception, because he did in fact know
what was behind the wall of darkness. With a deadly effort,
like wrenching a piece out of his own brain, he could even
have dragged the thing into the open. He always woke up
without discovering what it was: but somehow it was con-
nected with what Julia had been saying when he cut her
short.
'I'm sorry' he said, 'it's nothing. I don't like rats, that's
all'
'Don't worry, dear, we're not going to have the filthy
brutes in here. I'll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before
we go. And next time we come here I'll bring some plaster
and bung it up properly'
Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten.
Feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he sat up against the
bedhead. Julia got out of bed, pulled on her overalls, and
made the coffee. The smell that rose from the saucepan was
so powerful and exciting that they shut the window lest
anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive.
What was even better than the taste of the coffee was the
silky texture given to it by the sugar, a thing Winston had
almost forgotten after years of saccharine. With one hand
in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other, Ju-
lia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the
bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gate-
leg table, plumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to
see if it was comfortable, and examining the absurd twelve-
1984
hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought
the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a
better light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always,
by the soft, rainwatery appearance of the glass.
'What is it, do you think?' said Julia.
'I don't think it's anything — I mean, I don't think it was
ever put to any use. That's what I like about it. It's a little
chunk of history that they've forgotten to alter. It's a mes-
sage from a hundred years ago, if one knew how to read it.'
'And that picture over there' — she nodded at the engrav-
ing on the opposite wall — 'would that be a hundred years
old?'
'More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can't tell. It's impos-
sible to discover the age of anything nowadays.'
She went over to look at it. 'Here's where that brute stuck
his nose out,' she said, kicking the wainscoting immediate-
ly below the picture. 'What is this place? I've seen it before
somewhere.'
'It's a church, or at least it used to be. St Clement Danes
its name was.' The fragment of rhyme that Mr Charrington
had taught him came back into his head, and he added
half-nostalgically: 'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St
Clement's!'
To his astonishment she capped the line:
'You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's,
When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey '
'I can't remember how it goes on after that. But anyway
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 183
I remember it ends up, 'Here comes a candle to light you to
bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head!"
It was like the two halves of a countersign. But there
must be another line after 'the bells of Old Bailey'. Perhaps
it could be dug out of Mr Charrington's memory, if he were
suitably prompted.
'Who taught you that?' he said.
'My grandfather. He used to say it to me when I was a lit-
tle girl. He was vaporized when I was eight — at any rate, he
disappeared. I wonder what a lemon was,' she added incon-
sequently 'I've seen oranges. They're a kind of round yellow
fruit with a thick skin.'
T can remember lemons,' said Winston. "They were quite
common in the fifties. They were so sour that it set your
teeth on edge even to smell them.'
T bet that picture's got bugs behind it,' said Julia. 'I'll
take it down and give it a good clean some day. I suppose
it's almost time we were leaving. I must start washing this
paint off. What a bore! I'll get the lipstick off your face af-
terwards.'
Winston did not get up for a few minutes more. The
room was darkening. He turned over towards the light and
lay gazing into the glass paperweight. The inexhaustibly
interesting thing was not the fragment of coral but the in-
terior of the glass itself. There was such a depth of it, and
yet it was almost as transparent as air. It was as though the
surface of the glass had been the arch of the sky, enclosing
a tiny world with its atmosphere complete. He had the feel-
ing that he could get inside it, and that in fact he was inside
184 1984
it, along with the mahogany bed and the gateleg table, and
the clock and the steel engraving and the paperweight itself.
The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was
Julia's life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart
of the crystal.
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Chapter 5
Syme had vanished. A morning came, and he was miss-
ing from work: a few thoughtless people commented on
his absence. On the next day nobody mentioned him. On
the third day Winston went into the vestibule of the Re-
cords Department to look at the notice-board. One of the
notices carried a printed list of the members of the Chess
Committee, of whom Syme had been one. It looked almost
exactly as it had looked before — nothing had been crossed
out — but it was one name shorter. It was enough. Syme had
ceased to exist: he had never existed.
The weather was baking hot. In the labyrinthine Ministry
the windowless, air-conditioned rooms kept their normal
temperature, but outside the pavements scorched one's feet
and the stench of the Tubes at the rush hours was a hor-
ror. The preparations for Hate Week were in full swing, and
the staffs of all the Ministries were working overtime. Pro-
cessions, meetings, military parades, lectures, waxworks,
displays, film shows, telescreen programmes all had to be
organized; stands had to be erected, effigies built, slogans
coined, songs written, rumours circulated, photographs
faked. Julia's unit in the Fiction Department had been tak-
en off the production of novels and was rushing out a series
of atrocity pamphlets. Winston, in addition to his regular
work, spent long periods every day in going through back
1984
files of 'The Times' and altering and embellishing news
items which were to be quoted in speeches. Late at night,
when crowds of rowdy proles roamed the streets, the town
had a curiously febrile air. The rocket bombs crashed of-
tener than ever, and sometimes in the far distance there
were enormous explosions which no one could explain and
about which there were wild rumours.
The new tune which was to be the theme-song of Hate
Week (the Hate Song, it was called) had already been com-
posed and was being endlessly plugged on the telescreens.
It had a savage, barking rhythm which could not exactly be
called music, but resembled the beating of a drum. Roared
out by hundreds of voices to the tramp of marching feet, it
was terrifying. The proles had taken a fancy to it, and in the
midnight streets it competed with the still-popular 'It was
only a hopeless fancy'. The Parsons children played it at all
hours of the night and day, unbearably, on a comb and a
piece of toilet paper. Winston's evenings were fuller than
ever. Squads of volunteers, organized by Parsons, were pre-
paring the street for Hate Week, stitching banners, painting
posters, erecting flagstaff's on the roofs, and perilously sling-
ing wires across the street for the reception of streamers.
Parsons boasted that Victory Mansions alone would display
four hundred metres of bunting. He was in his native ele-
ment and as happy as a lark. The heat and the manual work
had even given him a pretext for reverting to shorts and
an open shirt in the evenings. He was everywhere at once,
pushing, pulling, sawing, hammering, improvising, jolly-
ing everyone along with comradely exhortations and giving
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 187
out from every fold of his body what seemed an inexhaust-
ible supply of acrid-smelling sweat.
A new poster had suddenly appeared all over London. It
had no caption, and represented simply the monstrous fig-
ure of a Eurasian soldier, three or four metres high, striding
forward with expressionless Mongolian face and enor-
mous boots, a submachine gun pointed from his hip. From
whatever angle you looked at the poster, the muzzle of the
gun, magnified by the foreshortening, seemed to be point-
ed straight at you. The thing had been plastered on every
blank space on every wall, even outnumbering the por-
traits of Big Brother. The proles, normally apathetic about
the war, were being lashed into one of their periodical fren-
zies of patriotism. As though to harmonize with the general
mood, the rocket bombs had been killing larger numbers
of people than usual. One fell on a crowded film theatre in
Stepney, burying several hundred victims among the ruins.
The whole population of the neighbourhood turned out for
a long, trailing funeral which went on for hours and was in
effect an indignation meeting. Another bomb fell on a piece
of waste ground which was used as a playground and sever-
al dozen children were blown to pieces. There were further
angry demonstrations, Goldstein was burned in effigy, hun-
dreds of copies of the poster of the Eurasian soldier were
torn down and added to the flames, and a number of shops
were looted in the turmoil; then a rumour flew round that
spies were directing the rocket bombs by means of wireless
waves, and an old couple who were suspected of being of
foreign extraction had their house set on fire and perished
1984
of suffocation.
In the room over Mr Charrington's shop, when they could
get there, Julia and Winston lay side by side on a stripped
bed under the open window, naked for the sake of coolness.
The rat had never come back, but the bugs had multiplied
hideously in the heat. It did not seem to matter. Dirty or
clean, the room was paradise. As soon as they arrived they
would sprinkle everything with pepper bought on the black
market, tear off their clothes, and make love with sweating
bodies, then fall asleep and wake to find that the bugs had
rallied and were massing for the counter-attack.
Four, five, six — seven times they met during the month
of June. Winston had dropped his habit of drinking gin at
all hours. He seemed to have lost the need for it. He had
grown fatter, his varicose ulcer had subsided, leaving only
a brown stain on the skin above his ankle, his fits of cough-
ing in the early morning had stopped. The process of life
had ceased to be intolerable, he had no longer any impulse
to make faces at the telescreen or shout curses at the top of
his voice. Now that they had a secure hiding-place, almost a
home, it did not even seem a hardship that they could only
meet infrequently and for a couple of hours at a time. What
mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist.
To know that it was there, inviolate, was almost the same as
being in it. The room was a world, a pocket of the past where
extinct animals could walk. Mr Charrington, thought Win-
ston, was another extinct animal. He usually stopped to talk
with Mr Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs.
The old man seemed seldom or never to go out of doors,
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 189
and on the other hand to have almost no customers. He
led a ghostlike existence between the tiny, dark shop, and
an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his meals
and which contained, among other things, an unbelievably
ancient gramophone with an enormous horn. He seemed
glad of the opportunity to talk. Wandering about among
his worthless stock, with his long nose and thick spectacles
and his bowed shoulders in the velvet jacket, he had always
vaguely the air of being a collector rather than a tradesman.
With a sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this scrap
of rubbish or that — a china bottle-stopper, the painted lid of
a broken snuffbox, a pinchbeck locket containing a strand
of some long-dead baby's hair — never asking that Winston
should buy it, merely that he should admire it. To talk to
him was like listening to the tinkling of a worn-out musical-
box. He had dragged out from the corners of his memory
some more fragments of forgotten rhymes. There was one
about four and twenty blackbirds, and another about a cow
with a crumpled horn, and another about the death of poor
Cock Robin. 'It just occurred to me you might be interested,'
he would say with a deprecating little laugh whenever he
produced a new fragment. But he could never recall more
than a few lines of any one rhyme.
Both of them knew — in a way, it was never out of their
minds that what was now happening could not last long.
There were times when the fact of impending death seemed
as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they would cling to-
gether with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned
soul grasping at his last morsel of pleasure when the clock
1984
is within five minutes of striking. But there were also times
when they had the illusion not only of safety but of per-
manence. So long as they were actually in this room, they
both felt, no harm could come to them. Getting there was
difficult and dangerous, but the room itself was sanctuary.
It was as when Winston had gazed into the heart of the pa-
perweight, with the feeling that it would be possible to get
inside that glassy world, and that once inside it time could
be arrested. Often they gave themselves up to daydreams of
escape. Their luck would hold indefinitely, and they would
carry on their intrigue, just like this, for the remainder of
their natural lives. Or Katharine would die, and by subtle
manoeuvrings Winston and Julia would succeed in get-
ting married. Or they would commit suicide together. Or
they would disappear, alter themselves out of recognition,
learn to speak with proletarian accents, get jobs in a factory
and live out their lives undetected in a back-street. It was
all nonsense, as they both knew. In reality there was no es-
cape. Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they
had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to
day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had
no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one's
lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is
air available.
Sometimes, too, they talked of engaging in active rebel-
lion against the Party, but with no notion of how to take
the first step. Even if the fabulous Brotherhood was a real-
ity, there still remained the difficulty of finding one's way
into it. He told her of the strange intimacy that existed, or
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seemed to exist, between himself and O'Brien, and of the
impulse he sometimes felt, simply to walk into O'Brien's
presence, announce that he was the enemy of the Party, and
demand his help. Curiously enough, this did not strike her
as an impossibly rash thing to do. She was used to judg-
ing people by their faces, and it seemed natural to her that
Winston should believe O'Brien to be trustworthy on the
strength of a single flash of the eyes. Moreover she took it
for granted that everyone, or nearly everyone, secretly hated
the Party and would break the rules if he thought it safe to
do so. But she refused to believe that widespread, organized
opposition existed or could exist. The tales about Goldstein
and his underground army, she said, were simply a lot of
rubbish which the Party had invented for its own purposes
and which you had to pretend to believe in. Times beyond
number, at Party rallies and spontaneous demonstrations,
she had shouted at the top of her voice for the execution of
people whose names she had never heard and in whose sup-
posed crimes she had not the faintest belief. When public
trials were happening she had taken her place in the detach-
ments from the Youth League who surrounded the courts
from morning to night, chanting at intervals 'Death to the
traitors!' During the Two Minutes Hate she always excelled
all others in shouting insults at Goldstein. Yet she had only
the dimmest idea of who Goldstein was and what doctrines
he was supposed to represent. She had grown up since the
Revolution and was too young to remember the ideological
battles of the fifties and sixties. Such a thing as an indepen-
dent political movement was outside her imagination: and
1984
in any case the Party was invincible. It would always ex-
ist, and it would always be the same. You could only rebel
against it by secret disobedience or, at most, by isolated acts
of violence such as killing somebody or blowing something
up.
In some ways she was far more acute than Winston, and
far less susceptible to Party propaganda. Once when he
happened in some connexion to mention the war against
Eurasia, she startled him by saying casually that in her opin-
ion the war was not happening. The rocket bombs which fell
daily on London were probably fired by the Government
of Oceania itself, 'just to keep people frightened'. This was
an idea that had literally never occurred to him. She also
stirred a sort of envy in him by telling him that during the
Two Minutes Hate her great difficulty was to avoid bursting
out laughing. But she only questioned the teachings of the
Party when they in some way touched upon her own life.
Often she was ready to accept the official mythology, simply
because the difference between truth and falsehood did not
seem important to her. She believed, for instance, having
learnt it at school, that the Party had invented aeroplanes.
(In his own schooldays, Winston remembered, in the late
fifties, it was only the helicopter that the Party claimed to
have invented; a dozen years later, when Julia was at school,
it was already claiming the aeroplane; one generation more,
and it would be claiming the steam engine.) And when he
told her that aeroplanes had been in existence before he was
born and long before the Revolution, the fact struck her as
totally uninteresting. After all, what did it matter who had
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invented aeroplanes? It was rather more of a shock to him
when he discovered from some chance remark that she did
not remember that Oceania, four years ago, had been at war
with Eastasia and at peace with Eurasia. It was true that she
regarded the whole war as a sham: but apparently she had
not even noticed that the name of the enemy had changed.
'I thought we'd always been at war with Eurasia,' she said
vaguely. It frightened him a little. The invention of aero-
planes dated from long before her birth, but the switchover
in the war had happened only four years ago, well after she
was grown up. He argued with her about it for perhaps a
quarter of an hour. In the end he succeeded in forcing her
memory back until she did dimly recall that at one time
Eastasia and not Eurasia had been the enemy. But the issue
still struck her as unimportant. 'Who cares?' she said im-
patiently. 'It's always one bloody war after another, and one
knows the news is all lies anyway'
Sometimes he talked to her of the Records Department
and the impudent forgeries that he committed there. Such
things did not appear to horrify her. She did not feel the
abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought of lies becom-
ing truths. He told her the story of Jones, Aaronson, and
Rutherford and the momentous slip of paper which he had
once held between his fingers. It did not make much im-
pression on her. At first, indeed, she failed to grasp the point
of the story.
'Were they friends of yours?' she said.
'No, I never knew them. They were Inner Party members.
Besides, they were far older men than I was. They belonged
1984
to the old days, before the Revolution. I barely knew them
by sight.'
"Then what was there to worry about? People are being
killed off all the time, aren't they?'
He tried to make her understand. "This was an excep-
tional case. It wasn't just a question of somebody being
killed. Do you realize that the past, starting from yester-
day, has been actually abolished? If it survives anywhere,
it's in a few solid objects with no words attached to them,
like that lump of glass there. Already we know almost lit-
erally nothing about the Revolution and the years before
the Revolution. Every record has been destroyed or falsi-
fied, every book has been rewritten, every picture has been
repainted, every statue and street and building has been
renamed, every date has been altered. And that process is
continuing day by day and minute by minute. History has
stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which
the Party is always right. I know, of course, that the past is
falsified, but it would never be possible for me to prove it,
even when I did the falsification myself. After the thing is
done, no evidence ever remains. The only evidence is inside
my own mind, and I don't know with any certainty that any
other human being shares my memories. Just in that one
instance, in my whole life, I did possess actual concrete evi-
dence after the event — years after it.'
And what good was that?'
'It was no good, because I threw it away a few minutes lat-
er. But if the same thing happened today, I should keep it.'
'Well, I wouldn't!' said Julia. 'I'm quite ready to take
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risks, but only for something worth while, not for bits of
old newspaper. What could you have done with it even if
you had kept it?'
'Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have
planted a few doubts here and there, supposing that I'd
dared to show it to anybody. I don't imagine that we can
alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine lit-
tle knots of resistance springing up here and there — small
groups of people banding themselves together, and gradu-
ally growing, and even leaving a few records behind, so that
the next generations can carry on where we leave off.'
'I'm not interested in the next generation, dear. I'm inter-
ested in US.'
'You're only a rebel from the waist downwards,' he told
her.
She thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms
round him in delight.
In the ramifications of party doctrine she had not the
faintest interest. Whenever he began to talk of the princi-
ples of Ingsoc, doublethink, the mutability of the past, and
the denial of objective reality, and to use Newspeak words,
she became bored and confused and said that she never paid
any attention to that kind of thing. One knew that it was all
rubbish, so why let oneself be worried by it? She knew when
to cheer and when to boo, and that was all one needed. If he
persisted in talking of such subjects, she had a disconcerting
habit of falling asleep. She was one of those people who can
go to sleep at any hour and in any position. Talking to her,
he realized how easy it was to present an appearance of or-
196 1984
thodoxy while having no grasp whatever of what orthodoxy
meant. In a way, the world- view of the Party imposed itself
most successfully on people incapable of understanding it.
They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations
of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity
of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently
interested in public events to notice what was happening.
By lack of understanding they remained sane. They simply
swallowed everything, and what they swallowed did them
no harm, because it left no residue behind, just as a grain of
corn will pass undigested through the body of a bird.
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Chapter 6
It had happened at last. The expected message had come.
All his life, it seemed to him, he had been waiting for this
to happen.
He was walking down the long corridor at the Minis-
try and he was almost at the spot where Julia had slipped
the note into his hand when he became aware that some-
one larger than himself was walking just behind him. The
person, whoever it was, gave a small cough, evidently as a
prelude to speaking. Winston stopped abruptly and turned.
It was O'Brien.
At last they were face to face, and it seemed that his only
impulse was to run away. His heart bounded violently. He
would have been incapable of speaking. O'Brien, however,
had continued forward in the same movement, laying a
friendly hand for a moment on Winston's arm, so that the
two of them were walking side by side. He began speak-
ing with the peculiar grave courtesy that differentiated him
from the majority of Inner Party members.
'I had been hoping for an opportunity of talking to you,'
he said. 'I was reading one of your Newspeak articles in
'The Times' the other day. You take a scholarly interest in
Newspeak, I believe?'
Winston had recovered part of his self-possession.
'Hardly scholarly' he said. 'I'm only an amateur. It's not my
1984
subject. I have never had anything to do with the actual
construction of the language.'
'But you write it very elegantly' said O'Brien. "That is not
only my own opinion. I was talking recently to a friend of
yours who is certainly an expert. His name has slipped my
memory for the moment.'
Again Winston's heart stirred painfully. It was incon-
ceivable that this was anything other than a reference to
Syme. But Syme was not only dead, he was abolished, an
unperson. Any identifiable reference to him would have
been mortally dangerous. O'Brien's remark must obviously
have been intended as a signal, a codeword. By sharing a
small act of thoughtcrime he had turned the two of them
into accomplices. They had continued to stroll slowly down
the corridor, but now O'Brien halted. With the curious, dis-
arming friendliness that he always managed to put in to the
gesture he resettled his spectacles on his nose. Then he went
on:
'What I had really intended to say was that in your article
I noticed you had used two words which have become obso-
lete. But they have only become so very recently. Have you
seen the tenth edition of the Newspeak Dictionary?'
'No,' said Winston. 'I didn't think it had been issued yet.
We are still using the ninth in the Records Department.'
'The tenth edition is not due to appear for some months,
I believe. But a few advance copies have been circulated.
I have one myself. It might interest you to look at it, per-
haps?'
'Very much so,' said Winston, immediately seeing where
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this tended.
'Some of the new developments are most ingenious. The
reduction in the number of verbs — that is the point that will
appeal to you, I think. Let me see, shall I send a messenger
to you with the dictionary? But I am afraid I invariably for-
get anything of that kind. Perhaps you could pick it up at
my flat at some time that suited you? Wait. Let me give you
my address.'
They were standing in front of a telescreen. Somewhat
absentmindedly O'Brien felt two of his pockets and then
produced a small leather-covered notebook and a gold
ink-pencil. Immediately beneath the telescreen, in such a
position that anyone who was watching at the other end of
the instrument could read what he was writing, he scribbled
an address, tore out the page and handed it to Winston.
'I am usually at home in the evenings,' he said. 'If not, my
servant will give you the dictionary'
He was gone, leaving Winston holding the scrap of paper,
which this time there was no need to conceal. Nevertheless
he carefully memorized what was written on it, and some
hours later dropped it into the memory hole along with a
mass of other papers.
They had been talking to one another for a couple of
minutes at the most. There was only one meaning that the
episode could possibly have. It had been contrived as a way
of letting Winston know O'Brien's address. This was neces-
sary, because except by direct enquiry it was never possible
to discover where anyone lived. There were no directories
of any kind. 'If you ever want to see me, this is where I can
1984
be found,' was what O'Brien had been saying to him. Per-
haps there would even be a message concealed somewhere
in the dictionary. But at any rate, one thing was certain. The
conspiracy that he had dreamed of did exist, and he had
reached the outer edges of it.
He knew that sooner or later he would obey O'Brien's
summons. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps after a long de-
lay — he was not certain. What was happening was only the
working-out of a process that had started years ago. The
first step had been a secret, involuntary thought, the sec-
ond had been the opening of the diary. He had moved from
thoughts to words, and now from words to actions. The last
step was something that would happen in the Ministry of
Love. He had accepted it. The end was contained in the be-
ginning. But it was frightening: or, more exactly, it was like
a foretaste of death, like being a little less alive. Even while
he was speaking to O'Brien, when the meaning of the words
had sunk in, a chilly shuddering feeling had taken posses-
sion of his body. He had the sensation of stepping into the
dampness of a grave, and it was not much better because
he had always known that the grave was there and waiting
for him.
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Chapter 7
Winston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Ju-
lia rolled sleepily against him, murmuring something
that might have been 'What's the matter?'
'I dreamt — ' he began, and stopped short. It was too com-
plex to be put into words. There was the dream itself, and
there was a memory connected with it that had swum into
his mind in the few seconds after waking.
He lay back with his eyes shut, still sodden in the atmo-
sphere of the dream. It was a vast, luminous dream in which
his whole life seemed to stretch out before him like a land-
scape on a summer evening after rain. It had all occurred
inside the glass paperweight, but the surface of the glass
was the dome of the sky, and inside the dome everything
was flooded with clear soft light in which one could see into
interminable distances. The dream had also been compre-
hended by — indeed, in some sense it had consisted in — a
gesture of the arm made by his mother, and made again
thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the
news film, trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets,
before the helicopter blew them both to pieces.
'Do you know,' he said, 'that until this moment I believed
I had murdered my mother?'
'Why did you murder her?' said Julia, almost asleep.
'I didn't murder her. Not physically'
1984
In the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his
mother, and within a few moments of waking the cluster
of small events surrounding it had all come back. It was a
memory that he must have deliberately pushed out of his
consciousness over many years. He was not certain of the
date, but he could not have been less than ten years old, pos-
sibly twelve, when it had happened.
His father had disappeared some time earlier, how much
earlier he could not remember. He remembered better the
rackety, uneasy circumstances of the time: the periodical
panics about air-raids and the sheltering in Tube stations,
the piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proc-
lamations posted at street corners, the gangs of youths in
shirts all the same colour, the enormous queues outside
the bakeries, the intermittent machine-gun fire in the dis-
tance — above all, the fact that there was never enough to
eat. He remembered long afternoons spent with other boys
in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking
out the ribs of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes
even scraps of stale breadcrust from which they carefully
scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting for the pass-
ing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were
known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted
over the bad patches in the road, sometimes spilt a few frag-
ments of oil-cake.
When his father disappeared, his mother did not show
any surprise or any violent grief, but a sudden change came
over her. She seemed to have become completely spiritless.
It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for
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something that she knew must happen. She did everything
that was needed — cooked, washed, mended, made the bed,
swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece — always very slowly
and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an art-
ist's lay- figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely
body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For hours
at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed, nurs-
ing his young sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two
or three, with a face made simian by thinness. Very occa-
sionally she would take Winston in her arms and press him
against her for a long time without saying anything. He was
aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this
was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing
that was about to happen.
He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, close-
smelling room that seemed half filled by a bed with a white
counterpane. There was a gas ring in the fender, and a shelf
where food was kept, and on the landing outside there was
a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He
remembered his mother's statuesque body bending over the
gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan. Above all he
remembered his continuous hunger, and the fierce sordid
battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly,
over and over again, why there was not more food, he would
shout and storm at her (he even remembered the tones of
his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely and
sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or he would attempt
a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his
share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than
1984
his share. She took it for granted that he, 'the boy', should
have the biggest portion; but however much she gave him
he invariably demanded more. At every meal she would be-
seech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little
sister was sick and also needed food, but it was no use. He
would cry out with rage when she stopped ladling, he would
try to wrench the saucepan and spoon out of her hands, he
would grab bits from his sister's plate. He knew that he was
starving the other two, but he could not help it; he even felt
that he had a right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his bel-
ly seemed to justify him. Between meals, if his mother did
not stand guard, he was constantly pilfering at the wretched
store of food on the shelf.
One day a chocolate-ration was issued. There had been
no such issue for weeks or months past. He remembered
quite clearly that precious little morsel of chocolate. It was a
two-ounce slab (they still talked about ounces in those days)
between the three of them. It was obvious that it ought to
be divided into three equal parts. Suddenly, as though he
were listening to somebody else, Winston heard himself
demanding in a loud booming voice that he should be giv-
en the whole piece. His mother told him not to be greedy.
There was a long, nagging argument that went round and
round, with shouts, whines, tears, remonstrances, bargain-
ings. His tiny sister, clinging to her mother with both hands,
exactly like a baby monkey, sat looking over her shoulder at
him with large, mournful eyes. In the end his mother broke
off three-quarters of the chocolate and gave it to Winston,
giving the other quarter to his sister. The little girl took hold
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of it and looked at it dully, perhaps not knowing what it was.
Winston stood watching her for a moment. Then with a
sudden swift spring he had snatched the piece of chocolate
out of his sister's hand and was fleeing for the door.
'Winston, Winston!' his mother called after him. 'Come
back! Give your sister back her chocolate!'
He stopped, but did not come back. His mother's anx-
ious eyes were fixed on his face. Even now he was thinking
about the thing, he did not know what it was that was on
the point of happening. His sister, conscious of having been
robbed of something, had set up a feeble wail. His mother
drew her arm round the child and pressed its face against
her breast. Something in the gesture told him that his sis-
ter was dying. He turned and fled down the stairs, with the
chocolate growing sticky in his hand.
He never saw his mother again. After he had devoured
the chocolate he felt somewhat ashamed of himself and
hung about in the streets for several hours, until hunger
drove him home. When he came back his mother had dis-
appeared. This was already becoming normal at that time.
Nothing was gone from the room except his mother and his
sister. They had not taken any clothes, not even his mother's
overcoat. To this day he did not know with any certainty
that his mother was dead. It was perfectly possible that she
had merely been sent to a forced-labour camp. As for his
sister, she might have been removed, like Winston himself,
to one of the colonies for homeless children (Reclamation
Centres, they were called) which had grown up as a result
of the civil war, or she might have been sent to the labour
1984
camp along with his mother, or simply left somewhere or
other to die.
The dream was still vivid in his mind, especially the en-
veloping protecting gesture of the arm in which its whole
meaning seemed to be contained. His mind went back to
another dream of two months ago. Exactly as his mother
had sat on the dingy whitequilted bed, with the child cling-
ing to her, so she had sat in the sunken ship, far underneath
him, and drowning deeper every minute, but still looking
up at him through the darkening water.
He told Julia the story of his mother's disappearance.
Without opening her eyes she rolled over and settled herself
into a more comfortable position.
'I expect you were a beastly little swine in those days,' she
said indistinctly. 'All children are swine.'
'Yes. But the real point of the story '
From her breathing it was evident that she was going
off to sleep again. He would have liked to continue talking
about his mother. He did not suppose, from what he could
remember of her, that she had been an unusual woman, still
less an intelligent one; and yet she had possessed a kind of
nobility, a kind of purity, simply because the standards that
she obeyed were private ones. Her feelings were her own,
and could not be altered from outside. It would not have
occurred to her that an action which is ineffectual thereby
becomes meaningless. If you loved someone, you loved him,
and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him
love. When the last of the chocolate was gone, his mother
had clasped the child in her arms. It was no use, it changed
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nothing, it did not produce more chocolate, it did not avert
the child's death or her own; but it seemed natural to her to
do it. The refugee woman in the boat had also covered the
little boy with her arm, which was no more use against the
bullets than a sheet of paper. The terrible thing that the Par-
ty had done was to persuade you that mere impulses, mere
feelings, were of no account, while at the same time robbing
you of all power over the material world. When once you
were in the grip of the Party, what you felt or did not feel,
what you did or refrained from doing, made literally no dif-
ference. Whatever happened you vanished, and neither you
nor your actions were ever heard of again. You were lifted
clean out of the stream of history. And yet to the people
of only two generations ago this would not have seemed
all-important, because they were not attempting to alter
history. They were governed by private loyalties which they
did not question. What mattered were individual relation-
ships, and a completely helpless gesture, an embrace, a tear,
a word spoken to a dying man, could have value in itself.
The proles, it suddenly occurred to him, had remained in
this condition. They were not loyal to a party or a country or
an idea, they were loyal to one another. For the first time in
his life he did not despise the proles or think of them merely
as an inert force which would one day spring to life and re-
generate the world. The proles had stayed human. They had
not become hardened inside. They had held on to the primi-
tive emotions which he himself had to re-learn by conscious
effort. And in thinking this he remembered, without appar-
ent relevance, how a few weeks ago he had seen a severed
1984
hand lying on the pavement and had kicked it into the gut-
ter as though it had been a cabbage-stalk.
"The proles are human beings,' he said aloud. 'We are not
human.'
'Why not?' said Julia, who had woken up again.
He thought for a little while. 'Has it ever occurred to you,'
he said, 'that the best thing for us to do would be simply to
walk out of here before it's too late, and never see each other
again?'
'Yes, dear, it has occurred to me, several times. But I'm
not going to do it, all the same.'
'We've been lucky' he said 'but it can't last much longer.
You're young. You look normal and innocent. If you keep
clear of people like me, you might stay alive for another fifty
years.'
'No. I've thought it all out. What you do, I'm going to do.
And don't be too downhearted. I'm rather good at staying
alive.'
'We may be together for another six months — a year —
there's no knowing. At the end we're certain to be apart. Do
you realize how utterly alone we shall be? When once they
get hold of us there will be nothing, literally nothing, that
either of us can do for the other. If I confess, they'll shoot
you, and if I refuse to confess, they'll shoot you just the same.
Nothing that I can do or say, or stop myself from saying, will
put off your death for as much as five minutes. Neither of us
will even know whether the other is alive or dead. We shall
be utterly without power of any kind. The one thing that
matters is that we shouldn't betray one another, although
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even that can't make the slightest difference.'
'If you mean confessing,' she said, 'we shall do that, right
enough. Everybody always confesses. You can't help it. They
torture you.'
'I don't mean confessing. Confession is not betrayal.
What you say or do doesn't matter: only feelings matter. If
they could make me stop loving you — that would be the
real betrayal.'
She thought it over. 'They can't do that,' she said final-
ly 'It's the one thing they can't do. They can make you say
anything — ANYTHING — but they can't make you believe
it. They can't get inside you.'
'No,' he said a little more hopefully, 'no; that's quite true.
They can't get inside you. If you can FEEL that staying hu-
man is worth while, even when it can't have any result
whatever, you've beaten them.'
He thought of the telescreen with its never- sleeping ear.
They could spy upon you night and day, but if you kept your
head you could still outwit them. With all their cleverness
they had never mastered the secret of finding out what an-
other human being was thinking. Perhaps that was less true
when you were actually in their hands. One did not know
what happened inside the Ministry of Love, but it was pos-
sible to guess: tortures, drugs, delicate instruments that
registered your nervous reactions, gradual wearing- down
by sleeplessness and solitude and persistent questioning.
Facts, at any rate, could not be kept hidden. They could be
tracked down by enquiry, they could be squeezed out of you
by torture. But if the object was not to stay alive but to stay
1984
human, what difference did it ultimately make? They could
not alter your feelings: for that matter you could not alter
them yourself, even if you wanted to. They could lay bare in
the utmost detail everything that you had done or said or
thought; but the inner heart, whose workings were mysteri-
ous even to yourself, remained impregnable.
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Chapter 8
They had done it, they had done it at last!
The room they were standing in was long-shaped and
softly lit. The telescreen was dimmed to a low murmur; the
richness of the dark-blue carpet gave one the impression of
treading on velvet. At the far end of the room O'Brien was
sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp, with a mass of
papers on either side of him. He had not bothered to look up
when the servant showed Julia and Winston in.
Winston's heart was thumping so hard that he doubted
whether he would be able to speak. They had done it, they
had done it at last, was all he could think. It had been a rash
act to come here at all, and sheer folly to arrive together;
though it was true that they had come by different routes
and only met on O'Brien's doorstep. But merely to walk into
such a place needed an effort of the nerve. It was only on
very rare occasions that one saw inside the dwelling-plac-
es of the Inner Party, or even penetrated into the quarter
of the town where they lived. The whole atmosphere of the
huge block of flats, the richness and spaciousness of every-
thing, the unfamiliar smells of good food and good tobacco,
the silent and incredibly rapid lifts sliding up and down, the
white-jacketed servants hurrying to and fro — everything
was intimidating. Although he had a good pretext for com-
ing here, he was haunted at every step by the fear that a
1984
black-uniformed guard would suddenly appear from round
the corner, demand his papers, and order him to get out.
O'Brien's servant, however, had admitted the two of them
without demur. He was a small, dark-haired man in a white
jacket, with a diamond- shaped, completely expressionless
face which might have been that of a Chinese. The passage
down which he led them was softly carpeted, with cream-
papered walls and white wainscoting, all exquisitely clean.
That too was intimidating. Winston could not remember
ever to have seen a passageway whose walls were not grimy
from the contact of human bodies.
O'Brien had a slip of paper between his fingers and
seemed to be studying it intently. His heavy face, bent down
so that one could see the line of the nose, looked both for-
midable and intelligent. For perhaps twenty seconds he sat
without stirring. Then he pulled the speakwrite towards
him and rapped out a message in the hybrid jargon of the
Ministries:
'Items one comma five comma seven approved fullwise
stop suggestion contained item six doubleplus ridiculous
verging crimethink cancel stop unproceed construction-wise
antegetting plusfull estimates machinery overheads stop end
message.'
He rose deliberately from his chair and came towards
them across the soundless carpet. A little of the official at-
mosphere seemed to have fallen away from him with the
Newspeak words, but his expression was grimmer than
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usual, as though he were not pleased at being disturbed. The
terror that Winston already felt was suddenly shot through
by a streak of ordinary embarrassment. It seemed to him
quite possible that he had simply made a stupid mistake.
For what evidence had he in reality that O'Brien was any
kind of political conspirator? Nothing but a flash of the eyes
and a single equivocal remark: beyond that, only his own
secret imaginings, founded on a dream. He could not even
fall back on the pretence that he had come to borrow the
dictionary, because in that case Julia's presence was impos-
sible to explain. As O'Brien passed the telescreen a thought
seemed to strike him. He stopped, turned aside and pressed
a switch on the wall. There was a sharp snap. The voice had
stopped.
Julia uttered a tiny sound, a sort of squeak of surprise.
Even in the midst of his panic, Winston was too much taken
aback to be able to hold his tongue.
'You can turn it off!' he said.
'Yes,' said O'Brien, 'we can turn it off. We have that privi-
lege.'
He was opposite them now. His solid form towered
over the pair of them, and the expression on his face was
still indecipherable. He was waiting, somewhat sternly, for
Winston to speak, but about what? Even now it was quite
conceivable that he was simply a busy man wondering ir-
ritably why he had been interrupted. Nobody spoke. After
the stopping of the telescreen the room seemed deadly si-
lent. The seconds marched past, enormous. With difficulty
Winston continued to keep his eyes fixed on O'Brien's. Then
1984
suddenly the grim face broke down into what might have
been the beginnings of a smile. With his characteristic ges-
ture O'Brien resettled his spectacles on his nose.
'Shall I say it, or will you?' he said.
'I will say it,' said Winston promptly. 'That thing is really
turned off?'
'Yes, everything is turned off. We are alone.'
'We have come here because '
He paused, realizing for the first time the vagueness of
his own motives. Since he did not in fact know what kind
of help he expected from O'Brien, it was not easy to say why
he had come here. He went on, conscious that what he was
saying must sound both feeble and pretentious:
'We believe that there is some kind of conspiracy, some
kind of secret organization working against the Party, and
that you are involved in it. We want to join it and work for it.
We are enemies of the Party. We disbelieve in the principles
of Ingsoc. We are thought-criminals. We are also adulter-
ers. I tell you this because we want to put ourselves at your
mercy. If you want us to incriminate ourselves in any other
way, we are ready'
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, with the
feeling that the door had opened. Sure enough, the little yel-
low-faced servant had come in without knocking. Winston
saw that he was carrying a tray with a decanter and glasses.
'Martin is one of us,' said O'Brien impassively. 'Bring
the drinks over here, Martin. Put them on the round table.
Have we enough chairs? Then we may as well sit down and
talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself, Martin. This is
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business. You can stop being a servant for the next ten min-
utes.'
The little man sat down, quite at his ease, and yet still
with a servant-like air, the air of a valet enjoying a priv-
ilege. Winston regarded him out of the corner of his eye.
It struck him that the man's whole life was playing a part,
and that he felt it to be dangerous to drop his assumed per-
sonality even for a moment. O'Brien took the decanter by
the neck and filled up the glasses with a dark-red liquid. It
aroused in Winston dim memories of something seen long
ago on a wall or a hoarding — a vast bottle composed of elec-
tric lights which seemed to move up and down and pour its
contents into a glass. Seen from the top the stuff looked al-
most black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby. It had
a sour-sweet smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff
at it with frank curiosity.
'It is called wine,' said O'Brien with a faint smile. 'You
will have read about it in books, no doubt. Not much of it
gets to the Outer Party, I am afraid.' His face grew solemn
again, and he raised his glass: 'I think it is fitting that we
should begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To Em-
manuel Goldstein.'
Winston took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine
was a thing he had read and dreamed about. Like the glass
paperweight or Mr Charrington's half- remembered rhymes,
it belonged to the vanished, romantic past, the olden time
as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts. For some reason
he had always thought of wine as having an intensely sweet
taste, like that of blackberry jam and an immediate intoxi-
1984
eating effect. Actually, when he came to swallow it, the stuff
was distinctly disappointing. The truth was that after years
of gin-drinking he could barely taste it. He set down the
empty glass.
"Then there is such a person as Goldstein?' he said.
'Yes, there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I do
not know.'
'And the conspiracy — the organization? Is it real? It is not
simply an invention of the Thought Police?'
'No, it is real. The Brotherhood, we call it. You will never
learn much more about the Brotherhood than that it exists
and that you belong to it. I will come back to that pres-
ently' He looked at his wrist-watch. 'It is unwise even for
members of the Inner Party to turn off the telescreen for
more than half an hour. You ought not to have come here
together, and you will have to leave separately. You, com-
rade' — he bowed his head to Julia — 'will leave first. We have
about twenty minutes at our disposal. You will understand
that I must start by asking you certain questions. In general
terms, what are you prepared to do?'
Anything that we are capable of,' said Winston.
O'Brien had turned himself a little in his chair so that he
was facing Winston. He almost ignored Julia, seeming to
take it for granted that Winston could speak for her. For a
moment the lids flitted down over his eyes. He began asking
his questions in a low, expressionless voice, as though this
were a routine, a sort of catechism, most of whose answers
were known to him already.
'You are prepared to give your lives?'
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'Yes.'
'You are prepared to commit murder?'
'Yes.'
'To commit acts of sabotage which may cause the death
of hundreds of innocent people?'
'Yes.'
'To betray your country to foreign powers?'
'Yes.'
'You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to cor-
rupt the minds of children, to distribute habit-forming
drugs, to encourage prostitution, to disseminate venereal
diseases — to do anything which is likely to cause demoral-
ization and weaken the power of the Party?'
'Yes.'
'If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to
throw sulphuric acid in a child's face — are you prepared to
do that?'
'Yes.'
'You are prepared to lose your identity and live out the
rest of your life as a waiter or a dock- worker?'
'Yes.'
'You are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we or-
der you to do so?'
'Yes.'
'You are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never
see one another again?'
'No!' broke in Julia.
It appeared to Winston that a long time passed before
he answered. For a moment he seemed even to have been
1984
deprived of the power of speech. His tongue worked sound-
lessly, forming the opening syllables first of one word, then
of the other, over and over again. Until he had said it, he
did not know which word he was going to say. 'No,' he said
finally.
'You did well to tell me,' said O'Brien. 'It is necessary for
us to know everything.'
He turned himself toward Julia and added in a voice
with somewhat more expression in it:
'Do you understand that even if he survives, it may be
as a different person? We may be obliged to give him a new
identity. His face, his movements, the shape of his hands,
the colour of his hair — even his voice would be different.
And you yourself might have become a different person.
Our surgeons can alter people beyond recognition. Some-
times it is necessary. Sometimes we even amputate a limb.'
Winston could not help snatching another sidelong
glance at Martin's Mongolian face. There were no scars
that he could see. Julia had turned a shade paler, so that
her freckles were showing, but she faced O'Brien boldly. She
murmured something that seemed to be assent.
'Good. Then that is settled.'
There was a silver box of cigarettes on the table. With a
rather absent-minded air O'Brien pushed them towards the
others, took one himself, then stood up and began to pace
slowly to and fro, as though he could think better standing.
They were very good cigarettes, very thick and well-packed,
with an unfamiliar silkiness in the paper. O'Brien looked at
his wrist-watch again.
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'You had better go back to your Pantry, Martin,' he said.
'I shall switch on in a quarter of an hour. Take a good look
at these comrades' faces before you go. You will be seeing
them again. I may not.'
Exactly as they had done at the front door, the little man's
dark eyes flickered over their faces. There was not a trace
of friendliness in his manner. He was memorizing their
appearance, but he felt no interest in them, or appeared
to feel none. It occurred to Winston that a synthetic face
was perhaps incapable of changing its expression. Without
speaking or giving any kind of salutation, Martin went out,
closing the door silently behind him. O'Brien was strolling
up and down, one hand in the pocket of his black overalls,
the other holding his cigarette.
'You understand,' he said, 'that you will be fighting in
the dark. You will always be in the dark. You will receive
orders and you will obey them, without knowing why. Later
I shall send you a book from which you will learn the true
nature of the society we live in, and the strategy by which
we shall destroy it. When you have read the book, you will
be full members of the Brotherhood. But between the gen-
eral aims that we are fighting for and the immedi ate tasks
of the moment, you will never know anything. I tell you
that the Brotherhood exists, but I cannot tell you wheth-
er it numbers a hundred members, or ten million. From
your personal knowledge you will never be able to say that
it numbers even as many as a dozen. You will have three
or four contacts, who will be renewed from time to time
as they disappear. As this was your first contact, it will be
1984
preserved. When you receive orders, they will come from
me. If we find it necessary to communicate with you, it will
be through Martin. When you are finally caught, you will
confess. That is unavoidable. But you will have very little
to confess, other than your own actions. You will not be
able to betray more than a handful of unimportant people.
Probably you will not even betray me. By that time I may be
dead, or I shall have become a different person, with a dif-
ferent face.'
He continued to move to and fro over the soft carpet. In
spite of the bulkiness of his body there was a remarkable
grace in his movements. It came out even in the gesture
with which he thrust a hand into his pocket, or manipu-
lated a cigarette. More even than of strength, he gave an
impression of confidence and of an understanding tinged
by irony. However much in earnest he might be, he had
nothing of the single-mindedness that belongs to a fanatic.
When he spoke of murder, suicide, venereal disease, am-
putated limbs, and altered faces, it was with a faint air of
persiflage. 'This is unavoidable,' his voice seemed to say;
'this is what we have got to do, unflinchingly. But this is
not what we shall be doing when life is worth living again.'
A wave of admiration, almost of worship, flowed out from
Winston towards O'Brien. For the moment he had forgot-
ten the shadowy figure of Goldstein. When you looked at
O'Brien's powerful shoulders and his blunt- featured face, so
ugly and yet so civilized, it was impossible to believe that
he could be defeated. There was no stratagem that he was
not equal to, no danger that he could not foresee. Even Julia
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seemed to be impressed. She had let her cigarette go out and
was listening intently. O'Brien went on:
'You will have heard rumours of the existence of the
Brotherhood. No doubt you have formed your own picture
of it. You have imagined, probably, a huge underworld of
conspirators, meeting secretly in cellars, scribbling mes-
sages on walls, recognizing one another by codewords or by
special movements of the hand. Nothing of the kind exists.
The members of the Brotherhood have no way of recogniz-
ing one another, and it is impossible for any one member to
be aware of the identity of more than a few others. Gold-
stein himself, if he fell into the hands of the Thought Police,
could not give them a complete list of members, or any in-
formation that would lead them to a complete list. No such
list exists. The Brotherhood cannot be wiped out because it
is not an organization in the ordinary sense. Nothing holds
it together except an idea which is indestructible. You will
never have anything to sustain you, except the idea. You
will get no comradeship and no encouragement. When fi-
nally you are caught, you will get no help. We never help
our members. At most, when it is absolutely necessary that
someone should be silenced, we are occasionally able to
smuggle a razor blade into a prisoner's cell. You will have
to get used to living without results and without hope. You
will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess,
and then you will die. Those are the only results that you
will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible
change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the
dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part
1984
in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far
away that future may be, there is no knowing. It might be
a thousand years. At present nothing is possible except to
extend the area of sanity little by little. We cannot act col-
lectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards from
individual to individual, generation after generation. In the
face of the Thought Police there is no other way'
He halted and looked for the third time at his wrist-
watch.
'It is almost time for you to leave, comrade,' he said to Ju-
lia. 'Wait. The decanter is still half full.'
He filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the
stem.
'What shall it be this time?' he said, still with the same
faint suggestion of irony. 'To the confusion of the Thought
Police? To the death of Big Brother? To humanity? To the
future?'
'To the past,' said Winston.
'The past is more important,' agreed O'Brien gravely.
They emptied their glasses, and a moment later Julia
stood up to go. O'Brien took a small box from the top of a
cabinet and handed her a flat white tablet which he told her
to place on her tongue. It was important, he said, not to go
out smelling of wine: the lift attendants were very obser-
vant. As soon as the door had shut behind her he appeared
to forget her existence. He took another pace or two up and
down, then stopped.
'There are details to be settled,' he said. 'I assume that
you have a hiding-place of some kind?'
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 223
Winston explained about the room over Mr Char-
rington's shop.
"That will do for the moment. Later we will arrange
something else for you. It is important to change one's hid-
ing-place frequently. Meanwhile I shall send you a copy of
THE BOOK' — even O'Brien, Winston noticed, seemed to
pronounce the words as though they were in italics — 'Gold-
stein's book, you understand, as soon as possible. It may
be some days before I can get hold of one. There are not
many in existence, as you can imagine. The Thought Police
hunt them down and destroy them almost as fast as we can
produce them. It makes very little difference. The book is
indestructible. If the last copy were gone, we could repro-
duce it almost word for word. Do you carry a brief-case to
work with you?' he added.
'As a rule, yes.'
'What is it like?'
'Black, very shabby. With two straps.'
'Black, two straps, very shabby — good. One day in the
fairly near future — I cannot give a date — one of the messag-
es among your morning's work will contain a misprinted
word, and you will have to ask for a repeat. On the following
day you will go to work without your brief-case. At some
time during the day, in the street, a man will touch you on
the arm and say 'I think you have dropped your brief-case.'
The one he gives you will contain a copy of Goldstein's book.
You will return it within fourteen days.'
They were silent for a moment.
'There are a couple of minutes before you need go,' said
1984
O'Brien. 'We shall meet again — if we do meet again '
Winston looked up at him. 'In the place where there is no
darkness?' he said hesitantly.
O'Brien nodded without appearance of surprise. 'In the
place where there is no darkness,' he said, as though he had
recognized the allusion. 'And in the meantime, is there any-
thing that you wish to say before you leave? Any message?
Any question?.'
Winston thought. There did not seem to be any further
question that he wanted to ask: still less did he feel any
impulse to utter high-sounding generalities. Instead of any-
thing directly connected with O'Brien or the Brotherhood,
there came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the
dark bedroom where his mother had spent her last days,
and the little room over Mr Charrington's shop, and the
glass paperweight, and the steel engraving in its rosewood
frame. Almost at random he said:
'Did you ever happen to hear an old rhyme that begins
'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's'?'
Again O'Brien nodded. With a sort of grave courtesy he
completed the stanza:
'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's,
You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's,
When willyoupay me? say the bells of Old Bailey,
When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.'
'You knew the last line!' said Winston.
'Yes, I knew the last line. And now, I am afraid, it is time
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 225
for you to go. But wait. You had better let me give you one
of these tablets.'
As Winston stood up O'Brien held out a hand. His pow-
erful grip crushed the bones of Winston's palm. At the
door Winston looked back, but O'Brien seemed already to
be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting
with his hand on the switch that controlled the telescreen.
Beyond him Winston could see the writing-table with its
green-shaded lamp and the speakwrite and the wire baskets
deep-laden with papers. The incident was closed. Within
thirty seconds, it occurred to him, O'Brien would be back at
his interrupted and important work on behalf of the Party.
1984
Chapter 9
Winston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was
the right word. It had come into his head spontane-
ously. His body seemed to have not only the weakness of a
jelly, but its translucency He felt that if he held up his hand
he would be able to see the light through it. All the blood
and lymph had been drained out of him by an enormous
debauch of work, leaving only a frail structure of nerves,
bones, and skin. All sensations seemed to be magnified. His
overalls fretted his shoulders, the pavement tickled his feet,
even the opening and closing of a hand was an effort that
made his joints creak.
He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So
had everyone else in the Ministry. Now it was all over, and
he had literally nothing to do, no Party work of any descrip -
tion, until tomorrow morning. He could spend six hours in
the hiding-place and another nine in his own bed. Slowly, in
mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a dingy street in the
direction of Mr Charrington's shop, keeping one eye open
for the patrols, but irrationally convinced that this after-
noon there was no danger of anyone interfering with him.
The heavy brief-case that he was carrying bumped against
his knee at each step, sending a tingling sensation up and
down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book, which he
had now had in his possession for six days and had not yet
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opened, nor even looked at.
On the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the
speeches, the shouting, the singing, the banners, the posters,
the films, the waxworks, the rolling of drums and squeal-
ing of trumpets, the tramp of marching feet, the grinding
of the caterpillars of tanks, the roar of massed planes, the
booming of guns — after six days of this, when the great or-
gasm was quivering to its climax and the general hatred of
Eurasia had boiled up into such delirium that if the crowd
could have got their hands on the 2,000 Eurasian war-crim-
inals who were to be publicly hanged on the last day of the
proceedings, they would unquestionably have torn them
to pieces — at just this moment it had been announced that
Oceania was not after all at war with Eurasia. Oceania was
at war with Eastasia. Eurasia was an ally.
There was, of course, no admission that any change had
taken place. Merely it became known, with extreme sud-
denness and everywhere at once, that Eastasia and not
Eurasia was the enemy. Winston was taking part in a dem-
onstration in one of the central London squares at the
moment when it happened. It was night, and the white fac-
es and the scarlet banners were luridly floodlit. The square
was packed with several thousand people, including a block
of about a thousand schoolchildren in the uniform of the
Spies. On a scarlet- draped platform an orator of the Inner
Party, a small lean man with disproportionately long arms
and a large bald skull over which a few lank locks strag-
gled, was haranguing the crowd. A little Rumpelstiltskin
figure, contorted with hatred, he gripped the neck of the
1984
microphone with one hand while the other, enormous at
the end of a bony arm, clawed the air menacingly above his
head. His voice, made metallic by the amplifiers, boomed
forth an endless catalogue of atrocities, massacres, depor-
tations, lootings, rapings, torture of prisoners, bombing
of civilians, lying propaganda, unjust aggressions, broken
treaties. It was almost impossible to listen to him without
being first convinced and then maddened. At every few mo-
ments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the voice of the
speaker was drowned by a wild beast-like roaring that rose
uncontrollably from thousands of throats. The most sav-
age yells of all came from the schoolchildren. The speech
had been proceeding for perhaps twenty minutes when a
messenger hurried on to the platform and a scrap of paper
was slipped into the speaker's hand. He unrolled and read it
without pausing in his speech. Nothing altered in his voice
or manner, or in the content of what he was saying, but sud-
denly the names were different. Without words said, a wave
of understanding rippled through the crowd. Oceania was
at war with Eastasia! The next moment there was a tremen-
dous commotion. The banners and posters with which the
square was decorated were all wrong! Quite half of them
had the wrong faces on them. It was sabotage! The agents of
Goldstein had been at work! There was a riotous interlude
while posters were ripped from the walls, banners torn to
shreds and trampled underfoot. The Spies performed prod-
igies of activity in clambering over the rooftops and cutting
the streamers that fluttered from the chimneys. But within
two or three minutes it was all over. The orator, still gripping
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the neck of the microphone, his shoulders hunched forward,
his free hand clawing at the air, had gone straight on with
his speech. One minute more, and the feral roars of rage
were again bursting from the crowd. The Hate continued
exactly as before, except that the target had been changed.
The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was
that the speaker had switched from one line to the other ac-
tually in midsentence, not only without a pause, but without
even breaking the syntax. But at the moment he had other
things to preoccupy him. It was during the moment of dis-
order while the posters were being torn down that a man
whose face he did not see had tapped him on the shoulder
and said, 'Excuse me, I think you've dropped your brief-
case.' He took the brief-case abstractedly, without speaking.
He knew that it would be days before he had an opportuni-
ty to look inside it. The instant that the demonstration was
over he went straight to the Ministry of Truth, though the
time was now nearly twenty-three hours. The entire staff
of the Ministry had done likewise. The orders already issu-
ing from the telescreen, recalling them to their posts, were
hardly necessary.
Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always
been at war with Eastasia. A large part of the political lit-
erature of five years was now completely obsolete. Reports
and records of all kinds, newspapers, books, pamphlets,
films, sound-tracks, photographs — all had to be rectified
at lightning speed. Although no directive was ever issued,
it was known that the chiefs of the Department intended
that within one week no reference to the war with Eurasia,
1984
or the alliance with Eastasia, should remain in existence
anywhere. The work was overwhelming, all the more so
because the processes that it involved could not be called
by their true names. Everyone in the Records Department
worked eighteen hours in the twenty-four, with two three-
hour snatches of sleep. Mattresses were brought up from
the cellars and pitched all over the corridors: meals con-
sisted of sandwiches and Victory Coffee wheeled round
on trolleys by attendants from the canteen. Each time that
Winston broke off for one of his spells of sleep he tried to
leave his desk clear of work, and each time that he crawled
back sticky- eyed and aching, it was to find that another
shower of paper cylinders had covered the desk like a snow-
drift, halfburying the speakwrite and overflowing on to the
floor, so that the first job was always to stack them into a
neat enough pile to give him room to work. What was worst
of all was that the work was by no means purely mechanical.
Often it was enough merely to substitute one name for an-
other, but any detailed report of events demanded care and
imagination. Even the geographical knowledge that one
needed in transferring the war from one part of the world
to another was considerable.
By the third day his eyes ached unbearably and his
spectacles needed wiping every few minutes. It was like
struggling with some crushing physical task, something
which one had the right to refuse and which one was never-
theless neurotically anxious to accomplish. In so far as he
had time to remember it, he was not troubled by the fact that
every word he murmured into the speakwrite, every stroke
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of his ink-pencil, was a deliberate lie. He was as anxious as
anyone else in the Department that the forgery should be
perfect. On the morning of the sixth day the dribble of cyl-
inders slowed down. For as much as half an hour nothing
came out of the tube; then one more cylinder, then nothing.
Everywhere at about the same time the work was easing off.
A deep and as it were secret sigh went through the Depart-
ment. A mighty deed, which could never be mentioned, had
been achieved. It was now impossible for any human being
to prove by documentary evidence that the war with Eurasia
had ever happened. At twelve hundred it was unexpectedly
announced that all workers in the Ministry were free till
tomorrow morning. Winston, still carrying the brief-case
containing the book, which had remained between his feet
while he worked and under his body while he slept, went
home, shaved himself, and almost fell asleep in his bath, al-
though the water was barely more than tepid.
With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he
climbed the stair above Mr Charrington's shop. He was
tired, but not sleepy any longer. He opened the window, lit
the dirty little oilstove and put on a pan of water for coffee.
Julia would arrive presently: meanwhile there was the book.
He sat down in the sluttish armchair and undid the straps
of the brief-case.
A heavy black volume, amateurishly bound, with no
name or title on the cover. The print also looked slightly
irregular. The pages were worn at the edges, and fell apart,
easily, as though the book had passed through many hands.
The inscription on the title-page ran:
1984
THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF
OLIGARCHICAL COLLECTIVISM
by
Emmanuel Goldstein
Winston began reading:
Chapter I
Ignorance is Strength
Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end
of the Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people
in the world, the High, the Middle, and the Low. They have
been subdivided in many ways, they have borne count-
less different names, and their relative numbers, as well as
their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to
age: but the essential structure of society has never altered.
Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable
changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just
as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium, however
far it is pushed one way or the other.
The aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable...
Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate
the fact that he was reading, in comfort and safety. He was
alone: no telescreen, no ear at the keyhole, no nervous im-
pulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the page with his
hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From
somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of chil-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 233
dren: in the room itself there was no sound except the insect
voice of the clock. He settled deeper into the arm-chair and
put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss, it was eternity.
Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one
knows that one will ultimately read and re-read every word,
he opened it at a different place and found himself at Chap-
ter III. He went on reading:
Chapter III
War is Peace
The splitting up of the world into three great super-states
was an event which could be and indeed was foreseen
before the middle of the twentieth century. With the ab-
sorption of Europe by Russia and of the British Empire by
the United States, two of the three existing powers, Eurasia
and Oceania, were already effectively in being. The third,
Eastasia, only emerged as a distinct unit after another de-
cade of confused fighting. The frontiers between the three
super-states are in some places arbitrary, and in others they
fluctuate according to the fortunes of war, but in general
they follow geographical lines. Eurasia comprises the whole
of the northern part of the European and Asiatic land-mass,
from Portugal to the Bering Strait. Oceania comprises the
Americas, the Atlantic islands including the British Isles,
Australasia, and the southern portion of Africa. Eastasia,
smaller than the others and with a less definite western
frontier, comprises China and the countries to the south of
1984
it, the Japanese islands and a large but fluctuating portion
of Manchuria, Mongolia, and Tibet.
In one combination or another, these three super-states
are permanently at war, and have been so for the past twen-
ty-five years. War, however, is no longer the desperate,
annihilating struggle that it was in the early decades of the
twentieth century. It is a warfare of limited aims between
combatants who are unable to destroy one another, have no
material cause for fighting and are not divided by any genu-
ine ideological difference This is not to say that either the
conduct of war, or the prevailing attitude towards it, has be-
come less bloodthirsty or more chivalrous. On the contrary,
war hysteria is continuous and universal in all countries,
and such acts as raping, looting, the slaughter of children,
the reduction of whole populations to slavery, and reprisals
against prisoners which extend even to boiling and burying
alive, are looked upon as normal, and, when they are com-
mitted by one's own side and not by the enemy, meritorious.
But in a physical sense war involves very small numbers of
people, mostly highly-trained specialists, and causes com-
paratively few casualties. The fighting, when there is any,
takes place on the vague frontiers whose whereabouts the
average man can only guess at, or round the Floating For-
tresses which guard strategic spots on the sea lanes. In the
centres of civilization war means no more than a contin-
uous shortage of consumption goods, and the occasional
crash of a rocket bomb which may cause a few scores of
deaths. War has in fact changed its character. More exactly,
the reasons for which war is waged have changed in their
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order of importance. Motives which were already present
to some small extent in the great wars of the early twentieth
centuury have now become dominant and are consciously
recognized and acted upon.
To understand the nature of the present war — for in spite
of the regrouping which occurs every few years, it is al-
ways the same war — one must realize in the first place that
it is impossible for it to be decisive. None of the three su-
per-states could be definitively conquered even by the other
two in combination. They are too evenly matched, and their
natural defences are too formidable. Eurasia is protected by
its vast land spaces, Oceania by the width of the Atlantic
and the Pacific, Eastasia by the fecundity and indus tri-
ousness of its inhabitants. Secondly, there is no longer, in
a material sense, anything to fight about. With the estab-
lishment of self-contained economies, in which production
and consumption are geared to one another, the scramble
for markets which was a main cause of previous wars has
come to an end, while the competition for raw materials is
no longer a matter of life and death. In any case each of the
three super-states is so vast that it can obtain almost all the
materials that it needs within its own boundaries. In so far
as the war has a direct economic purpose, it is a war for la-
bour power. Between the frontiers of the super-states, and
not permanently in the possession of any of them, there lies
a rough quadrilateral with its corners at Tangier, Brazza-
ville, Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing within it about
a fifth of the population of the earth. It is for the posses-
sion of these thickly-populated regions, and of the northern
236 1984
ice-cap, that the three powers are constantly struggling. In
practice no one power ever controls the whole of the disput-
ed area. Portions of it are constantly changing hands, and
it is the chance of seizing this or that fragment by a sud-
den stroke of treachery that dictates the endless changes of
alignment.
All of the disputed territories contain valuable minerals,
and some of them yield important vegetable products such
as rubber which in colder climates it is necessary to syn-
thesize by comparatively expensive methods. But above all
they contain a bottomless reserve of cheap labour. Which-
ever power controls equatorial Africa, or the countries
of the Middle East, or Southern India, or the Indonesian
Archipelago, disposes also of the bodies of scores or hun-
dreds of millions of ill-paid and hard-working coolies. The
inhabitants of these areas, reduced more or less openly to
the status of slaves, pass continually from conqueror to con-
queror, and are expended like so much coal or oil in the
race to turn out more armaments, to capture more territory,
to control more labour power, to turn out more armaments,
to capture more territory, and so on indefinitely. It should
be noted that the fighting never really moves beyond the
edges of the disputed areas. The frontiers of Eurasia flow
back and forth between the basin of the Congo and the
northern shore of the Mediterranean; the islands of the In-
dian Ocean and the Pacific are constantly being captured
and recaptured by Oceania or by Eastasia; in Mongolia the
dividing line between Eurasia and Eastasia is never stable;
round the Pole all three powers lay claim to enormous terri-
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tories which in fact are largely unihabited and unexplored:
but the balance of power always remains roughly even, and
the territory which forms the heartland of each super-state
always remains inviolate. Moreover, the labour of the ex-
ploited peoples round the Equator is not really necessary to
the world's economy. They add nothing to the wealth of the
world, since whatever they produce is used for purposes of
war, and the object of waging a war is always to be in a bet-
ter position in which to wage another war. By their labour
the slave populations allow the tempo of continuous war-
fare to be speeded up. But if they did not exist, the structure
of world society, and the process by which it maintains it-
self, would not be essentially different.
The primary aim of modern warfare (in accordance
with the principles of DOUBLETHINK, this aim is simul-
taneously recognized and not recognized by the directing
brains of the Inner Party) is to use up the products of the
machine without raising the general standard of living.
Ever since the end of the nineteenth century, the problem of
what to do with the surplus of consumption goods has been
latent in industrial society. At present, when few human be-
ings even have enough to eat, this problem is obviously not
urgent, and it might not have become so, even if no artifi-
cial processes of destruction had been at work. The world
of today is a bare, hungry, dilapidated place compared with
the world that existed before 1914, and still more so if com-
pared with the imaginary future to which the people of that
period looked forward. In the early twentieth century, the
vision of a future society unbelievably rich, leisured, orderly,
238 1984
and efficient — a glittering antiseptic world of glass and steel
and snow-white concrete — was part of the consciousness of
nearly every literate person. Science and technology were
developing at a prodigious speed, and it seemed natural to
assume that they would go on developing. This failed to
happen, partly because of the impoverishment caused by a
long series of wars and revolutions, partly because scientific
and technical progress depended on the empirical habit of
thought, which could not survive in a strictly regimented
society. As a whole the world is more primitive today than it
was fifty years ago. Certain backward areas have advanced,
and various devices, always in some way connected with
warfare and police espionage, have been developed, but
experiment and invention have largely stopped, and the
ravages of the atomic war of the nineteen-fifties have nev-
er been fully repaired. Nevertheless the dangers inherent
in the machine are still there. From the moment when the
machine first made its appearance it was clear to all think-
ing people that the need for human drudgery, and therefore
to a great extent for human inequality, had disappeared. If
the machine were used deliberately for that end, hunger,
overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and disease could be eliminated
within a few generations. And in fact, without being used
for any such purpose, but by a sort of automatic process —
by producing wealth which it was sometimes impossible not
to distribute — the machine did raise the living standards
of the average humand being very greatly over a period of
about fifty years at the end of the nineteenth and the begin-
ning of the twentieth centuries.
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But it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth
threatened the destruction — indeed, in some sense was the
destruction — of a hierarchical society. In a world in which
everyone worked short hours, had enough to eat, lived in a
house with a bathroom and a refrigerator, and possessed a
motor-car or even an aeroplane, the most obvious and per-
haps the most important form of inequality would already
have disappeared. If it once became general, wealth would
confer no distinction. It was possible, no doubt, to imagine
a society in which WEALTH, in the sense of personal pos-
sessions and luxuries, should be evenly distributed, while
POWER remained in the hands of a small privileged caste.
But in practice such a society could not long remain sta-
ble. For if leisure and security were enjoyed by all alike, the
great mass of human beings who are normally stupefied by
poverty would become literate and would learn to think for
themselves; and when once they had done this, they would
sooner or later realize that the privileged minority had no
function, and they would sweep it away. In the long run,
a hierarchical society was only possible on a basis of pov-
erty and ignorance. To return to the agricultural past, as
some thinkers about the beginning of the twentieth cen-
tury dreamed of doing, was not a practicable solution. It
conflicted with the tendency towards mechanization which
had become quasi-instinctive throughout almost the whole
world, and moreover, any country which remained indus-
trially backward was helpless in a military sense and was
bound to be dominated, directly or indirectly, by its more
advanced rivals.
1984
Nor was it a satisfactory solution to keep the masses in
poverty by restricting the output of goods. This happened
to a great extent during the final phase of capitalism, rough-
ly between 1920 and 1940. The economy of many countries
was allowed to stagnate, land went out of cultivation, capital
equipment was not added to, great blocks of the popula-
tion were prevented from working and kept half alive by
State charity. But this, too, entailed military weakness, and
since the privations it inflicted were obviously unneces-
sary, it made opposition inevitable. The problem was how
to keep the wheels of industry turning without increasing
the real wealth of the world. Goods must be produced, but
they must not be distributed. And in practice the only way
of achieving this was by continuous warfare.
The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of
human lives, but of the products of human labour. War is a
way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere,
or sinking in the depths of the sea, materials which might
otherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, and
hence, in the long run, too intelligent. Even when weapons
of war are not actually destroyed, their manufacture is still
a convenient way of expending labour power without pro-
ducing anything that can be consumed. A Floating Fortress,
for example, has locked up in it the labour that would build
several hundred cargo-ships. Ultimately it is scrapped as
obsolete, never having brought any material benefit to any-
body, and with further enormous labours another Floating
Fortress is built. In principle the war effort is always so
planned as to eat up any surplus that might exist after meet-
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ing the bare needs of the population. In practice the needs
of the population are always underestimated, with the re-
sult that there is a chronic shortage of half the necessities
of life; but this is looked on as an advantage. It is deliberate
policy to keep even the favoured groups somewhere near
the brink of hardship, because a general state of scarcity
increases the importance of small privileges and thus mag-
nifies the distinction between one group and another. By
the standards of the early twentieth century, even a mem-
ber of the Inner Party lives an austere, laborious kind of life.
Nevertheless, the few luxuries that he does enjoy his large,
well-appointed flat, the better texture of his clothes, the bet-
ter quality of his food and drink and tobacco, his two or
three servants, his private motor-car or helicopter — set him
in a different world from a member of the Outer Party, and
the members of the Outer Party have a similar advantage
in comparison with the submerged masses whom we call
'the proles'. The social atmosphere is that of a besieged city,
where the possession of a lump of horseflesh makes the dif-
ference between wealth and poverty. And at the same time
the consciousness of being at war, and therefore in danger,
makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste seem
the natural, unavoidable condition of survival.
War, it will be seen, accomplishes the necessary destruc-
tion, but accomplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way.
In principle it would be quite simple to waste the surplus
labour of the world by building temples and pyramids, by
digging holes and filling them up again, or even by produc-
ing vast quantities of goods and then setting fire to them.
1984
But this would provide only the economic and not the emo-
tional basis for a hierarchical society. What is concerned
here is not the morale of masses, whose attitude is unim-
portant so long as they are kept steadily at work, but the
morale of the Party itself. Even the humblest Party member
is expected to be competent, industrious, and even intel-
ligent within narrow limits, but it is also necessary that he
should be a credulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing
moods are fear, hatred, adulation, and orgiastic triumph. In
other words it is necessary that he should have the mental-
ity appropriate to a state of war. It does not matter whether
the war is actually happening, and, since no decisive victory
is possible, it does not matter whether the war is going well
or badly. All that is needed is that a state of war should ex-
ist. The splitting of the intelligence which the Party requires
of its members, and which is more easily achieved in an at-
mosphere of war, is now almost universal, but the higher
up the ranks one goes, the more marked it becomes. It is
precisely in the Inner Party that war hysteria and hatred of
the enemy are strongest. In his capacity as an administra-
tor, it is often necessary for a member of the Inner Party to
know that this or that item of war news is untruthful, and
he may often be aware that the entire war is spurious and is
either not happening or is being waged for purposes quite
other than the declared ones: but such knowledge is easily
neutralized by the technique of DOUBLETHINK. Mean-
while no Inner Party member wavers for an instant in his
mystical belief that the war is real, and that it is bound to
end victoriously, with Oceania the undisputed master of
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the entire world.
All members of the Inner Party believe in this coming
conquest as an article of faith. It is to be achieved either by
gradually acquiring more and more territory and so build-
ing up an overwhelming preponderance of power, or by
the discovery of some new and unanswerable weapon. The
search for new weapons continues unceasingly, and is one
of the very few remaining activities in which the inventive
or speculative type of mind can find any outlet. In Ocea-
nia at the present day, Science, in the old sense, has almost
ceased to exist. In Newspeak there is no word for 'Science'.
The empirical method of thought, on which all the scien-
tific achievements of the past were founded, is opposed to
the most fundamental principles of Ingsoc. And even tech-
nological progress only happens when its products can in
some way be used for the diminution of human liberty. In
all the useful arts the world is either standing still or go-
ing backwards. The fields are cultivated with horse-ploughs
while books are written by machinery. But in matters of
vital importance — meaning, in effect, war and police espio-
nage — the empirical approach is still encouraged, or at least
tolerated. The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole
surface of the earth and to extinguish once and for all the
possibility of independent thought. There are therefore two
great problems which the Party is concerned to solve. One
is how to discover, against his will, what another human be-
ing is thinking, and the other is how to kill several hundred
million people in a few seconds without giving warning be-
forehand. In so far as scientific research still continues, this
1984
is its subject matter. The scientist of today is either a mixture
of psychologist and inquisitor, studying with real ordinary
minuteness the meaning of facial expressions, gestures, and
tones of voice, and testing the truth-producing effects of
drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis, and physical torture; or he
is chemist, physicist, or biologist concerned only with such
branches of his special subject as are relevant to the taking
of life. In the vast laboratories of the Ministry of Peace, and
in the experimental stations hidden in the Brazilian forests,
or in the Australian desert, or on lost islands of the Ant-
arctic, the teams of experts are indefatigably at work. Some
are concerned simply with planning the logistics of future
wars; others devise larger and larger rocket bombs, more
and more powerful explosives, and more and more impen-
etrable armour-plating; others search for new and deadlier
gases, or for soluble poisons capable of being produced in
such quantities as to destroy the vegetation of whole con-
tinents, or for breeds of disease germs immunized against
all possible antibodies; others strive to produce a vehicle
that shall bore its way under the soil like a submarine un-
der the water, or an aeroplane as independent of its base
as a sailing-ship; others explore even remoter possibilities
such as focusing the sun's rays through lenses suspended
thousands of kilometres away in space, or producing artifi-
cial earthquakes and tidal waves by tapping the heat at the
earth's centre.
But none of these projects ever comes anywhere near re-
alization, and none of the three super-states ever gains a
significant lead on the others. What is more remarkable is
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that all three powers already possess, in the atomic bomb,
a weapon far more powerful than any that their present
researches are likely to discover. Although the Party, ac-
cording to its habit, claims the invention for itself, atomic
bombs first appeared as early as the nineteen-forties, and
were first used on a large scale about ten years later. At that
time some hundreds of bombs were dropped on indus-
trial centres, chiefly in European Russia, Western Europe,
and North America. The effect was to convince the ruling
groups of all countries that a few more atomic bombs would
mean the end of organized society, and hence of their own
power. Thereafter, although no formal agreement was ever
made or hinted at, no more bombs were dropped. All three
powers merely continue to produce atomic bombs and store
them up against the decisive opportunity which they all
believe will come sooner or later. And meanwhile the art
of war has remained almost stationary for thirty or forty
years. Helicopters are more used than they were formerly,
bombing planes have been largely superseded by self-pro-
pelled projectiles, and the fragile movable battleship has
given way to the almost unsinkable Floating Fortress; but
otherwise there has been little development. The tank, the
submarine, the torpedo, the machine gun, even the rifle and
the hand grenade are still in use. And in spite of the end-
less slaughters reported in the Press and on the telescreens,
the desperate battles of earlier wars, in which hundreds of
thousands or even millions of men were often killed in a
few weeks, have never been repeated.
None of the three super-states ever attempts any ma-
246 1984
noeuvre which involves the risk of serious defeat. When
any large operation is undertaken, it is usually a surprise
attack against an ally. The strategy that all three powers are
following, or pretend to themselves that they are following,
is the same. The plan is, by a combination of fighting, bar-
gaining, and well-timed strokes of treachery, to acquire a
ring of bases completely encircling one or other of the ri-
val states, and then to sign a pact of friendship with that
rival and remain on peaceful terms for so many years as to
lull suspicion to sleep. During this time rockets loaded with
atomic bombs can be assembled at all the strategic spots;
finally they will all be fired simultaneously, with effects so
devastating as to make retaliation impossible. It will then be
time to sign a pact of friendship with the remaining world-
power, in preparation for another attack. This scheme, it is
hardly necessary to say, is a mere daydream, impossible of
realization. Moreover, no fighting ever occurs except in the
disputed areas round the Equator and the Pole: no invasion
of enemy territory is ever undertaken. This explains the fact
that in some places the frontiers between the superstates
are arbitrary. Eurasia, for example, could easily conquer the
British Isles, which are geographically part of Europe, or on
the other hand it would be possible for Oceania to push its
frontiers to the Rhine or even to the Vistula. But this would
violate the principle, followed on all sides though never
formulated, of cultural integrity. If Oceania were to con-
quer the areas that used once to be known as France and
Germany, it would be necessary either to exterminate the
inhabitants, a task of great physical difficulty, or to assimi-
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late a population of about a hundred million people, who,
so far as technical development goes, are roughly on the
Oceanic level. The problem is the same for all three super-
states. It is absolutely necessary to their structure that there
should be no contact with foreigners, except, to a limited
extent, with war prisoners and coloured slaves. Even the of-
ficial ally of the moment is always regarded with the darkest
suspicion. War prisoners apart, the average citizen of Ocea-
nia never sets eyes on a citizen of either Eurasia or Eastasia,
and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If
he were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover
that they are creatures similar to himself and that most of
what he has been told about them is lies. The sealed world
in which he lives would be broken, and the fear, hatred,
and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might
evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides that however
often Persia, or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon may change hands,
the main frontiers must never be crossed by anything ex-
cept bombs.
Under this lies a fact never mentioned aloud, but tacitly
understood and acted upon: namely, that the conditions of
life in all three super-states are very much the same. In Oce-
ania the prevailing philosophy is called Ingsoc, in Eurasia
it is called Neo-Bolshevism, and in Eastasia it is called by
a Chinese name usually translated as Death-Worship, but
perhaps better rendered as Obliteration of the Self. The citi-
zen of Oceania is not allowed to know anything of the tenets
of the other two philosophies, but he is taught to execrate
them as barbarous outrages upon morality and common
248 1984
sense. Actually the three philosophies are barely distin-
guishable, and the social systems which they support are
not distinguishable at all. Everywhere there is the same py-
ramidal structure, the same worship of semi-divine leader,
the same economy existing by and for continuous warfare.
It follows that the three super-states not only cannot con-
quer one another, but would gain no advantage by doing
so. On the contrary, so long as they remain in conflict they
prop one another up, like three sheaves of corn. And, as
usual, the ruling groups of all three powers are simultane-
ously aware and unaware of what they are doing. Their lives
are dedicated to world conquest, but they also know that it
is necessary that the war should continue everlastingly and
without victory. Meanwhile the fact that there IS no danger
of conquest makes possible the denial of reality which is the
special feature of Ingsoc and its rival systems of thought.
Here it is necessary to repeat what has been said earlier, that
by becoming continuous war has fundamentally changed
its character.
In past ages, a war, almost by definition, was something
that sooner or later came to an end, usually in unmistak-
able victory or defeat. In the past, also, war was one of the
main instruments by which human societies were kept in
touch with physical reality. All rulers in all ages have tried
to impose a false view of the world upon their followers, but
they could not afford to encourage any illusion that tended
to impair military efficiency So long as defeat meant the
loss of independence, or some other result generally held
to be undesirable, the precautions against defeat had to be
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serious. Physical facts could not be ignored. In philosophy,
or religion, or ethics, or politics, two and two might make
five, but when one was designing a gun or an aeroplane they
had to make four. Inefficient nations were always conquered
sooner or later, and the struggle for efficiency was inimi-
cal to illusions. Moreover, to be efficient it was necessary to
be able to learn from the past, which meant having a fairly
accurate idea of what had happened in the past. Newspa-
pers and history books were, of course, always coloured and
biased, but falsification of the kind that is practised today
would have been impossible. War was a sure safeguard of
sanity, and so far as the ruling classes were concerned it was
probably the most important of all safeguards. While wars
could be won or lost, no ruling class could be completely ir-
responsible.
But when war becomes literally continuous, it also ceases
to be dangerous. When war is continuous there is no such
thing as military necessity. Technical progress can cease
and the most palpable facts can be denied or disregarded.
As we have seen, researches that could be called scientific
are still carried out for the purposes of war, but they are es-
sentially a kind of daydreaming, and their failure to show
results is not important. Efficiency, even military efficiency,
is no longer needed. Nothing is efficient in Oceania except
the Thought Police. Since each of the three super-states is
unconquerable, each is in effect a separate universe within
which almost any perversion of thought can be safely prac-
tised. Reality only exerts its pressure through the needs of
everyday life — the need to eat and drink, to get shelter and
1984
clothing, to avoid swallowing poison or stepping out of top -
storey windows, and the like. Between life and death, and
between physical pleasure and physical pain, there is still
a distinction, but that is all. Cut off from contact with the
outer world, and with the past, the citizen of Oceania is
like a man in interstellar space, who has no way of know-
ing which direction is up and which is down. The rulers of
such a state are absolute, as the Pharaohs or the Caesars
could not be. They are obliged to prevent their followers
from starving to death in numbers large enough to be in-
convenient, and they are obliged to remain at the same
low level of military technique as their rivals; but once that
minimum is achieved, they can twist reality into whatever
shape they choose.
The war, therefore, if we judge it by the standards of pre-
vious wars, is merely an imposture. It is like the battles
between certain ruminant animals whose horns are set at
such an angle that they are incapable of hurting one anoth-
er. But though it is unreal it is not meaningless. It eats up
the surplus of consumable goods, and it helps to preserve
the special mental atmosphere that a hierarchical society
needs. War, it will be seen, is now a purely internal affair.
In the past, the ruling groups of all countries, although
they might recognize their common interest and therefore
limit the destructiveness of war, did fight against one an-
other, and the victor always plundered the vanquished. In
our own day they are not fighting against one another at
all. The war is waged by each ruling group against its own
subjects, and the object of the war is not to make or prevent
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conquests of territory, but to keep the structure of society
intact. The very word 'war', therefore, has become mislead-
ing. It would probably be accurate to say that by becoming
continuous war has ceased to exist. The peculiar pressure
that it exerted on human beings between the Neolithic Age
and the early twentieth century has disappeared and been
replaced by something quite different. The effect would be
much the same if the three super-states, instead of fighting
one another, should agree to live in perpetual peace, each
inviolate within its own boundaries. For in that case each
would still be a self-contained universe, freed for ever from
the sobering influence of external danger. A peace that was
truly permanent would be the same as a permanent war.
This — although the vast majority of Party members under-
stand it only in a shallower sense — is the inner meaning of
the Party slogan: WAR IS PEACE.
Winston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in
remote distance a rocket bomb thundered. The blissful feel-
ing of being alone with the forbidden book, in a room with
no telescreen, had not worn off. Solitude and safety were
physical sensations, mixed up somehow with the tiredness
of his body, the softness of the chair, the touch of the faint
breeze from the window that played upon his cheek. The
book fascinated him, or more exactly it reassured him. In
a sense it told him nothing that was new, but that was part
of the attraction. It said what he would have said, if it had
been possible for him to set his scattered thoughts in or-
der. It was the product of a mind similar to his own, but
enormously more powerful, more systematic, less fear-rid-
1984
den. The best books, he perceived, are those that tell you
what you know already. He had just turned back to Chapter
I when he heard Julia's footstep on the stair and started out
of his chair to meet her. She dumped her brown tool-bag on
the floor and flung herself into his arms. It was more than a
week since they had seen one another.
'I've got THE BOOK,' he said as they disentangled them-
selves.
'Oh, you've got it? Good,' she said without much interest,
and almost immediately knelt down beside the oil stove to
make the coffee.
They did not return to the subject until they had been
in bed for half an hour. The evening was just cool enough
to make it worth while to pull up the counterpane. From
below came the familiar sound of singing and the scrape
of boots on the flagstones. The brawny red-armed woman
whom Winston had seen there on his first visit was almost a
fixture in the yard. There seemed to be no hour of daylight
when she was not marching to and fro between the washtub
and the line, alternately gagging herself with clothes pegs
and breaking forth into lusty song. Julia had settled down
on her side and seemed to be already on the point of falling
asleep. He reached out for the book, which was lying on the
floor, and sat up against the bedhead.
'We must read it,' he said. 'You too. All members of the
Brotherhood have to read it.'
'You read it,' she said with her eyes shut. 'Read it aloud.
That's the best way. Then you can explain it to me as you
go-'
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The clock's hands said six, meaning eighteen. They had
three or four hours ahead of them. He propped the book
against his knees and began reading:
Chapter I Ignorance is Strength
Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end
of the Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people
in the world, the High, the Middle, and the Low. They have
been subdivided in many ways, they have borne count-
less different names, and their relative numbers, as well as
their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to
age: but the essential structure of society has never altered.
Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable
changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just
as a gyroscope will always return to equilibnum, however
far it is pushed one way or the other
'Julia, are you awake?' said Winston.
'Yes, my love, I'm listening. Go on. It's marvellous.'
He continued reading:
The aims of these three groups are entirely irreconcil-
able. The aim of the High is to remain where they are. The
aim of the Middle is to change places with the High. The
aim of the Low, when they have an aim — for it is an abiding
characteristic of the Low that they are too much crushed
by drudgery to be more than intermittently conscious of
anything outside their daily lives — is to abolish all distinc-
tions and create a society in which all men shall be equal.
Thus throughout history a struggle which is the same in its
main outlines recurs over and over again. For long periods
the High seem to be securely in power, but sooner or later
1984
there always comes a moment when they lose either their
belief in themselves or their capacity to govern efficiently
or both. They are then overthrown by the Middle, who en-
list the Low on their side by pretending to them that they
are fighting for liberty and justice. As soon as they have
reached their objective, the Middle thrust the Low back
into their old position of servitude, and themselves become
the High. Presently a new Middle group splits off from one
of the other groups, or from both of them, and the struggle
begins over again. Of the three groups, only the Low are
never even temporarily successful in achieving their aims.
It would be an exaggeration to say that throughout history
there has been no progress of a material kind. Even today,
in a period of decline, the average human being is physical-
ly better off than he was a few centuries ago. But no advance
in wealth, no softening of manners, no reform or revolu-
tion has ever brought human equality a millimetre nearer.
From the point of view of the Low, no historic change has
ever meant much more than a change in the name of their
masters.
By the late nineteenth century the recurrence of this pat-
tern had become obvious to many observers. There then
rose schools of thinkers who interpreted history as a cy-
clical process and claimed to show that inequality was the
unalterable law of human life. This doctrine, of course, had
always had its adherents, but in the manner in which it was
now put forward there was a significant change. In the past
the need for a hierarchical form of society had been the doc-
trine specifically of the High. It had been preached by kings
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and aristocrats and by the priests, lawyers, and the like who
were parasitical upon them, and it had generally been soft-
ened by promises of compensation in an imaginary world
beyond the grave. The Middle, so long as it was struggling
for power, had always made use of such terms as freedom,
justice, and fraternity Now, however, the concept of hu-
man brotherhood began to be assailed by people who were
not yet in positions of command, but merely hoped to be so
before long. In the past the Middle had made revolutions
under the banner of equality, and then had established a
fresh tyranny as soon as the old one was overthrown. The
new Middle groups in effect proclaimed their tyranny be-
forehand. Socialism, a theory which appeared in the early
nineteenth century and was the last link in a chain of
thought stretching back to the slave rebellions of antiquity,
was still deeply infected by the Utopianism of past ages. But
in each variant of Socialism that appeared from about 1900
onwards the aim of establishing liberty and equality was
more and more openly abandoned. The new movements
which appeared in the middle years of the century, Ingsoc
in Oceania, Neo-Bolshevism in Eurasia, Death-Worship, as
it is commonly called, in Eastasia, had the conscious aim
of perpetuating UNfreedom and INequality These new
movements, of course, grew out of the old ones and tended
to keep their names and pay lip-service to their ideology.
But the purpose of all of them was to arrest progress and
freeze history at a chosen moment. The familiar pendulum
swing was to happen once more, and then stop. As usual,
the High were to be turned out by the Middle, who would
256 1984
then become the High; but this time, by conscious strategy,
the High would be able to maintain their position perma-
nently.
The new doctrines arose partly because of the accu-
mulation of historical knowledge, and the growth of the
historical sense, which had hardly existed before the nine-
teenth century. The cyclical movement of history was now
intelligible, or appeared to be so; and if it was intelligible,
then it was alterable. But the principal, underlying cause
was that, as early as the beginning of the twentieth century,
human equality had become technically possible. It was still
true that men were not equal in their native talents and that
functions had to be specialized in ways that favoured some
individuals against others; but there was no longer any real
need for class distinctions or for large differences of wealth.
In earlier ages, class distinctions had been not only inevi-
table but desirable. Inequality was the price of civilization.
With the development of machine production, however, the
case was altered. Even if it was still necessary for human
beings to do different kinds of work, it was no longer neces-
sary for them to live at different social or economic levels.
Therefore, from the point of view of the new groups who
were on the point of seizing power, human equality was no
longer an ideal to be striven after, but a danger to be avert-
ed. In more primitive ages, when a just and peaceful society
was in fact not possible, it had been fairly easy to believe it.
The idea of an earthly paradise in which men should live
together in a state of brotherhood, without laws and with-
out brute labour, had haunted the human imagination for
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thousands of years. And this vision had had a certain hold
even on the groups who actually profited by each histori-
cal change. The heirs of the French, English, and American
revolutions had partly believed in their own phrases about
the rights of man, freedom of speech, equality before the
law, and the like, and have even allowed their conduct to
be influenced by them to some extent. But by the fourth
decade of the twentieth century all the main currents of
political thought were authoritarian. The earthly paradise
had been discredited at exactly the moment when it became
realizable. Every new political theory, by whatever name it
called itself, led back to hierarchy and regimentation. And
in the general hardening of outlook that set in round about
1930, practices which had been long abandoned, in some
cases for hundreds of years — imprisonment without trial,
the use of war prisoners as slaves, public executions, torture
to extract confessions, the use of hostages, and the depor-
tation of whole populations— not only became common
again, but were tolerated and even defended by people who
considered themselves enlightened and progressive.
It was only after a decade of national wars, civil wars,
revolutions, and counter-revolutions in all parts of the
world that Ingsoc and its rivals emerged as fully worked-
out political theories. But they had been foreshadowed by
the various systems, generally called totalitarian, which
had appeared earlier in the century, and the main outlines
of the world which would emerge from the prevailing chaos
had long been obvious. What kind of people would control
this world had been equally obvious. The new aristocracy
258 1984
was made up for the most part of bureaucrats, scientists,
technicians, trade-union organizers, publicity experts, so-
ciologists, teachers, journalists, and professional politicians.
These people, whose origins lay in the salaried middle class
and the upper grades of the working class, had been shaped
and brought together by the barren world of monopoly in-
dustry and centralized government. As compared with
their opposite numbers in past ages, they were less avari-
cious, less tempted by luxury, hungrier for pure power, and,
above all, more conscious of what they were doing and
more intent on crushing opposition. This last difference was
cardinal. By comparison with that existing today, all the
tyrannies of the past were half-hearted and inefficient. The
ruling groups were always infected to some extent by lib-
eral ideas, and were content to leave loose ends everywhere,
to regard only the overt act and to be uninterested in what
their subjects were thinking. Even the Catholic Church of
the Middle Ages was tolerant by modern standards. Part of
the reason for this was that in the past no government had
the power to keep its citizens under constant surveillance.
The invention of print, however, made it easier to manipu-
late public opinion, and the film and the radio carried the
process further. With the development of television, and
the technical advance which made it possible to receive and
transmit simultaneously on the same instrument, private
life came to an end. Every citizen, or at least every citizen
important enough to be worth watching, could be kept for
twenty- four hours a day under the eyes of the police and in
the sound of official propaganda, with all other channels
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of communication closed. The possibility of enforcing not
only complete obedience to the will of the State, but com-
plete uniformity of opinion on all subjects, now existed for
the first time.
After the revolutionary period of the fifties and sixties,
society regrouped itself, as always, into High, Middle, and
Low. But the new High group, unlike all its forerunners, did
not act upon instinct but knew what was needed to safeguard
its position. It had long been realized that the only secure
basis for oligarchy is collectivism. Wealth and privilege are
most easily defended when they are possessed jointly. The
so-called 'abolition of private property' which took place in
the middle years of the century meant, in effect, the con-
centration of property in far fewer hands than before: but
with this difference, that the new owners were a group in-
stead of a mass of individuals. Individually, no member of
the Party owns anything, except petty personal belongings.
Collectively, the Party owns everything in Oceania, be-
cause it controls everything, and disposes of the products
as it thinks fit. In the years following the Revolution it was
able to step into this commanding position almost unop-
posed, because the whole process was represented as an act
of collectivization. It had always been assumed that if the
capitalist class were expropriated, Socialism must follow:
and unquestionably the capitalists had been expropriated.
Factories, mines, land, houses, transport — everything had
been taken away from them: and since these things were
no longer private property, it followed that they must be
public property. Ingsoc, which grew out of the earlier So-
1984
cialist movement and inherited its phraseology, has in fact
carried out the main item in the Socialist programme; with
the result, foreseen and intended beforehand, that econom-
ic inequality has been made permanent.
But the problems of perpetuating a hierarchical soci-
ety go deeper than this. There are only four ways in which
a ruling group can fall from power. Either it is conquered
from without, or it governs so inefficiently that the masses
are stirred to revolt, or it allows a strong and discontented
Middle group to come into being, or it loses its own self-
confidence and willingness to govern. These causes do not
operate singly, and as a rule all four of them are present in
some degree. A ruling class which could guard against all
of them would remain in power permanently. Ultimately
the determining factor is the mental attitude of the ruling
class itself.
After the middle of the present century, the first dan-
ger had in reality disappeared. Each of the three powers
which now divide the world is in fact unconquerable, and
could only become conquerable through slow demographic
changes which a government with wide powers can easi-
ly avert. The second danger, also, is only a theoretical one.
The masses never revolt of their own accord, and they never
revolt merely because they are oppressed. Indeed, so long
as they are not permitted to have standards of comparison,
they never even become aware that they are oppressed. The
recurrent economic crises of past times were totally un-
necessary and are not now permitted to happen, but other
and equally large dislocations can and do happen without
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having political results, because there is no way in which
discontent can become articulate. As for the problem of
over-production, which has been latent in our society since
the development of machine technique, it is solved by the
device of continuous warfare (see Chapter III), which is
also useful in keying up public morale to the necessary
pitch. From the point of view of our present rulers, there-
fore, the only genuine dangers are the splitting- off of a new
group of able, under- employed, power-hungry people, and
the growth of liberalism and scepticism in their own ranks.
The problem, that is to say, is educational. It is a problem
of continuously moulding the consciousness both of the
directing group and of the larger executive group that lies
immediately below it. The consciousness of the masses
needs only to be influenced in a negative way.
Given this background, one could infer, if one did not
know it already, the general structure of Oceanic society. At
the apex of the pyramid comes Big Brother. Big Brother is in-
fallible and all-powerful. Every success, every achievement,
every victory, every scientific discovery, all knowledge, all
wisdom, all happiness, all virtue, are held to issue directly
from his leadership and inspiration. Nobody has ever seen
Big Brother. He is a face on the hoardings, a voice on the
telescreen. We may be reasonably sure that he will never die,
and there is already considerable uncertainty as to when he
was born. Big Brother is the guise in which the Party choos-
es to exhibit itself to the world. His function is to act as a
focusing point for love, fear, and reverence, emotions which
are more easily felt towards an individual than towards an
1984
organization. Below Big Brother comes the Inner Party. Its
numbers limited to six millions, or something less than
2 per cent of the population of Oceania. Below the Inner
Party comes the Outer Party, which, if the Inner Party is de-
scribed as the brain of the State, may be justly likened to the
hands. Below that come the dumb masses whom we habitu-
ally refer to as 'the proles', numbering perhaps 85 per cent of
the population. In the terms of our earlier classification, the
proles are the Low: for the slave population of the equatori-
al lands who pass constantly from conqueror to conqueror,
are not a permanent or necessary part of the structure.
In principle, membership of these three groups is not he-
reditary. The child of Inner Party parents is in theory not
born into the Inner Party. Admission to either branch of the
Party is by examination, taken at the age of sixteen. Nor is
there any racial discrimination, or any marked domination
of one province by another. Jews, Negroes, South Ameri-
cans of pure Indian blood are to be found in the highest
ranks of the Party, and the administrators of any area are
always drawn from the inhabitants of that area. In no part
of Oceania do the inhabitants have the feeling that they are
a colonial population ruled from a distant capital. Ocea-
nia has no capital, and its titular head is a person whose
whereabouts nobody knows. Except that English is its chief
LINGUA FRANCA and Newspeak its official language, it is
not centralized in any way. Its rulers are not held together
by blood-ties but by adherence to a common doctrine. It
is true that our society is stratified, and very rigidly strat-
ified, on what at first sight appear to be hereditary lines.
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There is far less to-and-fro movement between the differ-
ent groups than happened under capitalism or even in the
pre-industrial age. Between the two branches of the Party
there is a certain amount of interchange, but only so much
as will ensure that weaklings are excluded from the Inner
Party and that ambitious members of the Outer Party are
made harmless by allowing them to rise. Proletarians, in
practice, are not allowed to graduate into the Party. The
most gifted among them, who might possibly become nu-
clei of discontent, are simply marked down by the Thought
Police and eliminated. But this state of affairs is not neces-
sarily permanent, nor is it a matter of principle. The Party
is not a class in the old sense of the word. It does not aim
at transmitting power to its own children, as such; and if
there were no other way of keeping the ablest people at the
top, it would be perfectly prepared to recruit an entire new
generation from the ranks of the proletariat. In the crucial
years, the fact that the Party was not a hereditary body did
a great deal to neutralize opposition. The older kind of So-
cialist, who had been trained to fight against something
called 'class privilege' assumed that what is not hereditary
cannot be permanent. He did not see that the continuity
of an oligarchy need not be physical, nor did he pause to
reflect that hereditary aristocracies have always been short-
lived, whereas adoptive organizations such as the Catholic
Church have sometimes lasted for hundreds or thousands
of years. The essence of oligarchical rule is not father-to-son
inheritance, but the persistence of a certain world-view and
a certain way of life, imposed by the dead upon the living. A
264 1984
ruling group is a ruling group so long as it can nominate its
successors. The Party is not concerned with perpetuating
its blood but with perpetuating itself. WHO wields power
is not important, provided that the hierarchical structure
remains always the same.
All the beliefs, habits, tastes, emotions, mental attitudes
that characterize our time are really designed to sustain the
mystique of the Party and prevent the true nature of pres-
ent-day society from being perceived. Physical rebellion, or
any preliminary move towards rebellion, is at present not
possible. From the proletarians nothing is to be feared. Left
to themselves, they will continue from generation to gener-
ation and from century to century, working, breeding, and
dying, not only without any impulse to rebel, but without
the power of grasping that the world could be other than it
is. They could only become dangerous if the advance of in-
dustrial technique made it necessary to educate them more
highly; but, since military and commercial rivalry are no
longer important, the level of popular education is actually
declining. What opinions the masses hold, or do not hold,
is looked on as a matter of indifference. They can be granted
intellectual liberty because they have no intellect. In a Party
member, on the other hand, not even the smallest deviation
of opinion on the most unimportant subject can be toler-
ated.
A Party member lives from birth to death under the eye
of the Thought Police. Even when he is alone he can never be
sure that he is alone. Wherever he may be, asleep or awake,
working or resting, in his bath or in bed, he can be inspected
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 265
without warning and without knowing that he is being in-
spected. Nothing that he does is indifferent. His friendships,
his relaxations, his behaviour towards his wife and children,
the expression of his face when he is alone, the words he
mutters in sleep, even the characteristic movements of his
body, are all jealously scrutinized. Not only any actual mis-
demeanour, but any eccentricity, however small, any change
of habits, any nervous mannerism that could possibly be
the symptom of an inner struggle, is certain to be detected.
He has no freedom of choice in any direction whatever. On
the other hand his actions are not regulated by law or by any
clearly formulated code of behaviour. In Oceania there is
no law. Thoughts and actions which, when detected, mean
certain death are not formally forbidden, and the endless
purges, arrests, tortures, imprisonments, and vaporizations
are not inflicted as punishment for crimes which have ac-
tually been committed, but are merely the wiping- out of
persons who might perhaps commit a crime at some time in
the future. A Party member is required to have not only the
right opinions, but the right instincts. Many of the beliefs
and attitudes demanded of him are never plainly stated, and
could not be stated without laying bare the contradictions
inherent in Ingsoc. If he is a person naturally orthodox (in
Newspeak a GOODTHINKER), he will in all circumstanc-
es know, without taking thought, what is the true belief or
the desirable emotion. But in any case an elaborate men-
tal training, undergone in childhood and grouping itself
round the Newspeak words CRIMESTOP, BLACKWHITE,
and DOUBLETHINK, makes him unwilling and unable to
1984
think too deeply on any subject whatever.
A Party member is expected to have no private emotions
and no respites from enthusiasm. He is supposed to live in a
continuous frenzy of hatred of foreign enemies and internal
traitors, triumph over victories, and self-abasement before
the power and wisdom of the Party. The discontents pro-
duced by his bare, unsatisfying life are deliberately turned
outwards and dissipated by such devices as the Two Minutes
Hate, and the speculations which might possibly induce a
sceptical or rebellious attitude are killed in advance by his
early acquired inner discipline. The first and simplest stage
in the discipline, which can be taught even to young chil-
dren, is called, in Newspeak, CRIMESTOP CRIMESTOP
means the faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct,
at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the
power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logi-
cal errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if
they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled
by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a
heretical direction. CRIMESTOP, in short, means protec-
tive stupidity. But stupidity is not enough. On the contrary,
orthodoxy in the full sense demands a control over one's
own mental processes as complete as that of a contortion-
ist over his body. Oceanic society rests ultimately on the
belief that Big Brother is omnipotent and that the Party is
infallible. But since in reality Big Brother is not omnipotent
and the party is not infallible, there is need for an unwea-
rying, moment-to-moment flexibility in the treatment of
facts. The keyword here is BLACKWHITE. Like so many
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 267
Newspeak words, this word has two mutually contradicto-
ry meanings. Applied to an opponent, it means the habit of
impudently claiming that black is white, in contradiction of
the plain facts. Applied to a Party member, it means a loyal
willingness to say that black is white when Party discipline
demands this. But it means also the ability to BELIEVE that
black is white, and more, to KNOW that black is white, and
to forget that one has ever believed the contrary. This de-
mands a continuous alteration of the past, made possible
by the system of thought which really embraces all the rest,
and which is known in Newspeak as DOUBLETHINK.
The alteration of the past is necessary for two reasons,
one of which is subsidiary and, so to speak, precaution-
ary. The subsidiary reason is that the Party member, like
the proletarian, tolerates present-day conditions partly be-
cause he has no standards of comparison. He must be cut
off from the past, just as he must be cut off from foreign
countries, because it is necessary for him to believe that
he is better off than his ancestors and that the average lev-
el of material comfort is constantly rising. But by far the
more important reason for the readjustment of the past is
the need to safeguard the infallibility of the Party. It is not
merely that speeches, statistics, and records of every kind
must be constantly brought up to date in order to show that
the predictions of the Party were in all cases right. It is also
that no change in doctrine or in political alignment can
ever be admitted. For to change one's mind, or even one's
policy, is a confession of weakness. If, for example, Eurasia
or Eastasia (whichever it may be) is the enemy today, then
1984
that country must always have been the enemy. And if the
facts say otherwise then the facts must be altered. Thus his-
tory is continuously rewritten. This day-to-day falsification
of the past, carried out by the Ministry of Truth, is as neces-
sary to the stability of the regime as the work of repression
and espionage carried out by the Ministry of Love.
The mutability of the past is the central tenet of Ingsoc.
Past events, it is argued, have no objective existence, but
survive only in written records and in human memories.
The past is whatever the records and the memories agree
upon. And since the Party is in full control of all records
and in equally full control of the minds of its members, it
follows that the past is whatever the Party chooses to make
it. It also follows that though the past is alterable, it never
has been altered in any specific instance. For when it has
been recreated in whatever shape is needed at the moment,
then this new version IS the past, and no different past can
ever have existed. This holds good even when, as often hap-
pens, the same event has to be altered out of recognition
several times in the course of a year. At all times the Party
is in possession of absolute truth, and clearly the absolute
can never have been different from what it is now. It will
be seen that the control of the past depends above all on
the training of memory. To make sure that all written re-
cords agree with the orthodoxy of the moment is merely
a mechanical act. But it is also necessary to REMEMBER
that events happened in the desired manner. And if it is
necessary to rearrange one's memories or to tamper with
written records, then it is necessary to FORGET that one
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has done so. The trick of doing this can be learned like any
other mental technique. It is learned by the majority of Par-
ty members, and certainly by all who are intelligent as well
as orthodox. In Oldspeak it is called, quite frankly, 'reality
control'. In Newspeak it is called DOUBLETHINK, though
DOUBLETHINK comprises much else as well.
DOUBLETHINK means the power of holding two
contradictory beliefs in one's mind simultaneously, and ac-
cepting both of them. The Party intellectual knows in which
direction his memories must be altered; he therefore knows
that he is playing tricks with reality; but by the exercise of
DOUBLETHINK he also satisfies himself that reality is not
violated. The process has to be conscious, or it would not
be carried out with sufficient precision, but it also has to be
unconscious, or it would bring with it a feeling of falsity and
hence of guilt. DOUBLETHINK lies at the very heart of In-
gsoc, since the essential act of the Party is to use conscious
deception while retaining the firmness of purpose that goes
with complete honesty. To tell deliberate lies while genu-
inely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become
inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again,
to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed,
to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while
to take account of the reality which one denies — all this is
indispensably necessary. Even in using the word DOUBLE-
THINK it is necessary to exercise DOUBLETHINK. For
by using the word one admits that one is tampering with
reality; by a fresh act of DOUBLETHINK one erases this
knowledge; and so on indefinitely, with the lie always one
1984
leap ahead of the truth. Ultimately it is by means of DOU-
BLETHINK that the Party has been able — and may, for all
we know, continue to be able for thousands of years — to ar-
rest the course of history.
All past oligarchies have fallen from power either because
they ossified or because they grew soft. Either they became
stupid and arrogant, failed to adjust themselves to chang-
ing circumstances, and were overthrown; or they became
liberal and cowardly, made concessions when they should
have used force, and once again were overthrown. They fell,
that is to say, either through consciousness or through un-
consciousness. It is the achievement of the Party to have
produced a system of thought in which both conditions can
exist simultaneously. And upon no other intellectual basis
could the dominion of the Party be made permanent. If one
is to rule, and to continue ruling, one must be able to dis-
locate the sense of reality. For the secret of rulership is to
combine a belief in one's own infallibility with the Power to
learn from past mistakes.
It need hardly be said that the subtlest practitioners of
DOUBLETHINK are those who invented DOUBLETHINK
and know that it is a vast system of mental cheating. In
our society, those who have the best knowledge of what is
happening are also those who are furthest from seeing the
world as it is. In general, the greater the understanding, the
greater the delusion; the more intelligent, the less sane. One
clear illustration of this is the fact that war hysteria increas-
es in intensity as one rises in the social scale. Those whose
attitude towards the war is most nearly rational are the sub-
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ject peoples of the disputed territories. To these people the
war is simply a continuous calamity which sweeps to and
fro over their bodies like a tidal wave. Which side is win-
ning is a matter of complete indifference to them. They are
aware that a change of overlordship means simply that they
will be doing the same work as before for new masters who
treat them in the same manner as the old ones. The slightly
more favoured workers whom we call 'the proles' are only
intermittently conscious of the war. When it is necessary
they can be prodded into frenzies of fear and hatred, but
when left to themselves they are capable of forgetting for
long periods that the war is happening. It is in the ranks of
the Party, and above all of the Inner Party, that the true war
enthusiasm is found. World- conquest is believed in most
firmly by those who know it to be impossible. This peculiar
linking-together of opposites — knowledge with ignorance,
cynicism with fanaticism — is one of the chief distinguish-
ing marks of Oceanic society. The official ideology abounds
with contradictions even when there is no practical reason
for them. Thus, the Party rejects and vilifies every principle
for which the Socialist movement originally stood, and it
chooses to do this in the name of Socialism. It preaches a
contempt for the working class unexampled for centuries
past, and it dresses its members in a uniform which was at
one time peculiar to manual workers and was adopted for
that reason. It systematically undermines the solidarity of
the family, and it calls its leader by a name which is a direct
appeal to the sentiment of family loyalty. Even the names of
the four Ministries by which we are governed exhibit a sort
1984
of impudence in their deliberate reversal of the facts. The
Ministry of Peace concerns itself with war, the Ministry of
Truth with lies, the Ministry of Love with torture and the
Ministry of Plenty with starvation. These contradictions
are not accidental, nor do they result from ordinary hypoc-
risy; they are deliberate exercises in DOUBLETHINK. For
it is only by reconciling contradictions that power can be
retained indefinitely. In no other way could the ancient cy-
cle be broken. If human equality is to be for ever averted — if
the High, as we have called them, are to keep their places
permanently — then the prevailing mental condition must
be controlled insanity.
But there is one question which until this moment we
have almost ignored. It is; WHY should human equality be
averted? Supposing that the mechanics of the process have
been rightly described, what is the motive for this huge,
accurately planned effort to freeze history at a particular
moment of time?
Here we reach the central secret. As we have seen, the
mystique of the Party, and above all of the Inner Party, de-
pends upon DOUBLETHINK But deeper than this lies the
original motive, the never- questioned instinct that first led
to the seizure of power and brought DOUBLETHINK, the
Thought Police, continuous warfare, and all the other nec-
essary paraphernalia into existence afterwards. This motive
really consists...
Winston became aware of silence, as one becomes aware
of a new sound. It seemed to him that Julia had been very
still for some time past. She was lying on her side, na-
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ked from the waist upwards, with her cheek pillowed on
her hand and one dark lock tumbling across her eyes. Her
breast rose and fell slowly and regularly.
'Julia.'
No answer.
'Julia, are you awake?'
No answer. She was asleep. He shut the book, put it care-
fully on the floor, lay down, and pulled the coverlet over
both of them.
He had still, he reflected, not learned the ultimate secret.
He understood HOW; he did not understand WHY. Chap-
ter I, like Chapter III, had not actually told him anything
that he did not know, it had merely systematized the knowl-
edge that he possessed already. But after reading it he knew
better than before that he was not mad. Being in a minority,
even a minority of one, did not make you mad. There was
truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth
even against the whole world, you were not mad. A yellow
beam from the sinking sun slanted in through the window
and fell across the pillow. He shut his eyes. The sun on his
face and the girl's smooth body touching his own gave him
a strong, sleepy, confident feeling. He was safe, everything
was all right. He fell asleep murmuring 'Sanity is not sta-
tistical,' with the feeling that this remark contained in it a
profound wisdom.
When he woke it was with the sensation of having slept
for a long time, but a glance at the old-fashioned clock told
him that it was only twenty-thirty He lay dozing for a while;
1984
then the usual deep-lunged singing struck up from the yard
below:
'It was only an 'opeless fancy,
It passed like an Ipril dye,
But a look an a word an the dreams they stirred
They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye!'
The driveling song seemed to have kept its popularity.
You still heard it all over the place. It had outlived the Hate
Song. Julia woke at the sound, stretched herself luxuriously,
and got out of bed.
'I'm hungry' she said. 'Let's make some more coffee.
Damn! The stove's gone out and the water's cold.' She picked
the stove up and shook it. 'There's no oil in it.'
'We can get some from old Charrington, I expect.'
'The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I'm going to
put my clothes on,' she added. 'It seems to have got colder.'
Winston also got up and dressed himself. The indefati-
gable voice sang on:
"Ihey sye that time 'eals all things,
They sye you can always forget;
But the smiles an the tears acrorss the years
They twist my 'eart-strings yet!'
As he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across
to the window. The sun must have gone down behind the
houses; it was not shining into the yard any longer. The flag-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 275
stones were wet as though they had just been washed, and
he had the feeling that the sky had been washed too, so fresh
and pale was the blue between the chimney-pots. Tireless-
ly the woman marched to and fro, corking and uncorking
herself, singing and falling silent, and pegging out more di-
apers, and more and yet more. He wondered whether she
took in washing for a living or was merely the slave of twen-
ty or thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to his side;
together they gazed down with a sort of fascination at the
sturdy figure below. As he looked at the woman in her char-
acteristic attitude, her thick arms reaching up for the line,
her powerful mare-like buttocks protruded, it struck him
for the first time that she was beautiful. It had never before
occurred to him that the body of a woman of fifty, blown up
to monstrous dimensions by childbearing, then hardened,
roughened by work till it was coarse in the grain like an
over-ripe turnip, could be beautiful. But it was so, and after
all, he thought, why not? The solid, contourless body, like a
block of granite, and the rasping red skin, bore the same re-
lation to the body of a girl as the rose-hip to the rose. Why
should the fruit be held inferior to the flower?
'She's beautiful,' he murmured.
'She's a metre across the hips, easily' said Julia.
'That is her style of beauty' said Winston.
He held Julia's supple waist easily encircled by his arm.
From the hip to the knee her flank was against his. Out of
their bodies no child would ever come. That was the one
thing they could never do. Only by word of mouth, from
mind to mind, could they pass on the secret. The woman
276 1984
down there had no mind, she had only strong arms, a warm
heart, and a fertile belly. He wondered how many children
she had given birth to. It might easily be fifteen. She had
had her momentary flowering, a year, perhaps, of wild-rose
beauty and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized
fruit and grown hard and red and coarse, and then her life
had been laundering, scrubbing, darning, cooking, sweep-
ing, polishing, mending, scrubbing, laundering, first for
children, then for grandchildren, over thirty unbroken
years. At the end of it she was still singing. The mystical
reverence that he felt for her was somehow mixed up with
the aspect of the pale, cloudless sky, stretching away behind
the chimney-pots into interminable distance. It was curi-
ous to think that the sky was the same for everybody, in
Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under
the sky were also very much the same — everywhere, all over
the world, hundreds of thousands of millions of people just
like this, people ignorant of one another's existence, held
apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the
same — people who had never learned to think but who were
storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power
that would one day overturn the world. If there was hope,
it lay in the proles! Without having read to the end of THE
BOOK, he knew that that must be Goldstein's final message.
The future belonged to the proles. And could he be sure that
when their time came the world they constructed would not
be just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as the world of the
Party? Yes, because at the least it would be a world of sanity.
Where there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later
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it would happen, strength would change into consciousness.
The proles were immortal, you could not doubt it when you
looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their
awakening would come. And until that happened, though it
might be a thousand years, they would stay alive against all
the odds, like birds, passing on from body to body the vital-
ity which the Party did not share and could not kill.
'Do you remember,' he said, 'the thrush that sang to us,
that first day, at the edge of the wood?'
'He wasn't singing to us,' said Julia. 'He was singing to
please himself. Not even that. He was just singing.'
The birds sang, the proles sang, the Party did not sing.
All round the world, in London and New York, in Africa
and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden lands beyond
the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villag-
es of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and
Japan — everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable
figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling
from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty
loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. You
were the dead, theirs was the future. But you could share in
that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the
body, and passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two
make four.
'We are the dead,' he said.
'We are the dead,' echoed Julia dutifully.
'You are the dead,' said an iron voice behind them.
They sprang apart. Winston's entrails seemed to have
turned into ice. He could see the white all round the irises of
278 1984
Julia's eyes. Her face had turned a milky yellow. The smear
of rouge that was still on each cheekbone stood out sharply,
almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath.
'You are the dead,' repeated the iron voice.
'It was behind the picture,' breathed Julia.
'It was behind the picture,' said the voice. 'Remain exactly
where you are. Make no movement until you are ordered.'
It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do noth-
ing except stand gazing into one another's eyes. To run for
life, to get out of the house before it was too late — no such
thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey the iron
voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had
been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture
had fallen to the floor uncovering the telescreen behind it.
'Now they can see us,' said Julia.
'Now we can see you,' said the voice. 'Stand out in the
middle of the room. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands
behind your heads. Do not touch one another.'
They were not touching, but it seemed to him that he
could feel Julia's body shaking. Or perhaps it was merely
the shaking of his own. He could just stop his teeth from
chattering, but his knees were beyond his control. There
was a sound of trampling boots below, inside the house and
outside. The yard seemed to be full of men. Something was
being dragged across the stones. The woman's singing had
stopped abruptly. There was a long, rolling clang, as though
the washtub had been flung across the yard, and then a con-
fusion of angry shouts which ended in a yell of pain.
"The house is surrounded,' said Winston.
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"The house is surrounded,' said the voice.
He heard Julia snap her teeth together. 'I suppose we may
as well say good-bye,' she said.
'You may as well say good-bye,' said the voice. And then
another quite different voice, a thin, cultivated voice which
Winston had the impression of having heard before, struck
in; 'And by the way, while we are on the subject, 'Here comes
a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop
off your head'!'
Something crashed on to the bed behind Winston's back.
The head of a ladder had been thrust through the window
and had burst in the frame. Someone was climbing through
the window. There was a stampede of boots up the stairs.
The room was full of solid men in black uniforms, with iron-
shod boots on their feet and truncheons in their hands.
Winston was not trembling any longer. Even his eyes he
barely moved. One thing alone mattered; to keep still, to
keep still and not give them an excuse to hit you! A man
with a smooth prize-fighter's jowl in which the mouth was
only a slit paused opposite him balancing his truncheon
meditatively between thumb and forefinger. Winston met
his eyes. The feeling of nakedness, with one's hands behind
one's head and one's face and body all exposed, was almost
unbearable. The man protruded the tip of a white tongue,
licked the place where his lips should have been, and then
passed on. There was another crash. Someone had picked
up the glass paperweight from the table and smashed it to
pieces on the hearth-stone.
The fragment of coral, a tiny crinkle of pink like a sug-
1984
ar rosebud from a cake, rolled across the mat. How small,
thought Winston, how small it always was! There was a gasp
and a thump behind him, and he received a violent kick on
the ankle which nearly flung him off his balance. One of the
men had smashed his fist into Julia's solar plexus, doubling
her up like a pocket ruler. She was thrashing about on the
floor, fighting for breath. Winston dared not turn his head
even by a millimetre, but sometimes her livid, gasping face
came within the angle of his vision. Even in his terror it was
as though he could feel the pain in his own body, the deadly
pain which nevertheless was less urgent than the struggle to
get back her breath. He knew what it was like; the terrible,
agonizing pain which was there all the while but could not
be suffered yet, because before all else it was necessary to
be able to breathe. Then two of the men hoisted her up by
knees and shoulders, and carried her out of the room like a
sack. Winston had a glimpse of her face, upside down, yel-
low and contorted, with the eyes shut, and still with a smear
of rouge on either cheek; and that was the last he saw of
her.
He stood dead still. No one had hit him yet. Thoughts
which came of their own accord but seemed totally uninter-
esting began to flit through his mind. He wondered whether
they had got Mr Charrington. He wondered what they had
done to the woman in the yard. He noticed that he bad-
ly wanted to urinate, and felt a faint surprise, because he
had done so only two or three hours ago. He noticed that
the clock on the mantelpiece said nine, meaning twenty-
one. But the light seemed too strong. Would not the light
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be fading at twenty- one hours on an August evening? He
wondered whether after all he and Julia had mistaken the
time — had slept the clock round and thought it was twen-
ty-thirty when really it was nought eight-thirty on the
following morning. But he did not pursue the thought fur-
ther. It was not interesting.
There ws another, lighter step in the passage. Mr
Charrington came into the room. The demeanour of
the black-uniformed men suddenly became more sub-
dued. Something had also changed in Mr Charrington's
appearance. His eye fell on the fragments of the glass pa-
perweight.
'Pick up those pieces,' he said sharply.
A man stooped to obey. The cockney accent had disap-
peared; Winston suddenly realized whose voice it was that
he had heard a few moments ago on the telescreen. Mr Char-
rington was still wearing his old velvet jacket, but his hair,
which had been almost white, had turned black. Also he was
not wearing his spectacles. He gave Winston a single sharp
glance, as though verifying his identity, and then paid no
more attention to him. He was still recognizable, but he was
not the same person any longer. His body had straightened,
and seemed to have grown bigger. His face had undergone
only tiny changes that had nevertheless worked a complete
transformation. The black eyebrows were less bushy, the
wrinkles were gone, the whole lines of the face seemed to
have altered; even the nose seemed shorter. It was the alert,
cold face of a man of about five-and-thirty It occurred to
Winston that for the first time in his life he was looking,
1984
with knowledge, at a member of the Thought Police.
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Part Three
284 1984
Chapter i
He did not know where he was. Presumably he was in
the Ministry of Love, but there was no way of mak-
ing certain. He was in a high- ceilinged windowless cell with
walls of glittering white porcelain. Concealed lamps flood-
ed it with cold light, and there was a low, steady humming
sound which he supposed had something to do with the
air supply. A bench, or shelf, just wide enough to sit on ran
round the wall, broken only by the door and, at the end op-
posite the door, a lavatory pan with no wooden seat. There
were four telescreens, one in each wall.
There was a dull aching in his belly. It had been there
ever since they had bundled him into the closed van and
driven him away. But he was also hungry, with a gnaw-
ing, unwholesome kind of hunger. It might be twenty-four
hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did
not know, probably never would know, whether it had been
morning or evening when they arrested him. Since he was
arrested he had not been fed.
He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his
hands crossed on his knee. He had already learned to sit
still. If you made unexpected movements they yelled at you
from the telescreen. But the craving for food was growing
upon him. What he longed for above all was a piece of bread.
He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 285
pocket of his overalls. It was even possible — he thought this
because from time to time something seemed to tickle his
leg — that there might be a sizeable bit of crust there. In the
end the temptation to find out overcame his fear; he slipped
a hand into his pocket.
'Smith!' yelled a voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith
W.! Hands out of pockets in the cells!'
He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Be-
fore being brought here he had been taken to another place
which must have been an ordinary prison or a temporary
lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know how long he
had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and
no daylight it was hard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evil-
smelling place. They had put him into a cell similar to the
one he was now in, but filthily dirty and at all times crowded
by ten or fifteen people. The majority of them were common
criminals, but there were a few political prisoners among
them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty
bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his belly to
take much interest in his surroundings, but still noticing
the astonishing difference in demeanour between the Party
prisoners and the others. The Party prisoners were always
silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals seemed to
care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards,
fought back fiercely when their belongings were impound-
ed, wrote obscene words on the floor, ate smuggled food
which they produced from mysterious hiding-places in their
clothes, and even shouted down the telescreen when it tried
to restore order. On the other hand some of them seemed
1984
to be on good terms with the guards, called them by nick-
names, and tried to wheedle cigarettes through the spyhole
in the door. The guards, too, treated the common criminals
with a certain forbearance, even when they had to handle
them roughly. There was much talk about the forced-labour
camps to which most of the prisoners expected to be sent.
It was 'all right' in the camps, he gathered, so long as you
had good contacts and knew the ropes. There was bribery,
favouritism, and racketeering of every kind, there was ho-
mosexuality and prostitution, there was even illicit alcohol
distilled from potatoes. The positions of trust were given
only to the common criminals, especially the gangsters and
the murderers, who formed a sort of aristocracy. All the
dirty jobs were done by the politicals.
There was a constant come-and-go of prisoners of every
description: drug-peddlers, thieves, bandits, black-mar-
keteers, drunks, prostitutes. Some of the drunks were so
violent that the other prisoners had to combine to sup-
press them. An enormous wreck of a woman, aged about
sixty, with great tumbling breasts and thick coils of white
hair which had come down in her struggles, was carried in,
kicking and shouting, by four guards, who had hold of her
one at each corner. They wrenched off the boots with which
she had been trying to kick them, and dumped her down
across Winston's lap, almost breaking his thigh-bones. The
woman hoisted herself upright and followed them out with
a yell of 'F bastards!' Then, noticing that she was sit-
ting on something uneven, she slid off Winston's knees on
to the bench.
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'Beg pardon, dearie,' she said. 'I wouldn't 'a sat on you,
only the buggers put me there. They dono 'ow to treat a lady,
do they?' She paused, patted her breast, and belched. 'Par-
don,' she said, 'I ain't meself, quite.'
She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor.
"Ihass better,' she said, leaning back with closed eyes.
'Never keep it down, thass what I say. Get it up while it's
fresh on your stomach, like.'
She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and
seemed immediately to take a fancy to him. She put a vast
arm round his shoulder and drew him towards her, breath-
ing beer and vomit into his face.
"Wass your name, dearie?' she said.
'Smith,' said Winston.
'Smith?' said the woman. "Thass funny. My name's Smith
too. Why' she added sentimentally, T might be your moth-
er!'
She might, thought Winston, be his mother. She was
about the right age and physique, and it was probable that
people changed somewhat after twenty years in a forced-la-
bour camp.
No one else had spoken to him. To a surprising extent
the ordinary criminals ignored the Party prisoners. "The
polITS,' they called them, with a sort of uninterested con-
tempt. The Party prisoners seemed terrified of speaking to
anybody, and above all of speaking to one another. Only
once, when two Party members, both women, were pressed
close together on the bench, he overheard amid the din of
voices a few hurriedly- whispered words; and in particular a
1984
reference to something called 'room one-oh-one', which he
did not understand.
It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought
him here. The dull pain in his belly never went away, but
sometimes it grew better and sometimes worse, and his
thoughts expanded or contracted accordingly. When it
grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his de-
sire for food. When it grew better, panic took hold of him.
There were moments when he foresaw the things that would
happen to him with such actuality that his heart galloped
and his breath stopped. He felt the smash of truncheons on
his elbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself
grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercy through bro-
ken teeth. He hardly thought of Julia. He could not fix his
mind on her. He loved her and would not betray her; but
that was only a fact, known as he knew the rules of arith-
metic. He felt no love for her, and he hardly even wondered
what was happening to her. He thought oftener of O'Brien,
with a flickering hope. O'Brien might know that he had
been arrested. The Brotherhood, he had said, never tried to
save its members. But there was the razor blade; they would
send the razor blade if they could. There would be perhaps
five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell. The
blade would bite into him with a sort of burning coldness,
and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the bone.
Everything came back to his sick body, which shrank trem-
bling from the smallest pain. He was not certain that he
would use the razor blade even if he got the chance. It was
more natural to exist from moment to moment, accepting
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another ten minutes' life even with the certainty that there
was torture at the end of it.
Sometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain
bricks in the walls of the cell. It should have been easy, but
he always lost count at some point or another. More often he
wondered where he was, and what time of day it was. At one
moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight outside,
and at the next equally certain that it was pitch darkness. In
this place, he knew instinctively, the lights would never be
turned out. It was the place with no darkness: he saw now
why O'Brien had seemed to recognize the allusion. In the
Ministry of Love there were no windows. His cell might be
at the heart of the building or against its outer wall; it might
be ten floors below ground, or thirty above it. He moved
himself mentally from place to place, and tried to deter-
mine by the feeling of his body whether he was perched
high in the air or buried deep underground.
There was a sound of marching boots outside. The steel
door opened with a clang. A young officer, a trim black-uni-
formed figure who seemed to glitter all over with polished
leather, and whose pale, straight-featured face was like a
wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway. He mo-
tioned to the guards outside to bring in the prisoner they
were leading. The poet Ampleforth shambled into the cell.
The door clanged shut again.
Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from
side to side, as though having some idea that there was an-
other door to go out of, and then began to wander up and
down the cell. He had not yet noticed Winston's presence.
1984
His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre
above the level of Winston's head. He was shoeless; large,
dirty toes were sticking out of the holes in his socks. He
was also several days away from a shave. A scrubby beard
covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air of
ruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and
nervous movements.
Winston roused himself a little from his lethargy. He
must speak to Ampleforth, and risk the yell from the tele-
screen. It was even conceivable that Ampleforth was the
bearer of the razor blade.
Ampleforth,' he said.
There was no yell from the telescreen. Ampleforth
paused, mildly startled. His eyes focused themselves slowly
on Winston.
Ah, Smith!' he said. 'You too!'
'What are you in for?'
'To tell you the truth — ' He sat down awkwardly on the
bench opposite Winston. 'There is only one offence, is there
not?' he said.
And have you committed it?'
Apparently I have.'
He put a hand to his forehead and pressed his temples for
a moment, as though trying to remember something.
'These things happen,' he began vaguely. 'I have been
able to recall one instance — a possible instance. It was an
indiscretion, undoubtedly. We were producing a definitive
edition of the poems of Kipling. I allowed the word 'God' to
remain at the end of a line. I could not help it!' he added al-
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most indignantly, raising his face to look at Winston. 'It was
impossible to change the line. The rhyme was 'rod". Do you
realize that there are only twelve rhymes to 'rod' in the en-
tire language? For days I had racked my brains. There WAS
no other rhyme.'
The expression on his face changed. The annoyance
passed out of it and for a moment he looked almost pleased.
A sort of intellectual warmth, the joy of the pedant who has
found out some useless fact, shone through the dirt and
scrubby hair.
'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, 'that the whole his-
tory of English poetry has been determined by the fact that
the English language lacks rhymes?'
No, that particular thought had never occurred to Win-
ston. Nor, in the circumstances, did it strike him as very
important or interesting.
'Do you know what time of day it is?' he said.
Ampleforth looked startled again. 'I had hardly thought
about it. They arrested me — it could be two days ago — per-
haps three.' His eyes flitted round the walls, as though he
half expected to find a window somewhere. 'There is no dif-
ference between night and day in this place. I do not see
how one can calculate the time.'
They talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without
apparent reason, a yell from the telescreen bade them be
silent. Winston sat quietly, his hands crossed. Ampleforth,
too large to sit in comfort on the narrow bench, fidgeted
from side to side, clasping his lank hands first round one
knee, then round the other. The telescreen barked at him to
1984
keep still. Time passed. Twenty minutes, an hour — it was
difficult to judge. Once more there was a sound of boots
outside. Winston's entrails contracted. Soon, very soon,
perhaps in five minutes, perhaps now, the tramp of boots
would mean that his own turn had come.
The door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped
into the cell. With a brief movement of the hand he indi-
cated Ampleforth.
'Room 101,' he said.
Ampleforth marched clumsily out between the guards,
his face vaguely perturbed, but uncomprehending.
What seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Win-
ston's belly had revived. His mind sagged round and round
on the same trick, like a ball falling again and again into
the same series of slots. He had only six thoughts. The pain
in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the screaming;
O'Brien; Julia; the razor blade. There was another spasm in
his entrails, the heavy boots were approaching. As the door
opened, the wave of air that it created brought in a power-
ful smell of cold sweat. Parsons walked into the cell. He was
wearing khaki shorts and a sports-shirt.
This time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness.
'YOU here!' he said.
Parsons gave Winston a glance in which there was
neither interest nor surprise, but only misery. He began
walking jerkily up and down, evidently unable to keep still.
Each time he straightened his pudgy knees it was apparent
that they were trembling. His eyes had a wide-open, staring
look, as though he could not prevent himself from gazing at
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something in the middle distance.
'What are you in for?' said Winston.
'Thoughtcrime!' said Parsons, almost blubbering. The
tone of his voice implied at once a complete admission of
his guilt and a sort of incredulous horror that such a word
could be applied to himself. He paused opposite Winston
and began eagerly appealing to him: 'You don't think they'll
shoot me, do you, old chap? They don't shoot you if you
haven't actually done anything — only thoughts, which you
can't help? I know they give you a fair hearing. Oh, I trust
them for that! They'll know my record, won't they? YOU
know what kind of chap I was. Not a bad chap in my way.
Not brainy, of course, but keen. I tried to do my best for the
Party, didn't I? I'll get off with five years, don't you think? Or
even ten years? A chap like me could make himself pretty
useful in a labour- camp. They wouldn't shoot me for going
off the rails just once?'
'Are you guilty?' said Winston.
'Of course I'm guilty!' cried Parsons with a servile glance
at the telescreen. 'You don't think the Party would arrest
an innocent man, do you?' His frog-like face grew calm-
er, and even took on a slightly sanctimonious expression.
'Thoughtcrime is a dreadful thing, old man,' he said senten-
tiously 'It's insidious. It can get hold of you without your
even knowing it. Do you know how it got hold of me? In my
sleep! Yes, that's a fact. There I was, working away, trying to
do my bit — never knew I had any bad stuff in my mind at all.
And then I started talking in my sleep. Do you know what
they heard me saying?'
1984
He sank his voice, like someone who is obliged for medi-
cal reasons to utter an obscenity.
"Down with Big Brother!' Yes, I said that! Said it over
and over again, it seems. Between you and me, old man, I'm
glad they got me before it went any further. Do you know
what I'm going to say to them when I go up before the tribu-
nal? 'Thank you,' I'm going to say, 'thank you for saving me
before it was too late."
'Who denounced you?' said Winston.
'It was my little daughter,' said Parsons with a sort of
doleful pride. 'She listened at the keyhole. Heard what I
was saying, and nipped off to the patrols the very next day.
Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh? I don't bear her any
grudge for it. In fact I'm proud of her. It shows I brought her
up in the right spirit, anyway'
He made a few more jerky movements up and down,
several times, casting a longing glance at the lavatory pan.
Then he suddenly ripped down his shorts.
'Excuse me, old man,' he said. T can't help it. It's the wait-
ing.'
He plumped his large posterior into the lavatory pan.
Winston covered his face with his hands.
'Smith!' yelled the voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith
W! Uncover your face. No faces covered in the cells.'
Winston uncovered his face. Parsons used the lavatory,
loudly and abundantly. It then turned out that the plug was
defective and the cell stank abominably for hours after-
wards.
Parsons was removed. More prisoners came and went,
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mysteriously. One, a woman, was consigned to 'Room 101',
and, Winston noticed, seemed to shrivel and turn a differ-
ent colour when she heard the words. A time came when, if
it had been morning when he was brought here, it would be
afternoon; or if it had been afternoon, then it would be mid-
night. There were six prisoners in the cell, men and women.
All sat very still. Opposite Winston there sat a man with a
chinless, toothy face exactly like that of some large, harm-
less rodent. His fat, mottled cheeks were so pouched at the
bottom that it was difficult not to believe that he had little
stores of food tucked away there. His pale-grey eyes flitted
timorously from face to face and turned quickly away again
when he caught anyone's eye.
The door opened, and another prisoner was brought in
whose appearance sent a momentary chill through Win-
ston. He was a commonplace, mean-looking man who
might have been an engineer or technician of some kind.
But what was startling was the emaciation of his face. It
was like a skull. Because of its thinness the mouth and eyes
looked disproportionately large, and the eyes seemed filled
with a murderous, unappeasable hatred of somebody or
something.
The man sat down on the bench at a little distance from
Winston. Winston did not look at him again, but the tor-
mented, skull-like face was as vivid in his mind as though
it had been straight in front of his eyes. Suddenly he real-
ized what was the matter. The man was dying of starvation.
The same thought seemed to occur almost simultaneously
to everyone in the cell. There was a very faint stirring all
296 1984
the way round the bench. The eyes of the chinless man kept
flitting towards the skull-faced man, then turning guiltily
away, then being dragged back by an irresistible attraction.
Presently he began to fidget on his seat. At last he stood up,
waddled clumsily across the cell, dug down into the pocket
of his overalls, and, with an abashed air, held out a grimy
piece of bread to the skull-faced man.
There was a furious, deafening roar from the telescreen.
The chinless man jumped in his tracks. The skull-faced man
had quickly thrust his hands behind his back, as though
demonstrating to all the world that he refused the gift.
'Bumstead!' roared the voice. '2713 Bumstead J.! Let fall
that piece of bread!'
The chinless man dropped the piece of bread on the
floor.
'Remain standing where you are,' said the voice. 'Face the
door. Make no movement.'
The chinless man obeyed. His large pouchy cheeks were
quivering uncontrollably. The door clanged open. As the
young officer entered and stepped aside, there emerged
from behind him a short stumpy guard with enormous
arms and shoulders. He took his stand opposite the chin-
less man, and then, at a signal from the officer, let free a
frightful blow, with all the weight of his body behind it, full
in the chinless man's mouth. The force of it seemed almost
to knock him clear of the floor. His body was flung across
the cell and fetched up against the base of the lavatory seat.
For a moment he lay as though stunned, with dark blood
oozing from his mouth and nose. A very faint whimper-
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ing or squeaking, which seemed unconscious, came out of
him. Then he rolled over and raised himself unsteadily on
hands and knees. Amid a stream of blood and saliva, the
two halves of a dental plate fell out of his mouth.
The prisoners sat very still, their hands crossed on their
knees. The chinless man climbed back into his place. Down
one side of his face the flesh was darkening. His mouth had
swollen into a shapeless cherry- coloured mass with a black
hole in the middle of it.
From time to time a little blood dripped on to the breast
of his overalls. His grey eyes still flitted from face to face,
more guiltily than ever, as though he were trying to discov-
er how much the others despised him for his humiliation.
The door opened. With a small gesture the officer indi-
cated the skull-faced man.
'Room 101,' he said.
There was a gasp and a flurry at Winston's side. The man
had actually flung himself on his knees on the floor, with
his hand clasped together.
'Comrade! Officer!' he cried. 'You don't have to take me to
that place! Haven't I told you everything already? What else
is it you want to know? There's nothing I wouldn't confess,
nothing! Just tell me what it is and I'll confess straight off.
Write it down and I'll sign it — anything! Not room 101!'
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man's face, already very pale, turned a colour Win-
ston would not have believed possible. It was definitely,
unmistakably, a shade of green.
'Do anything to me!' he yelled. 'You've been starving me
298 1984
for weeks. Finish it off and let me die. Shoot me. Hang me.
Sentence me to twenty-five years. Is there somebody else
you want me to give away? Just say who it is and I'll tell you
anything you want. I don't care who it is or what you do to
them. I've got a wife and three children. The biggest of them
isn't six years old. You can take the whole lot of them and
cut their throats in front of my eyes, and I'll stand by and
watch it. But not Room 101!'
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man looked frantically round at the other prisoners,
as though with some idea that he could put another victim
in his own place. His eyes settled on the smashed face of the
chinless man. He flung out a lean arm.
'That's the one you ought to be taking, not me!' he shout-
ed. 'You didn't hear what he was saying after they bashed
his face. Give me a chance and I'll tell you every word of it.
HE'S the one that's against the Party, not me.' The guards
stepped forward. The man's voice rose to a shriek. 'You
didn't hear him!' he repeated. 'Something went wrong with
the telescreen. HE'S the one you want. Take him, not me!'
The two sturdy guards had stooped to take him by the
arms. But just at this moment he flung himself across the
floor of the cell and grabbed one of the iron legs that sup-
ported the bench. He had set up a wordless howling, like an
animal. The guards took hold of him to wrench him loose,
but he clung on with astonishing strength. For perhaps
twenty seconds they were hauling at him. The prisoners sat
quiet, their hands crossed on their knees, looking straight
in front of them. The howling stopped; the man had no
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breath left for anything except hanging on. Then there was
a different kind of cry. A kick from a guard's boot had bro-
ken the fingers of one of his hands. They dragged him to
his feet.
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head
sunken, nursing his crushed hand, all the fight had gone
out of him.
A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the
skull-faced man was taken away, it was morning: if morn-
ing, it was afternoon. Winston was alone, and had been
alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow bench
was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved
by the telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chin-
less man had dropped it. At the beginning it needed a hard
effort not to look at it, but presently hunger gave way to
thirst. His mouth was sticky and evil-tasting. The hum-
ming sound and the unvarying white light induced a sort
of faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would get
up because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable,
and then would sit down again almost at once because he
was too dizzy to make sure of staying on his feet. Whenever
his physical sensations were a little under control the ter-
ror returned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought of
O'Brien and the razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor
blade might arrive concealed in his food, if he were ever
fed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere or other
she was suffering perhaps far worse than he. She might be
screaming with pain at this moment. He thought: 'If I could
1984
save Julia by doubling my own pain, would I do it? Yes, I
would.' But that was merely an intellectual decision, taken
because he knew that he ought to take it. He did not feel it.
In this place you could not feel anything, except pain and
foreknowledge of pain. Besides, was it possible, when you
were actually suffering it, to wish for any reason that your
own pain should increase? But that question was not an-
swerable yet.
The boots were approaching again. The door opened.
O'Brien came in.
Winston started to his feet. The shock of the sight had
driven all caution out of him. For the first time in many
years he forgot the presence of the telescreen.
"They've got you too!' he cried.
'They got me a long time ago,' said O'Brien with a mild,
almost regretful irony. He stepped aside. From behind him
there emerged a broad-chested guard with a long black
truncheon in his hand.
'You know this, Winston,' said O'Brien. 'Don't deceive
yourself. You did know it — you have always known it.'
Yes, he saw now, he had always known it. But there was no
time to think of that. All he had eyes for was the truncheon
in the guard's hand. It might fall anywhere; on the crown,
on the tip of the ear, on the upper arm, on the elbow
The elbow! He had slumped to his knees, almost para-
lysed, clasping the stricken elbow with his other hand.
Everything had exploded into yellow light. Inconceivable,
inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain! The
light cleared and he could see the other two looking down
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at him. The guard was laughing at his contortions. One
question at any rate was answered. Never, for any reason
on earth, could you wish for an increase of pain. Of pain
you could wish only one thing: that it should stop. Nothing
in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain
there are no heroes, no heroes, he thought over and over as
he writhed on the floor, clutching uselessly at his disabled
left arm.
1984
Chapter 2
He was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, ex-
cept that it was higher off the ground and that he was
fixed down in some way so that he could not move. Light
that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face.
O'Brien was standing at his side, looking down at him in-
tently. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat,
holding a hypodermic syringe.
Even after his eyes were open he took in his surround-
ings only gradually. He had the impression of swimming up
into this room from some quite different world, a sort of un-
derwater world far beneath it. How long he had been down
there he did not know. Since the moment when they arrest-
ed him he had not seen darkness or daylight. Besides, his
memories were not continuous. There had been times when
consciousness, even the sort of consciousness that one has
in sleep, had stopped dead and started again after a blank
interval. But whether the intervals were of days or weeks or
only seconds, there was no way of knowing.
With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had
started. Later he was to realize that all that then happened
was merely a preliminary, a routine interrogation to which
nearly all prisoners were subjected. There was a long range
of crimes — espionage, sabotage, and the like — to which ev-
eryone had to confess as a matter of course. The confession
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was a formality, though the torture was real. How many
times he had been beaten, how long the beatings had con-
tinued, he could not remember. Always there were five or
six men in black uniforms at him simultaneously. Some-
times it was fists, sometimes it was truncheons, sometimes
it was steel rods, sometimes it was boots. There were times
when he rolled about the floor, as shameless as an animal,
writhing his body this way and that in an endless, hopeless
effort to dodge the kicks, and simply inviting more and yet
more kicks, in his ribs, in his belly, on his elbows, on his
shins, in his groin, in his testicles, on the bone at the base
of his spine. There were times when it went on and on un-
til the cruel, wicked, unforgivable thing seemed to him not
that the guards continued to beat him but that he could not
force himself into losing consciousness. There were times
when his nerve so forsook him that he began shouting for
mercy even before the beating began, when the mere sight
of a fist drawn back for a blow was enough to make him
pour forth a confession of real and imaginary crimes. There
were other times when he started out with the resolve of
confessing nothing, when every word had to be forced out
of him between gasps of pain, and there were times when he
feebly tried to compromise, when he said to himself: T will
confess, but not yet. I must hold out till the pain becomes
unbearable. Three more kicks, two more kicks, and then I
will tell them what they want.' Sometimes he was beaten till
he could hardly stand, then flung like a sack of potatoes on
to the stone floor of a cell, left to recuperate for a few hours,
and then taken out and beaten again. There were also longer
1984
periods of recovery. He remembered them dimly, because
they were spent chiefly in sleep or stupor. He remembered
a cell with a plank bed, a sort of shelf sticking out from the
wall, and a tin wash-basin, and meals of hot soup and bread
and sometimes coffee. He remembered a surly barber arriv-
ing to scrape his chin and crop his hair, and businesslike,
unsympathetic men in white coats feeling his pulse, tapping
his reflexes, turning up his eyelids, running harsh fingers
over him in search for broken bones, and shooting needles
into his arm to make him sleep.
The beatings grew less frequent, and became mainly a
threat, a horror to which he could be sent back at any mo-
ment when his answers were unsatisfactory. His questioners
now were not ruffians in black uniforms but Party intellec-
tuals, little rotund men with quick movements and flashing
spectacles, who worked on him in relays over periods which
lasted — he thought, he could not be sure — ten or twelve
hours at a stretch. These other questioners saw to it that he
was in constant slight pain, but it was not chiefly pain that
they relied on. They slapped his face, wrung his ears, pulled
his hair, made him stand on one leg, refused him leave to
urinate, shone glaring lights in his face until his eyes ran
with water; but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him
and destroy his power of arguing and reasoning. Their real
weapon was the merciless questioning that went on and on,
hour after hour, tripping him up, laying traps for him, twist-
ing everything that he said, convicting him at every step of
lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much
from shame as from nervous fatigue. Sometimes he would
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weep half a dozen times in a single session. Most of the time
they screamed abuse at him and threatened at every hesita-
tion to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes
they would suddenly change their tune, call him comrade,
appeal to him in the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother, and
ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not enough
loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil
he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of
questioning, even this appeal could reduce him to snivel-
ling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down
more completely than the boots and fists of the guards. He
became simply a mouth that uttered, a hand that signed,
whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to
find out what they wanted him to confess, and then confess
it quickly, before the bullying started anew. He confessed
to the assassination of eminent Party members, the dis-
tribution of seditious pamphlets, embezzlement of public
funds, sale of military secrets, sabotage of every kind. He
confessed that he had been a spy in the pay of the Easta-
sian government as far back as 1968. He confessed that he
was a religious believer, an admirer of capitalism, and a sex-
ual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his wife,
although he knew, and his questioners must have known,
that his wife was still alive. He confessed that for years he
had been in personal touch with Goldstein and had been
a member of an underground organization which had in-
cluded almost every human being he had ever known. It
was easier to confess everything and implicate everybody.
Besides, in a sense it was all true. It was true that he had
306 1984
been the enemy of the Party, and in the eyes of the Party
there was no distinction between the thought and the deed.
There were also memories of another kind. They stood
out in his mind disconnectedly, like pictures with black-
ness all round them.
He was in a cell which might have been either dark or
light, because he could see nothing except a pair of eyes.
Near at hand some kind of instrument was ticking slow-
ly and regularly. The eyes grew larger and more luminous.
Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and
was swallowed up.
He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under
dazzling lights. A man in a white coat was reading the dials.
There was a tramp of heavy boots outside. The door clanged
open. The waxed-faced officer marched in, followed by two
guards.
'Room 101,' said the officer.
The man in the white coat did not turn round. He did not
look at Winston either; he was looking only at the dials.
He was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometre
wide, full of glorious, golden light, roaring with laughter
and shouting out confessions at the top of his voice. He was
confessing everything, even the things he had succeeded
in holding back under the torture. He was relating the en-
tire history of his life to an audience who knew it already.
With him were the guards, the other questioners, the men
in white coats, O'Brien, Julia, Mr Charrington, all rolling
down the corridor together and shouting with laughter.
Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the fu-
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ture had somehow been skipped over and had not happened.
Everything was all right, there was no more pain, the last
detail of his life was laid bare, understood, forgiven.
He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-cer-
tainty that he had heard O'Brien's voice. All through his
interrogation, although he had never seen him, he had had
the feeling that O'Brien was at his elbow, just out of sight. It
was O'Brien who was directing everything. It was he who
set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from
killing him. It was he who decided when Winston should
scream with pain, when he should have a respite, when he
should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs should
be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the ques-
tions and suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he
was the protector, he was the inquisitor, he was the friend.
And once — Winston could not remember whether it was
in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment
of wakefulness — a voice murmured in his ear: 'Don't wor-
ry, Winston; you are in my keeping. For seven years I have
watched over you. Now the turning-point has come. I shall
save you, I shall make you perfect.' He was not sure whether
it was O'Brien's voice; but it was the same voice that had
said to him, 'We shall meet in the place where there is no
darkness,' in that other dream, seven years ago.
He did not remember any ending to his interrogation.
There was a period of blackness and then the cell, or room,
in which he now was had gradually materialized round him.
He was almost flat on his back, and unable to move. His
body was held down at every essential point. Even the back
308 1984
of his head was gripped in some manner. O'Brien was look-
ing down at him gravely and rather sadly. His face, seen
from below, looked coarse and worn, with pouches under
the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin. He was older
than Winston had thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight
or fifty. Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top
and figures running round the face.
'I told you,' said O'Brien, 'that if we met again it would
be here.'
'Yes,' said Winston.
Without any warning except a slight movement of
O'Brien's hand, a wave of pain flooded his body. It was a
frightening pain, because he could not see what was hap-
pening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was
being done to him. He did not know whether the thing was
really happening, or whether the effect was electrically pro-
duced; but his body was being wrenched out of shape, the
joints were being slowly torn apart. Although the pain had
brought the sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was
the fear that his backbone was about to snap. He set his
teeth and breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep
silent as long as possible.
'You are afraid,' said O'Brien, watching his face, 'that in
another moment something is going to break. Your especial
fear is that it will be your backbone. You have a vivid mental
picture of the vertebrae snapping apart and the spinal fluid
dripping out of them. That is what you are thinking, is it
not, Winston?'
Winston did not answer. O'Brien drew back the lever on
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the dial. The wave of pain receded almost as quickly as it
had come.
'That was forty,' said O'Brien. 'You can see that the num-
bers on this dial run up to a hundred. Will you please
remember, throughout our conversation, that I have it in
my power to inflict pain on you at any moment and to what-
ever degree I choose? If you tell me any lies, or attempt to
prevaricate in any way, or even fall below your usual level
of intelligence, you will cry out with pain, instantly. Do you
understand that?'
'Yes,' said Winston.
O'Brien's manner became less severe. He resettled his
spectacles thoughtfully, and took a pace or two up and
down. When he spoke his voice was gentle and patient. He
had the air of a doctor, a teacher, even a priest, anxious to
explain and persuade rather than to punish.
'I am taking trouble with you, Winston,' he said, 'because
you are worth trouble. You know perfectly well what is the
matter with you. You have known it for years, though you
have fought against the knowledge. You are mentally de-
ranged. You suffer from a defective memory. You are unable
to remember real events and you persuade yourself that you
remember other events which never happened. Fortunately
it is curable. You have never cured yourself of it, because
you did not choose to. There was a small effort of the will
that you were not ready to make. Even now, I am well aware,
you are clinging to your disease under the impression that
it is a virtue. Now we will take an example. At this moment,
which power is Oceania at war with?'
1984
'When I was arrested, Oceania was at war with Eastasia.'
'With Eastasia. Good. And Oceania has always been at
war with Eastasia, has it not?'
Winston drew in his breath. He opened his mouth to
speak and then did not speak. He could not take his eyes
away from the dial.
"The truth, please, Winston. YOUR truth. Tell me what
you think you remember.'
'I remember that until only a week before I was arrested,
we were not at war with Eastasia at all. We were in alliance
with them. The war was against Eurasia. That had lasted for
four years. Before that '
O'Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand.
'Another example,' he said. 'Some years ago you had a
very serious delusion indeed. You believed that three men,
three one-time Party members named Jones, Aaronson,
and Rutherford — men who were executed for treachery
and sabotage after making the fullest possible confession —
were not guilty of the crimes they were charged with. You
believed that you had seen unmistakable documentary evi-
dence proving that their confessions were false. There was
a certain photograph about which you had a hallucination.
You believed that you had actually held it in your hands. It
was a photograph something like this.'
An oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between
O'Brien's fingers. For perhaps five seconds it was within the
angle of Winston's vision. It was a photograph, and there
was no question of its identity. It was THE photograph. It
was another copy of the photograph of Jones, Aaronson,
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 311
and Rutherford at the party function in New York, which
he had chanced upon eleven years ago and promptly de-
stroyed. For only an instant it was before his eyes, then it
was out of sight again. But he had seen it, unquestionably he
had seen it! He made a desperate, agonizing effort to wrench
the top half of his body free. It was impossible to move so
much as a centimetre in any direction. For the moment he
had even forgotten the dial. All he wanted was to hold the
photograph in his fingers again, or at least to see it.
'It exists!' he cried.
'No,' said O'Brien.
He stepped across the room. There was a memory hole
in the opposite wall. O'Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the
frail slip of paper was whirling away on the current of warm
air; it was vanishing in a flash of flame. O'Brien turned away
from the wall.
'Ashes,' he said. 'Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does
not exist. It never existed.'
'But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I re-
member it. You remember it.'
'I do not remember it,' said O'Brien.
Winston's heart sank. That was doublethink. He had a
feeling of deadly helplessness. If he could have been certain
that O'Brien was lying, it would not have seemed to matter.
But it was perfectly possible that O'Brien had really forgot-
ten the photograph. And if so, then already he would have
forgotten his denial of remembering it, and forgotten the
act of forgetting. How could one be sure that it was simple
trickery? Perhaps that lunatic dislocation in the mind could
1984
really happen: that was the thought that defeated him.
O'Brien was looking down at him speculatively. More
than ever he had the air of a teacher taking pains with a
wayward but promising child.
"There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the
past,' he said. 'Repeat it, if you please.'
"Who controls the past controls the future: who controls
the present controls the past," repeated Winston obedient-
"Who controls the present controls the past," said
O'Brien, nodding his head with slow approval. 'Is it your
opinion, Winston, that the past has real existence?'
Again the feeling of helplessness descended upon Win-
ston. His eyes flitted towards the dial. He not only did not
know whether 'yes' or 'no' was the answer that would save
him from pain; he did not even know which answer he be-
lieved to be the true one.
O'Brien smiled faintly. 'You are no metaphysician, Win-
ston,' he said. 'Until this moment you had never considered
what is meant by existence. I will put it more precisely. Does
the past exist concretely, in space? Is there somewhere or
other a place, a world of solid objects, where the past is still
happening?'
'No.'
"Then where does the past exist, if at all?'
'In records. It is written down.'
'In records. And ?'
'In the mind. In human memories.'
'In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all
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records, and we control all memories. Then we control the
past, do we not?'
'But how can you stop people remembering things?' cried
Winston again momentarily forgetting the dial. 'It is invol-
untary. It is outside oneself. How can you control memory?
You have not controlled mine!'
O'Brien's manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on
the dial.
'On the contrary' he said, 'YOU have not controlled it.
That is what has brought you here. You are here because
you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would
not make the act of submission which is the price of san-
ity You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only
the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe
that reality is something objective, external, existing in its
own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-
evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you
see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same
thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not ex-
ternal. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else.
Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and
in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party,
which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds
to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except
by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact
that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-
destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself
before you can become sane.'
He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what
1984
he had been saying to sink in.
'Do you remember,' he went on, 'writing in your dia-
ry, 'Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make
four'?'
'Yes,' said Winston.
O'Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston,
with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.
'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?'
'Four.'
'And if the party says that it is not four but five — then
how many?'
'Four.'
The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial
had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over
Winston's body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again
in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could
not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers still ex-
tended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only
slightly eased.
'How many fingers, Winston?'
'Four.'
The needle went up to sixty.
'How many fingers, Winston?'
'Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!'
The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at
it. The heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision.
The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars, enormous,
blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four.
'How many fingers, Winston?'
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 315
'Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!'
'How many fingers, Winston?'
'Five! Five! Five!'
'No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think
there are four. How many fingers, please?'
'Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop
the pain!'
Abruptly he was sitting up with O'Brien's arm round his
shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few sec-
onds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened.
He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth
were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For
a moment he clung to O'Brien like a baby, curiously com-
forted by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the
feeling that O'Brien was his protector, that the pain was
something that came from outside, from some other source,
and that it was O'Brien who would save him from it.
'You are a slow learner, Winston,' said O'Brien gently.
'How can I help it?' he blubbered. 'How can I help seeing
what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four.'
Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Some-
times they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once.
You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane.'
He laid Winston down on the bed. The grip of his limbs
tightened again, but the pain had ebbed away and the
trembling had stopped, leaving him merely weak and cold.
O'Brien motioned with his head to the man in the white
coat, who had stood immobile throughout the proceedings.
The man in the white coat bent down and looked closely
316 1984
into Winston's eyes, felt his pulse, laid an ear against his
chest, tapped here and there, then he nodded to O'Brien.
'Again,' said O'Brien.
The pain flowed into Winston's body. The needle must be
at seventy, seventy-five. He had shut his eyes this time. He
knew that the fingers were still there, and still four. All that
mattered was somehow to stay alive until the spasm was
over. He had ceased to notice whether he was crying out or
not. The pain lessened again. He opened his eyes. O'Brien
had drawn back the lever.
'How many fingers, Winston?'
'Four. I suppose there are four. I would see five if I could.
I am trying to see five.'
'Which do you wish: to persuade me that you see five, or
really to see them?'
'Really to see them.'
Again,' said O'Brien.
Perhaps the needle was eighty — ninety. Winston could
not intermittently remember why the pain was happening.
Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of fingers seemed to
be moving in a sort of dance, weaving in and out, disap-
pearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was
trying to count them, he could not remember why. He knew
only that it was impossible to count them, and that this was
somehow due to the mysterious identity between five and
four. The pain died down again. When he opened his eyes
it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing. In-
numerable fingers, like moving trees, were still streaming
past in either direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut
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his eyes again.
'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?'
'I don't know. I don't know. You will kill me if you do that
again. Four, five, six — in all honesty I don't know.'
'Better,' said O'Brien.
A needle slid into Winston's arm. Almost in the same in-
stant a blissful, healing warmth spread all through his body.
The pain was already half-forgotten. He opened his eyes
and looked up gratefully at O'Brien. At sight of the heavy,
lined face, so ugly and so intelligent, his heart seemed to
turn over. If he could have moved he would have stretched
out a hand and laid it on O'Brien's arm. He had never loved
him so deeply as at this moment, and not merely because
he had stopped the pain. The old feeling, that at bottom it
did not matter whether O'Brien was a friend or an enemy,
had come back. O'Brien was a person who could be talked
to. Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be
understood. O'Brien had tortured him to the edge of luna-
cy, and in a little while, it was certain, he would send him
to his death. It made no difference. In some sense that went
deeper than friendship, they were intimates: somewhere or
other, although the actual words might never be spoken,
there was a place where they could meet and talk. O'Brien
was looking down at him with an expression which suggest-
ed that the same thought might be in his own mind. When
he spoke it was in an easy, conversational tone.
'Do you know where you are, Winston?' he said.
'I don't know. I can guess. In the Ministry of Love.'
'Do you know how long you have been here?'
318 1984
'I don't know. Days, weeks, months — I think it is
months.'
'And why do you imagine that we bring people to this
place?'
'To make them confess.'
'No, that is not the reason. Try again.'
'To punish them.'
'No!' exclaimed O'Brien. His voice had changed extraor-
dinarily, and his face had suddenly become both stern and
animated. 'No! Not merely to extract your confession, not to
punish you. Shall I tell you why we have brought you here?
To cure you! To make you sane! Will you understand, Win-
ston, that no one whom we bring to this place ever leaves
our hands uncured? We are not interested in those stupid
crimes that you have committed. The Party is not interested
in the overt act: the thought is all we care about. We do not
merely destroy our enemies, we change them. Do you un-
derstand what I mean by that?'
He was bending over Winston. His face looked enormous
because of its nearness, and hideously ugly because it was
seen from below. Moreover it was filled with a sort of exal-
tation, a lunatic intensity. Again Winston's heart shrank. If
it had been possible he would have cowered deeper into the
bed. He felt certain that O'Brien was about to twist the dial
out of sheer wantonness. At this moment, however, O'Brien
turned away. He took a pace or two up and down. Then he
continued less vehemently:
'The first thing for you to understand is that in this place
there are no martyrdoms. You have read of the religious
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 319
persecutions of the past. In the Middle Ages there was the
Inquisition. It was a failure. It set out to eradicate heresy, and
ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it burned at the
stake, thousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because
the Inquisition killed its enemies in the open, and killed
them while they were still unrepentant: in fact, it killed
them because they were unrepentant. Men were dying be-
cause they would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally
all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame to the
Inquisitor who burned him. Later, in the twentieth century,
there were the totalitarians, as they were called. There were
the German Nazis and the Russian Communists. The Rus-
sians persecuted heresy more cruelly than the Inquisition
had done. And they imagined that they had learned from
the mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that one
must not make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims
to public trial, they deliberately set themselves to destroy
their dignity. They wore them down by torture and solitude
until they were despicable, cringing wretches, confessing
whatever was put into their mouths, covering themselves
with abuse, accusing and sheltering behind one another,
whimpering for mercy. And yet after only a few years the
same thing had happened over again. The dead men had
become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once
again, why was it? In the first place, because the confessions
that they had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We
do not make mistakes of that kind. All the confessions that
are uttered here are true. We make them true. And above
all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. You must
1984
stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you, Winston.
Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out
from the stream of history. We shall turn you into gas and
pour you into the stratosphere. Nothing will remain of you,
not a name in a register, not a memory in a living brain. You
will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future. You
will never have existed.'
Then why bother to torture me? thought Winston, with a
momentary bitterness. O'Brien checked his step as though
Winston had uttered the thought aloud. His large ugly face
came nearer, with the eyes a little narrowed.
'You are thinking,' he said, 'that since we intend to de-
stroy you utterly, so that nothing that you say or do can
make the smallest difference — in that case, why do we go to
the trouble of interrogating you first? That is what you were
thinking, was it not?'
'Yes,' said Winston.
O'Brien smiled slightly. 'You are a flaw in the pattern,
Winston. You are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not
tell you just now that we are different from the persecutors
of the past? We are not content with negative obedience, nor
even with the most abject submission. When finally you
surrender to us, it must be of your own free will. We do not
destroy the heretic because he resists us: so long as he re-
sists us we never destroy him. We convert him, we capture
his inner mind, we reshape him. We burn all evil and all
illusion out of him; we bring him over to our side, not in ap-
pearance, but genuinely, heart and soul. We make him one
of ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable to us that
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an erroneous thought should exist anywhere in the world,
however secret and powerless it may be. Even in the instant
of death we cannot permit any deviation. In the old days the
heretic walked to the stake still a heretic, proclaiming his
heresy, exulting in it. Even the victim of the Russian purges
could carry rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked
down the passage waiting for the bullet. But we make the
brain perfect before we blow it out. The command of the old
despotisms was "Thou shalt not". The command of the total-
itarians was 'Thou shalt". Our command is 'THOU ART".
No one whom we bring to this place ever stands out against
us. Everyone is washed clean. Even those three miserable
traitors in whose innocence you once believed — Jones, Aar-
onson, and Rutherford — in the end we broke them down. I
took part in their interrogation myself. I saw them gradu-
ally worn down, whimpering, grovelling, weeping — and in
the end it was not with pain or fear, only with penitence.
By the time we had finished with them they were only the
shells of men. There was nothing left in them except sor-
row for what they had done, and love of Big Brother. It was
touching to see how they loved him. They begged to be shot
quickly, so that they could die while their minds were still
clean.'
His voice had grown almost dreamy. The exaltation, the
lunatic enthusiasm, was still in his face. He is not pretend-
ing, thought Winston, he is not a hypocrite, he believes
every word he says. What most oppressed him was the con-
sciousness of his own intellectual inferiority. He watched
the heavy yet graceful form strolling to and fro, in and out
1984
of the range of his vision. O'Brien was a being in all ways
larger than himself. There was no idea that he had ever had,
or could have, that O'Brien had not long ago known, ex-
amined, and rejected. His mind CONTAINED Winston's
mind. But in that case how could it be true that O'Brien was
mad? It must be he, Winston, who was mad. O'Brien halted
and looked down at him. His voice had grown stern again.
'Do not imagine that you will save yourself, Winston,
however completely you surrender to us. No one who has
once gone astray is ever spared. And even if we chose to let
you live out the natural term of your life, still you would
never escape from us. What happens to you here is for ever.
Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to
the point from which there is no coming back. Things will
happen to you from which you could not recover, if you
lived a thousand years. Never again will you be capable of
ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside
you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship,
or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or in-
tegrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and
then we shall fill you with ourselves.'
He paused and signed to the man in the white coat.
Winston was aware of some heavy piece of apparatus being
pushed into place behind his head. O'Brien had sat down
beside the bed, so that his face was almost on a level with
Winston's.
'Three thousand,' he said, speaking over Winston's head
to the man in the white coat.
Two soft pads, which felt slightly moist, clamped them-
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selves against Winston's temples. He quailed. There was
pain coming, a new kind of pain. O'Brien laid a hand reas-
suringly, almost kindly, on his.
"This time it will not hurt,' he said. 'Keep your eyes fixed
on mine.'
At this moment there was a devastating explosion, or what
seemed like an explosion, though it was not certain whether
there was any noise. There was undoubtedly a blinding flash
of light. Winston was not hurt, only prostrated. Although
he had already been lying on his back when the thing hap-
pened, he had a curious feeling that he had been knocked
into that position. A terrific painless blow had flattened him
out. Also something had happened inside his head. As his
eyes regained their focus he remembered who he was, and
where he was, and recognized the face that was gazing into
his own; but somewhere or other there was a large patch
of emptiness, as though a piece had been taken out of his
brain.
'It will not last,' said O'Brien. 'Look me in the eyes. What
country is Oceania at war with?'
Winston thought. He knew what was meant by Oceania
and that he himself was a citizen of Oceania. He also re-
membered Eurasia and Eastasia; but who was at war with
whom he did not know. In fact he had not been aware that
there was any war.
'I don't remember.'
'Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Do you remember that
now?'
'Yes.'
1984
'Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. Since the
beginning of your life, since the beginning of the Party,
since the beginning of history, the war has continued with-
out a break, always the same war. Do you remember that?'
'Yes.'
'Eleven years ago you created a legend about three men
who had been condemned to death for treachery. You pre-
tended that you had seen a piece of paper which proved
them innocent. No such piece of paper ever existed. You in-
vented it, and later you grew to believe in it. You remember
now the very moment at which you first invented it. Do you
remember that?'
'Yes.'
'Just now I held up the fingers of my hand to you. You saw
five fingers. Do you remember that?'
'Yes.'
O'Brien held up the fingers of his left hand, with the
thumb concealed.
'There are five fingers there. Do you see five fingers?'
'Yes.'
And he did see them, for a fleeting instant, before the
scenery of his mind changed. He saw five fingers, and there
was no deformity. Then everything was normal again, and
the old fear, the hatred, and the bewilderment came crowd-
ing back again. But there had been a moment — he did not
know how long, thirty seconds, perhaps — of luminous cer-
tainty, when each new suggestion of O'Brien's had filled up
a patch of emptiness and become absolute truth, and when
two and two could have been three as easily as five, if that
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were what was needed. It had faded but before O'Brien had
dropped his hand; but though he could not recapture it, he
could remember it, as one remembers a vivid experience at
some period of one's life when one was in effect a different
person.
'You see now,' said O'Brien, 'that it is at any rate possi-
ble.'
'Yes,' said Winston.
O'Brien stood up with a satisfied air. Over to his left
Winston saw the man in the white coat break an ampoule
and draw back the plunger of a syringe. O'Brien turned to
Winston with a smile. In almost the old manner he resettled
his spectacles on his nose.
'Do you remember writing in your diary' he said, 'that
it did not matter whether I was a friend or an enemy, since
I was at least a person who understood you and could be
talked to? You were right. I enjoy talking to you. Your mind
appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you
happen to be insane. Before we bring the session to an end
you can ask me a few questions, if you choose.'
'Any question I like?'
'Anything.' He saw that Winston's eyes were upon the
dial. 'It is switched off. What is your first question?'
'What have you done with Julia?' said Winston.
O'Brien smiled again. 'She betrayed you, Winston. Im-
mediately — unreservedly. I have seldom seen anyone come
over to us so promptly. You would hardly recognize her if
you saw her. All her rebelliousness, her deceit, her folly, her
dirty- mindedness — everything has been burned out of her.
326 1984
It was a perfect conversion, a textbook case.'
'You tortured her?'
O'Brien left this unanswered. 'Next question,' he said.
'Does Big Brother exist?'
'Of course he exists. The Party exists. Big Brother is the
embodiment of the Party.'
'Does he exist in the same way as I exist?'
'You do not exist,' said O'Brien.
Once again the sense of helplessness assailed him. He
knew, or he could imagine, the arguments which proved
his own nonexistence; but they were nonsense, they were
only a play on words. Did not the statement, 'You do not ex-
ist', contain a logical absurdity? But what use was it to say
so? His mind shrivelled as he thought of the unanswerable,
mad arguments with which O'Brien would demolish him.
'I think I exist,' he said wearily. 'I am conscious of my
own identity. I was born and I shall die. I have arms and
legs. I occupy a particular point in space. No other solid
object can occupy the same point simultaneously. In that
sense, does Big Brother exist?'
'It is of no importance. He exists.'
'Will Big Brother ever die?'
'Of course not. How could he die? Next question.'
'Does the Brotherhood exist?'
"That, Winston, you will never know. If we choose to set
you free when we have finished with you, and if you live to
be ninety years old, still you will never learn whether the
answer to that question is Yes or No. As long as you live it
will be an unsolved riddle in your mind.'
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Winston lay silent. His breast rose and fell a little faster.
He still had not asked the question that had come into his
mind the first. He had got to ask it, and yet it was as though
his tongue would not utter it. There was a trace of amuse-
ment in O'Brien's face. Even his spectacles seemed to wear
an ironical gleam. He knows, thought Winston suddenly,
he knows what I am going to ask! At the thought the words
burst out of him:
'What is in Room 101?'
The expression on O'Brien's face did not change. He an-
swered drily:
'You know what is in Room 101, Winston. Everyone
knows what is in Room 101.'
He raised a finger to the man in the white coat. Evidently
the session was at an end. A needle jerked into Winston's
arm. He sank almost instantly into deep sleep.
1984
Chapter 3
^ There are three stages in your reintegration,' said O'Brien.
"There is learning, there is understanding, and there is ac-
ceptance. It is time for you to enter upon the second stage.'
As always, Winston was lying flat on his back. But of late
his bonds were looser. They still held him to the bed, but
he could move his knees a little and could turn his head
from side to side and raise his arms from the elbow. The
dial, also, had grown to be less of a terror. He could evade its
pangs if he was quick-witted enough: it was chiefly when he
showed stupidity that O'Brien pulled the lever. Sometimes
they got through a whole session without use of the dial.
He could not remember how many sessions there had been.
The whole process seemed to stretch out over a long, indefi-
nite time — weeks, possibly — and the intervals between the
sessions might sometimes have been days, sometimes only
an hour or two.
'As you lie there,' said O'Brien, 'y ou have often won-
dered — you have even asked me — why the Ministry of Love
should expend so much time and trouble on you. And when
you were free you were puzzled by what was essentially the
same question. You could grasp the mechanics of the So-
ciety you lived in, but not its underlying motives. Do you
remember writing in your diary, 'I understand HOW: I do
not understand WHY'? It was when you thought about
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'why' that you doubted your own sanity. You have read THE
BOOK, Goldstein's book, or parts of it, at least. Did it tell
you anything that you did not know already?'
'You have read it?' said Winston.
'I wrote it. That is to say, I collaborated in writing it. No
book is produced individually, as you know.'
'Is it true, what it says?'
'As description, yes. The programme it sets forth is non-
sense. The secret accumulation of knowledge — a gradual
spread of enlightenment — ultimately a proletarian rebel-
lion — the overthrow of the Party. You foresaw yourself that
that was what it would say. It is all nonsense. The proletar-
ians will never revolt, not in a thousand years or a million.
They cannot. I do not have to tell you the reason: you know
it already. If you have ever cherished any dreams of violent
insurrection, you must abandon them. There is no way in
which the Party can be overthrown. The rule of the Party is
for ever. Make that the starting-point of your thoughts.'
He came closer to the bed. 'For ever!' he repeated. 'And
now let us get back to the question of 'how' and 'why". You
understand well enough HOW the Party maintains itself
in power. Now tell me WHY we cling to power. What is
our motive? Why should we want power? Go on, speak,' he
added as Winston remained silent.
Nevertheless Winston did not speak for another mo-
ment or two. A feeling of weariness had overwhelmed him.
The faint, mad gleam of enthusiasm had come back into
O'Brien's face. He knew in advance what O'Brien would say.
That the Party did not seek power for its own ends, but only
1984
for the good of the majority. That it sought power because
men in the mass were frail, cowardly creatures who could
not endure liberty or face the truth, and must be ruled over
and systematically deceived by others who were stronger
than themselves. That the choice for mankind lay between
freedom and happiness, and that, for the great bulk of man-
kind, happiness was better. That the party was the eternal
guardian of the weak, a dedicated sect doing evil that good
might come, sacrificing its own happiness to that of oth-
ers. The terrible thing, thought Winston, the terrible thing
was that when O'Brien said this he would believe it. You
could see it in his face. O'Brien knew everything. A thou-
sand times better than Winston he knew what the world
was really like, in what degradation the mass of human be-
ings lived and by what lies and barbarities the Party kept
them there. He had understood it all, weighed it all, and it
made no difference: all was justified by the ultimate purpose.
What can you do, thought Winston, against the lunatic who
is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your arguments
a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy?
'You are ruling over us for our own good,' he said feebly.
You believe that human beings are not fit to govern them-
selves, and therefore '
He started and almost cried out. A pang of pain had shot
through his body. O'Brien had pushed the lever of the dial
up to thirty-five.
'That was stupid, Winston, stupid!' he said. You should
know better than to say a thing like that.'
He pulled the lever back and continued:
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'Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this.
The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not
interested in the good of others; we are interested solely
in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness:
only power, pure power. What pure power means you will
understand presently. We are different from all the oligar-
chies of the past, in that we know what we are doing. All
the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cow-
ards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian
Communists came very close to us in their methods, but
they never had the courage to recognize their own motives.
They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had
seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that
just round the corner there lay a paradise where human be-
ings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know
that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relin-
quishing it. Power is not a means, it is an end. One does not
establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution;
one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictator-
ship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of
torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you
begin to understand me?'
Winston was struck, as he had been struck before, by the
tiredness of O'Brien's face. It was strong and fleshy and bru-
tal, it was full of intelligence and a sort of controlled passion
before which he felt himself helpless; but it was tired. There
were pouches under the eyes, the skin sagged from the
cheekbones. O'Brien leaned over him, deliberately bringing
the worn face nearer.
1984
'You are thinking,' he said, 'that my face is old and tired.
You are thinking that I talk of power, and yet I am not even
able to prevent the decay of my own body. Can you not un-
derstand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell? The
weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. Do you
die when you cut your fingernails?'
He turned away from the bed and began strolling up and
down again, one hand in his pocket.
'We are the priests of power,' he said. 'God is power. But
at present power is only a word so far as you are concerned.
It is time for you to gather some idea of what power means.
The first thing you must realize is that power is collective.
The individual only has power in so far as he ceases to be an
individual. You know the Party slogan: 'Freedom is Slavery".
Has it ever occurred to you that it is reversible? Slavery is
freedom. Alone — free — the human being is always defeated.
It must be so, because every human being is doomed to die,
which is the greatest of all failures. But if he can make com-
plete, utter submission, if he can escape from his identity,
if he can merge himself in the Party so that he IS the Party,
then he is all-powerful and immortal. The second thing for
you to realize is that power is power over human beings.
Over the body — but, above all, over the mind. Power over
matter — external reality, as you would call it — is not impor-
tant. Already our control over matter is absolute.'
For a moment Winston ignored the dial. He made a vio-
lent effort to raise himself into a sitting position, and merely
succeeded in wrenching his body painfully.
'But how can you control matter?' he burst out. 'You don't
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even control the climate or the law of gravity. And there are
disease, pain, death '
O'Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. 'We
control matter because we control the mind. Reality is in-
side the skull. You will learn by degrees, Winston. There is
nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, levitation — any-
thing. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if I wish
to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it. You
must get rid of those nineteenth- century ideas about the
laws of Nature. We make the laws of Nature.'
'But you do not! You are not even masters of this planet.
What about Eurasia and Eastasia? You have not conquered
them yet.'
'Unimportant. We shall conquer them when it suits us.
And if we did not, what difference would it make? We can
shut them out of existence. Oceania is the world.'
'But the world itself is only a speck of dust. And man is
tiny — helpless! How long has he been in existence? For mil-
lions of years the earth was uninhabited.'
'Nonsense. The earth is as old as we are, no older. How
could it be older? Nothing exists except through human
consciousness.'
'But the rocks are full of the bones of extinct animals —
mammoths and mastodons and enormous reptiles which
lived here long before man was ever heard of
'Have you ever seen those bones, Winston? Of course not.
Nineteenth- century biologists invented them. Before man
there was nothing. After man, if he could come to an end,
there would be nothing. Outside man there is nothing.'
1984
'But the whole universe is outside us. Look at the stars!
Some of them are a million light-years away. They are out of
our reach for ever.'
'What are the stars?' said O'Brien indifferently. 'They are
bits of fire a few kilometres away. We could reach them if we
wanted to. Or we could blot them out. The earth is the cen-
tre of the universe. The sun and the stars go round it.'
Winston made another convulsive movement. This time
he did not say anything. O'Brien continued as though an-
swering a spoken objection:
'For certain purposes, of course, that is not true. When
we navigate the ocean, or when we predict an eclipse, we of-
ten find it convenient to assume that the earth goes round
the sun and that the stars are millions upon millions of ki-
lometres away. But what of it? Do you suppose it is beyond
us to produce a dual system of astronomy? The stars can be
near or distant, according as we need them. Do you suppose
our mathematicians are unequal to that? Have you forgot-
ten doublethink?'
Winston shrank back upon the bed. Whatever he said,
the swift answer crushed him like a bludgeon. And yet he
knew, he KNEW, that he was in the right. The belief that
nothing exists outside your own mind — surely there must
be some way of demonstrating that it was false? Had it not
been exposed long ago as a fallacy? There was even a name
for it, which he had forgotten. A faint smile twitched the
corners of O'Brien's mouth as he looked down at him.
T told you, Winston,' he said, 'that metaphysics is not
your strong point. The word you are trying to think of is
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 335
solipsism. But you are mistaken. This is not solipsism. Col-
lective solipsism, if you like. But that is a different thing: in
fact, the opposite thing. All this is a digression,' he added
in a different tone. 'The real power, the power we have to
fight for night and day, is not power over things, but over
men.' He paused, and for a moment assumed again his air
of a schoolmaster questioning a promising pupil: 'How does
one man assert his power over another, Winston?'
Winston thought. 'By making him suffer,' he said.
'Exactly By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough.
Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obey-
ing your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain
and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces
and putting them together again in new shapes of your own
choosing. Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we
are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonis-
tic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear
and treachery and torment, a world of trampling and being
trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but MORE
merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be
progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed
that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded
upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotions ex-
cept fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything
else we shall destroy — everything. Already we are break-
ing down the habits of thought which have survived from
before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child
and parent, and between man and man, and between man
and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend
336 1984
any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and
no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at
birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be
eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the
renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our
neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loy-
alty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love,
except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, ex-
cept the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will
be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipo-
tent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no
distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no
curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing
pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this,
Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power,
constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Al-
ways, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory,
the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If
you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping
on a human face — for ever.'
He paused as though he expected Winston to speak.
Winston had tried to shrink back into the surface of the bed
again. He could not say anything. His heart seemed to be
frozen. O'Brien went on:
And remember that it is for ever. The face will always
be there to be stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of so-
ciety, will always be there, so that he can be defeated and
humiliated over again. Everything that you have undergone
since you have been in our hands — all that will continue,
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and worse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tor-
tures, the executions, the disappearances will never cease.
It will be a world of terror as much as a world of triumph.
The more the Party is powerful, the less it will be tolerant:
the weaker the opposition, the tighter the despotism. Gold-
stein and his heresies will live for ever. Every day, at every
moment, they will be defeated, discredited, ridiculed, spat
upon and yet they will always survive. This drama that I
have played out with you during seven years will be played
out over and over again generation after generation, always
in subtler forms. Always we shall have the heretic here at our
mercy, screaming with pain, broken up, contemptible — and
in the end utterly penitent, saved from himself, crawling to
our feet of his own accord. That is the world that we are pre-
paring, Winston. A world of victory after victory, triumph
after triumph after triumph: an endless pressing, pressing,
pressing upon the nerve of power. You are beginning, I can
see, to realize what that world will be like. But in the end
you will do more than understand it. You will accept it, wel-
come it, become part of it.'
Winston had recovered himself sufficiently to speak.
'You can't!' he said weakly.
'What do you mean by that remark, Winston?'
'You could not create such a world as you have just de-
scribed. It is a dream. It is impossible.'
'Why?'
'It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred
and cruelty. It would never endure.'
'Why not?'
338 1984
'It would have no vitality. It would disintegrate. It would
commit suicide.'
'Nonsense. You are under the impression that hatred is
more exhausting than love. Why should it be? And if it were,
what difference would that make? Suppose that we choose
to wear ourselves out faster. Suppose that we quicken the
tempo of human life till men are senile at thirty. Still what
difference would it make? Can you not understand that the
death of the individual is not death? The party is immor-
tal.'
As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helpless-
ness. Moreover he was in dread that if he persisted in his
disagreement O'Brien would twist the dial again. And yet
he could not keep silent. Feebly, without arguments, with
nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of
what O'Brien had said, he returned to the attack.
'I don't know — I don't care. Somehow you will fail. Some-
thing will defeat you. Life will defeat you.'
'We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imag-
ining that there is something called human nature which
will be outraged by what we do and will turn against us. But
we create human nature. Men are infinitely malleable. Or
perhaps you have returned to your old idea that the prole-
tarians or the slaves will arise and overthrow us. Put it out
of your mind. They are helpless, like the animals. Humanity
is the Party. The others are outside — irrelevant.'
'I don't care. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later
they will see you for what you are, and then they will tear
you to pieces.'
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'Do you see any evidence that that is happening? Or any
reason why it should?'
'No. I believe it. I KNOW that you will fail. There is
something in the universe — I don't know, some spirit, some
principle — that you will never overcome.'
'Do you believe in God, Winston?'
'No.'
'Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?'
'I don't know. The spirit of Man.'
'And do you consider yourself a man?'
'Yes.'
'If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your
kind is extinct; we are the inheritors. Do you understand
that you are ALONE? You are outside history, you are non-
existent.' His manner changed and he said more harshly:
And you consider yourself morally superior to us, with our
lies and our cruelty?'
'Yes, I consider myself superior.'
O'Brien did not speak. Two other voices were speaking.
After a moment Winston recognized one of them as his
own. It was a sound-track of the conversation he had had
with O'Brien, on the night when he had enrolled himself in
the Brotherhood. He heard himself promising to lie, to steal,
to forge, to murder, to encourage drug-taking and prosti-
tution, to disseminate venereal diseases, to throw vitriol
in a child's face. O'Brien made a small impatient gesture,
as though to say that the demonstration was hardly worth
making. Then he turned a switch and the voices stopped.
'Get up from that bed,' he said.
1984
The bonds had loosened themselves. Winston lowered
himself to the floor and stood up unsteadily.
'You are the last man,' said O'Brien. 'You are the guard-
ian of the human spirit. You shall see yourself as you are.
Take off your clothes.'
Winston undid the bit of string that held his overalls to-
gether. The zip fastener had long since been wrenched out of
them. He could not remember whether at any time since his
arrest he had taken off all his clothes at one time. Beneath
the overalls his body was looped with filthy yellowish rags,
just recognizable as the remnants of underclothes. As he
slid them to the ground he saw that there was a three-sided
mirror at the far end of the room. He approached it, then
stopped short. An involuntary cry had broken out of him.
'Go on,' said O'Brien. 'Stand between the wings of the
mirror. You shall see the side view as well'
He had stopped because he was frightened. A bowed,
grey- coloured, skeleton-like thing was coming towards
him. Its actual appearance was frightening, and not merely
the fact that he knew it to be himself. He moved closer to
the glass. The creature's face seemed to be protruded, be-
cause of its bent carriage. A forlorn, jailbird's face with a
nobby forehead running back into a bald scalp, a crooked
nose, and battered-looking cheekbones above which his
eyes were fierce and watchful. The cheeks were seamed, the
mouth had a drawn-in look. Certainly it was his own face,
but it seemed to him that it had changed more than he had
changed inside. The emotions it registered would be differ-
ent from the ones he felt. He had gone partially bald. For the
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first moment he had thought that he had gone grey as well,
but it was only the scalp that was grey. Except for his hands
and a circle of his face, his body was grey all over with an-
cient, ingrained dirt. Here and there under the dirt there
were the red scars of wounds, and near the ankle the vari-
cose ulcer was an inflamed mass with flakes of skin peeling
off it. But the truly frightening thing was the emaciation of
his body. The barrel of the ribs was as narrow as that of a
skeleton: the legs had shrunk so that the knees were thicker
than the thighs. He saw now what O'Brien had meant about
seeing the side view. The curvature of the spine was aston-
ishing. The thin shoulders were hunched forward so as to
make a cavity of the chest, the scraggy neck seemed to be
bending double under the weight of the skull. At a guess he
would have said that it was the body of a man of sixty, suf-
fering from some malignant disease.
'You have thought sometimes,' said O'Brien, 'that my
face — the face of a member of the Inner Party — looks old
and worn. What do you think of your own face?'
He seized Winston's shoulder and spun him round so
that he was facing him.
'Look at the condition you are in!' he said. 'Look at this
filthy grime all over your body. Look at the dirt between
your toes. Look at that disgusting running sore on your leg.
Do you know that you stink like a goat? Probably you have
ceased to notice it. Look at your emaciation. Do you see? I
can make my thumb and forefinger meet round your bicep.
I could snap your neck like a carrot. Do you know that you
have lost twenty-five kilograms since you have been in our
1984
hands? Even your hair is coming out in handfuls. Look!' He
plucked at Winston's head and brought away a tuft of hair.
'Open your mouth. Nine, ten, eleven teeth left. How many
had you when you came to us? And the few you have left are
dropping out of your head. Look here!'
He seized one of Winston's remaining front teeth be-
tween his powerful thumb and forefinger. A twinge of pain
shot through Winston's jaw. O'Brien had wrenched the
loose tooth out by the roots. He tossed it across the cell.
'You are rotting away' he said; 'you are falling to pieces.
What are you? A bag of filth. Now turn around and look
into that mirror again. Do you see that thing facing you?
That is the last man. If you are human, that is humanity.
Now put your clothes on again.'
Winston began to dress himself with slow stiff move-
ments. Until now he had not seemed to notice how thin and
weak he was. Only one thought stirred in his mind: that he
must have been in this place longer than he had imagined.
Then suddenly as he fixed the miserable rags round himself
a feeling of pity for his ruined body overcame him. Before
he knew what he was doing he had collapsed on to a small
stool that stood beside the bed and burst into tears. He was
aware of his ugliness, his gracelessness, a bundle of bones in
filthy underclothes sitting weeping in the harsh white light:
but he could not stop himself. O'Brien laid a hand on his
shoulder, almost kindly.
'It will not last for ever,' he said. 'You can escape from it
whenever you choose. Everything depends on yourself
'You did it!' sobbed Winston. 'You reduced me to this
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state.
'No, Winston, you reduced yourself to it. This is what you
accepted when you set yourself up against the Party. It was
all contained in that first act. Nothing has happened that
you did not foresee.'
He paused, and then went on:
'We have beaten you, Winston. We have broken you up.
You have seen what your body is like. Your mind is in the
same state. I do not think there can be much pride left in
you. You have been kicked and flogged and insulted, you
have screamed with pain, you have rolled on the floor in
your own blood and vomit. You have whimpered for mercy,
you have betrayed everybody and everything. Can you think
of a single degradation that has not happened to you?'
Winston had stopped weeping, though the tears were
still oozing out of his eyes. He looked up at O'Brien.
'I have not betrayed Julia,' he said.
O'Brien looked down at him thoughtfully. 'No,' he said;
'no; that is perfectly true. You have not betrayed Julia.'
The peculiar reverence for O'Brien, which nothing
seemed able to destroy, flooded Winston's heart again. How
intelligent, he thought, how intelligent! Never did O'Brien
fail to understand what was said to him. Anyone else on
earth would have answered promptly that he HAD be-
trayed Julia. For what was there that they had not screwed
out of him under the torture? He had told them everything
he knew about her, her habits, her character, her past life;
he had confessed in the most trivial detail everything that
had happened at their meetings, all that he had said to her
1984
and she to him, their black-market meals, their adulteries,
their vague plottings against the Party — everything. And
yet, in the sense in which he intended the word, he had not
betrayed her. He had not stopped loving her; his feelings to-
wards her had remained the same. O'Brien had seen what
he meant without the need for explanation.
'Tell me,' he said, 'how soon will they shoot me?'
'It might be a long time,' said O'Brien. 'You are a difficult
case. But don't give up hope. Everyone is cured sooner or
later. In the end we shall shoot you.'
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Chapter 4
He was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger
every day, if it was proper to speak of days.
The white light and the humming sound were the same
as ever, but the cell was a little more comfortable than the
others he had been in. There was a pillow and a mattress on
the plank bed, and a stool to sit on. They had given him a
bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequent-
ly in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash
with. They had given him new underclothes and a clean suit
of overalls. They had dressed his varicose ulcer with sooth-
ing ointment. They had pulled out the remnants of his teeth
and given him a new set of dentures.
Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been
possible now to keep count of the passage of time, if he had
felt any interest in doing so, since he was being fed at what
appeared to be regular intervals. He was getting, he judged,
three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he won-
dered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day.
The food was surprisingly good, with meat at every third
meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had
no matches, but the never-speaking guard who brought his
food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke
it made him sick, but he persevered, and spun the packet out
for a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal.
346 1984
They had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil
tied to the corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when
he was awake he was completely torpid. Often he would lie
from one meal to the next almost without stirring, some-
times asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in which
it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown
used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed
to make no difference, except that one's dreams were more
coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time,
and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden
Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit
ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with O'Brien — not do-
ing anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful
things. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were
mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power
of intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had been
removed. He was not bored, he had no desire for conversa-
tion or distraction. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten or
questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all over,
was completely satisfying.
By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still
felt no impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie
quiet and feel the strength gathering in his body. He would
finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it
was not an illusion that his muscles were growing round-
er and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a
doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now defi-
nitely thicker than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first,
he began exercising himself regularly. In a little while he
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could walk three kilometres, measured by pacing the cell,
and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He at-
tempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and
humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could
not move out of a walk, he could not hold his stool out at
arm's length, he could not stand on one leg without falling
over. He squatted down on his heels, and found that with
agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself
to a standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to
lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless, he could not
raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days — a few
more mealtimes — even that feat was accomplished. A time
came when he could do it six times running. He began to
grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an inter-
mittent belief that his face also was growing back to normal.
Only when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did
he remember the seamed, ruined face that had looked back
at him out of the mirror.
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank
bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees,
and set to work deliberately at the task of re-educating him-
self.
He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw
now, he had been ready to capitulate long before he had
taken the decision. From the moment when he was inside
the Ministry of Love — and yes, even during those minutes
when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice
from the telescreen told them what to do — he had grasped
the frivolity, the shallowness of his attempt to set himself
348 1984
up against the power of the Party. He knew now that for
seven years the Thought Police had watched him like a bee-
tle under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no
word spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of
thought that they had not been able to infer. Even the speck
of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had careful-
ly replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him, shown
him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia
and himself. Yes, even... He could not fight against the Party
any longer. Besides, the Party was in the right. It must be
so; how could the immortal, collective brain be mistaken?
By what external standard could you check its judgements?
Sanity was statistical. It was merely a question of learning
to think as they thought. Only !
The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He be-
gan to write down the thoughts that came into his head. He
wrote first in large clumsy capitals:
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it:
TWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE
But then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though
shying away from something, seemed unable to concen-
trate. He knew that he knew what came next, but for the
moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it, it was
only by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 349
come of its own accord. He wrote:
GOD IS POWER
He accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past
never had been altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia.
Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. Jones, Aar-
onson, and Rutherford were guilty of the crimes they were
charged with. He had never seen the photograph that dis-
proved their guilt. It had never existed, he had invented it.
He remembered remembering contrary things, but those
were false memories, products of self-deception. How easy it
all was! Only surrender, and everything else followed. It was
like swimming against a current that swept you backwards
however hard you struggled, and then suddenly deciding to
turn round and go with the current instead of opposing it.
Nothing had changed except your own attitude: the predes-
tined thing happened in any case. He hardly knew why he
had ever rebelled. Everything was easy, except !
Anything could be true. The so-called laws of Na-
ture were nonsense. The law of gravity was nonsense. 'If I
wished,' O'Brien had said, 'I could float off this floor like
a soap bubble.' Winston worked it out. 'If he THINKS he
floats off the floor, and if I simultaneously THINK I see
him do it, then the thing happens.' Suddenly, like a lump
of submerged wreckage breaking the surface of water, the
thought burst into his mind: 'It doesn't really happen. We
imagine it. It is hallucination.' He pushed the thought un-
der instantly. The fallacy was obvious. It presupposed that
1984
somewhere or other, outside oneself, there was a 'real' world
where 'real' things happened. But how could there be such a
world? What knowledge have we of anything, save through
our own minds? All happenings are in the mind. Whatever
happens in all minds, truly happens.
He had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he
was in no danger of succumbing to it. He realized, never-
theless, that it ought never to have occurred to him. The
mind should develop a blind spot whenever a dangerous
thought presented itself. The process should be automatic,
instinctive. CRIMESTOP, they called it in Newspeak.
He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He pre-
sented himself with propositions — 'the Party says the earth
is flat', 'the party says that ice is heavier than water' — and
trained himself in not seeing or not understanding the ar-
guments that contradicted them. It was not easy. It needed
great powers of reasoning and improvisation. The arith-
metical problems raised, for instance, by such a statement
as 'two and two make five' were beyond his intellectual
grasp. It needed also a sort of athleticism of mind, an ability
at one moment to make the most delicate use of logic and
at the next to be unconscious of the crudest logical errors.
Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult
to attain.
All the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered
how soon they would shoot him. 'Everything depends on
yourself,' O'Brien had said; but he knew that there was no
conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It might
be ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him
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for years in solitary confinement, they might send him to
a labour-camp, they might release him for a while, as they
sometimes did. It was perfectly possible that before he was
shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation would
be enacted all over again. The one certain thing was that
death never came at an expected moment. The tradition —
the unspoken tradition: somehow you knew it, though you
never heard it said — was that they shot you from behind;
always in the back of the head, without warning, as you
walked down a corridor from cell to cell.
One day — but 'one day' was not the right expression; just
as probably it was in the middle of the night: once — he fell
into a strange, blissful reverie. He was walking down the
corridor, waiting for the bullet. He knew that it was com-
ing in another moment. Everything was settled, smoothed
out, reconciled. There were no more doubts, no more argu-
ments, no more pain, no more fear. His body was healthy
and strong. He walked easily, with a joy of movement and
with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was not any longer
in the narrow white corridors in the Ministry of Love, he
was in the enormous sunlit passage, a kilometre wide, down
which he had seemed to walk in the delirium induced by
drugs. He was in the Golden Country, following the foot-
track across the old rabbit- cropped pasture. He could feel
the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sun-
shine on his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees,
faintly stirring, and somewhere beyond that was the stream
where the dace lay in the green pools under the willows.
Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The
1984
sweat broke out on his backbone. He had heard himself cry
aloud:
'Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!'
For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucina-
tion of her presence. She had seemed to be not merely with
him, but inside him. It was as though she had got into the
texture of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far
more than he had ever done when they were together and
free. Also he knew that somewhere or other she was still
alive and needed his help.
He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself.
What had he done? How many years had he added to his
servitude by that moment of weakness?
In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots
outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished.
They would know now, if they had not known before, that
he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. He
obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old
days he had hidden a heretical mind beneath an appear-
ance of conformity. Now he had retreated a step further:
in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped to keep
the inner heart inviolate. He knew that he was in the wrong,
but he preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand
that — O'Brien would understand it. It was all confessed in
that single foolish cry.
He would have to start all over again. It might take years.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to familiarize himself
with the new shape. There were deep furrows in the cheeks,
the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose flattened. Besides, since
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last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete
new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve inscrutabili-
ty when you did not know what your face looked like. In
any case, mere control of the features was not enough. For
the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret
you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the
while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let
it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that could
be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think
right; he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he
must keep his hatred locked up inside him like a ball of
matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with
the rest of him, a kind of cyst.
One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not
tell when it would happen, but a few seconds beforehand
it should be possible to guess. It was always from behind,
walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be enough. In
that time the world inside him could turn over. And then
suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his
step, without the changing of a line in his face — suddenly
the camouflage would be down and bang! would go the bat-
teries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an enormous
roaring flame. And almost in the same instant bang! would
go the bullet, too late, or too early. They would have blown
his brain to pieces before they could reclaim it. The hereti-
cal thought would be unpunished, unrepented, out of their
reach for ever. They would have blown a hole in their own
perfection. To die hating them, that was freedom.
He shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting
1984
an intellectual discipline. It was a question of degrading
himself, mutilating himself. He had got to plunge into the
filthiest of filth. What was the most horrible, sickening thing
of all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face (be-
cause of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought
of it as being a metre wide), with its heavy black moustache
and the eyes that followed you to and fro, seemed to float
into his mind of its own accord. What were his true feelings
towards Big Brother?
There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The
steel door swung open with a clang. O'Brien walked into
the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced officer and the
black-uniformed guards.
'Get up,' said O'Brien. 'Come here.'
Winston stood opposite him. O'Brien took Winston's
shoulders between his strong hands and looked at him
closely.
'You have had thoughts of deceiving me,' he said. "That
was stupid. Stand up straighter. Look me in the face.'
He paused, and went on in a gentler tone:
'You are improving. Intellectually there is very little
wrong with you. It is only emotionally that you have failed
to make progress. Tell me, Winston — and remember, no
lies: you know that I am always able to detect a lie — tell me,
what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?'
T hate him.'
'You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you
to take the last step. You must love Big Brother. It is not
enough to obey him: you must love him.'
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He released Winston with a little push towards the
guards.
'Room 101,' he said.
356 1984
Chapter 5
At each stage of his imprisonment he had known, or
seemed to know, whereabouts he was in the window-
less building. Possibly there were slight differences in the air
pressure. The cells where the guards had beaten him were
below ground level. The room where he had been interro-
gated by O'Brien was high up near the roof. This place was
many metres underground, as deep down as it was possible
to go.
It was bigger than most of the cells he had been in. But
he hardly noticed his surroundings. All he noticed was that
there were two small tables straight in front of him, each
covered with green baize. One was only a metre or two
from him, the other was further away, near the door. He
was strapped upright in a chair, so tightly that he could
move nothing, not even his head. A sort of pad gripped his
head from behind, forcing him to look straight in front of
him.
For a moment he was alone, then the door opened and
O'Brien came in.
'You asked me once,' said O'Brien, 'what was in Room
101. 1 told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone
knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing
in the world.'
The door opened again. A guard came in, carrying some-
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thing made of wire, a box or basket of some kind. He set
it down on the further table. Because of the position in
which O'Brien was standing. Winston could not see what
the thing was.
"The worst thing in the world,' said O'Brien, 'varies from
individual to individual. It may be burial alive, or death by
fire, or by drowning, or by impalement, or fifty other deaths.
There are cases where it is some quite trivial thing, not even
fatal'
He had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a
better view of the thing on the table. It was an oblong wire
cage with a handle on top for carrying it by. Fixed to the
front of it was something that looked like a fencing mask,
with the concave side outwards. Although it was three or
four metres away from him, he could see that the cage was
divided lengthways into two compartments, and that there
was some kind of creature in each. They were rats.
'In your case,' said O'Brien, 'the worst thing in the world
happens to be rats.'
A sort of premonitory tremor, a fear of he was not certain
what, had passed through Winston as soon as he caught his
first glimpse of the cage. But at this moment the meaning of
the mask- like attachment in front of it suddenly sank into
him. His bowels seemed to turn to water.
'You can't do that!' he cried out in a high cracked voice.
'You couldn't, you couldn't! It's impossible.'
'Do you remember,' said O'Brien, 'the moment of pan-
ic that used to occur in your dreams? There was a wall of
blackness in front of you, and a roaring sound in your ears.
358 1984
There was something terrible on the other side of the wall.
You knew that you knew what it was, but you dared not drag
it into the open. It was the rats that were on the other side
of the wall'
'O'Brien!' said Winston, making an effort to control his
voice. 'You know this is not necessary. What is it that you
want me to do?'
O'Brien made no direct answer. When he spoke it was
in the schoolmasterish manner that he sometimes affected.
He looked thoughtfully into the distance, as though he were
addressing an audience somewhere behind Winston's back.
'By itself,' he said, 'pain is not always enough. There
are occasions when a human being will stand out against
pain, even to the point of death. But for everyone there is
something unendurable — something that cannot be con-
templated. Courage and cowardice are not involved. If you
are falling from a height it is not cowardly to clutch at a
rope. If you have come up from deep water it is not coward-
ly to fill your lungs with air. It is merely an instinct which
cannot be destroyed. It is the same with the rats. For you,
they are unendurable. They are a form of pressure that you
cannot withstand, even if you wished to. You will do what
is required of you.'
'But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don't know
what it is?'
O'Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the
nearer table. He set it down carefully on the baize cloth.
Winston could hear the blood singing in his ears. He had the
feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. He was in the middle
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 359
of a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with sunlight,
across which all sounds came to him out of immense dis-
tances. Yet the cage with the rats was not two metres away
from him. They were enormous rats. They were at the age
when a rat's muzzle grows blunt and fierce and his fur brown
instead of grey.
'The rat,' said O'Brien, still addressing his invisible audi-
ence, 'although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of
that. You will have heard of the things that happen in the
poor quarters of this town. In some streets a woman dare
not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five minutes.
The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time
they will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dy-
ing people. They show astonishing intelligence in knowing
when a human being is helpless.'
There was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed
to reach Winston from far away. The rats were fighting; they
were trying to get at each other through the partition. He
heard also a deep groan of despair. That, too, seemed to
come from outside himself.
O'Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed
something in it. There was a sharp click. Winston made
a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the chair. It was
hopeless; every part of him, even his head, was held im-
movably. O'Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a
metre from Winston's face.
T have pressed the first lever,' said O'Brien. 'You under-
stand the construction of this cage. The mask will fit over
your head, leaving no exit. When I press this other lever,
360 1984
the door of the cage will slide up. These starving brutes will
shoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever seen a rat leap
through the air? They will leap on to your face and bore
straight into it. Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Some-
times they burrow through the cheeks and devour the
tongue.'
The cage was nearer; it was closing in. Winston heard a
succession of shrill cries which appeared to be occurring in
the air above his head. But he fought furiously against his
panic. To think, to think, even with a split second left — to
think was the only hope. Suddenly the foul musty odour of
the brutes struck his nostrils. There was a violent convul-
sion of nausea inside him, and he almost lost consciousness.
Everything had gone black. For an instant he was insane, a
screaming animal. Yet he came out of the blackness clutch-
ing an idea. There was one and only one way to save himself.
He must interpose another human being, the BODY of an-
other human being, between himself and the rats.
The circle of the mask was large enough now to shut out
the vision of anything else. The wire door was a couple of
hand-spans from his face. The rats knew what was coming
now. One of them was leaping up and down, the other, an
old scaly grandfather of the sewers, stood up, with his pink
hands against the bars, and fiercely sniffed the air. Winston
could see the whiskers and the yellow teeth. Again the black
panic took hold of him. He was blind, helpless, mindless.
'It was a common punishment in Imperial China,' said
O'Brien as didactically as ever.
The mask was closing on his face. The wire brushed his
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 361
cheek. And then — no, it was not relief, only hope, a tiny
fragment of hope. Too late, perhaps too late. But he had
suddenly understood that in the whole world there was just
ONE person to whom he could transfer his punishment —
ONE body that he could thrust between himself and the
rats. And he was shouting frantically, over and over.
'Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia! I don't care
what you do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones.
Not me! Julia! Not me!'
He was falling backwards, into enormous depths, away
from the rats. He was still strapped in the chair, but he had
fallen through the floor, through the walls of the build-
ing, through the earth, through the oceans, through the
atmosphere, into outer space, into the gulfs between the
stars — always away, away, away from the rats. He was light
years distant, but O'Brien was still standing at his side.
There was still the cold touch of wire against his cheek. But
through the darkness that enveloped him he heard another
metallic click, and knew that the cage door had clicked shut
and not open.
362 1984
Chapter 6
The Chestnut Tree was almost empty. A ray of sunlight
slanting through a window fell on dusty table-tops. It
was the lonely hour of fifteen. A tinny music trickled from
the telescreens.
Winston sat in his usual corner, gazing into an empty
glass. Now and again he glanced up at a vast face which eyed
him from the opposite wall. BIG BROTHER IS WATCH-
ING YOU, the caption said. Unbidden, a waiter came and
filled his glass up with Victory Gin, shaking into it a few
drops from another bottle with a quill through the cork. It
was saccharine flavoured with cloves, the speciality of the
cafe.
Winston was listening to the telescreen. At present only
music was coming out of it, but there was a possibility that
at any moment there might be a special bulletin from the
Ministry of Peace. The news from the African front was dis-
quieting in the extreme. On and off he had been worrying
about it all day. A Eurasian army (Oceania was at war with
Eurasia: Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia) was
moving southward at terrifying speed. The mid-day bulle-
tin had not mentioned any definite area, but it was probable
that already the mouth of the Congo was a battlefield. Braz-
zaville and Leopoldville were in danger. One did not have
to look at the map to see what it meant. It was not merely
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 363
a question of losing Central Africa: for the first time in the
whole war, the territory of Oceania itself was menaced.
A violent emotion, not fear exactly but a sort of undif-
ferentiated excitement, flared up in him, then faded again.
He stopped thinking about the war. In these days he could
never fix his mind on any one subject for more than a few
moments at a time. He picked up his glass and drained it
at a gulp. As always, the gin made him shudder and even
retch slightly. The stuff was horrible. The cloves and sac-
charine, themselves disgusting enough in their sickly way,
could not disguise the flat oily smell; and what was worst
of all was that the smell of gin, which dwelt with him night
and day, was inextricably mixed up in his mind with the
smell of those
He never named them, even in his thoughts, and so
far as it was possible he never visualized them. They were
something that he was half-aware of, hovering close to his
face, a smell that clung to his nostrils. As the gin rose in
him he belched through purple lips. He had grown fatter
since they released him, and had regained his old colour —
indeed, more than regained it. His features had thickened,
the skin on nose and cheekbones was coarsely red, even
the bald scalp was too deep a pink. A waiter, again unbid-
den, brought the chessboard and the current issue of 'The
Times', with the page turned down at the chess problem.
Then, seeing that Winston's glass was empty, he brought the
gin bottle and filled it. There was no need to give orders.
They knew his habits. The chessboard was always waiting
for him, his corner table was always reserved; even when
364 1984
the place was full he had it to himself, since nobody cared
to be seen sitting too close to him. He never even bothered
to count his drinks. At irregular intervals they presented
him with a dirty slip of paper which they said was the bill,
but he had the impression that they always undercharged
him. It would have made no difference if it had been the
other way about. He had always plenty of money nowadays.
He even had a job, a sinecure, more highly-paid than his old
job had been.
The music from the telescreen stopped and a voice took
over. Winston raised his head to listen. No bulletins from
the front, however. It was merely a brief announcement
from the Ministry of Plenty. In the preceding quarter, it ap-
peared, the Tenth Three-Year Plan's quota for bootlaces had
been overfulfilled by 98 per cent.
He examined the chess problem and set out the pieces. It
was a tricky ending, involving a couple of knights. 'White to
play and mate in two moves.' Winston looked up at the por-
trait of Big Brother. White always mates, he thought with a
sort of cloudy mysticism. Always, without exception, it is so
arranged. In no chess problem since the beginning of the
world has black ever won. Did it not symbolize the eternal,
unvarying triumph of Good over Evil? The huge face gazed
back at him, full of calm power. White always mates.
The voice from the telescreen paused and added in a dif-
ferent and much graver tone: 'You are warned to stand by
for an important announcement at fifteen-thirty Fifteen-
thirty! This is news of the highest importance. Take care
not to miss it. Fifteen-thirty!' The tinkling music struck up
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 365
again.
Winston's heart stirred. That was the bulletin from the
front; instinct told him that it was bad news that was com-
ing. All day, with little spurts of excitement, the thought
of a smashing defeat in Africa had been in and out of his
mind. He seemed actually to see the Eurasian army swarm-
ing across the never-broken frontier and pouring down
into the tip of Africa like a column of ants. Why had it not
been possible to outflank them in some way? The outline of
the West African coast stood out vividly in his mind. He
picked up the white knight and moved it across the board.
THERE was the proper spot. Even while he saw the black
horde racing southward he saw another force, mysteriously
assembled, suddenly planted in their rear, cutting their co-
munications by land and sea. He felt that by willing it he
was bringing that other force into existence. But it was nec-
essary to act quickly. If they could get control of the whole
of Africa, if they had airfields and submarine bases at the
Cape, it would cut Oceania in two. It might mean anything:
defeat, breakdown, the redivision of the world, the destruc-
tion of the Party! He drew a deep breath. An extraordinary
medley of feeling — but it was not a medley, exactly; rather it
was successive layers of feeling, in which one could not say
which layer was undermost — struggled inside him.
The spasm passed. He put the white knight back in its
place, but for the moment he could not settle down to se-
rious study of the chess problem. His thoughts wandered
again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his finger in
the dust on the table:
366 1984
2+2=5
"They can't get inside you,' she had said. But they could
get inside you. 'What happens to you here is FOR EVER,'
O'Brien had said. That was a true word. There were things,
your own acts, from which you could never recover. Some-
thing was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out.
He had seen her; he had even spoken to her. There was
no danger in it. He knew as though instinctively that they
now took almost no interest in his doings. He could have
arranged to meet her a second time if either of them had
wanted to. Actually it was by chance that they had met. It
was in the Park, on a vile, biting day in March, when the
earth was like iron and all the grass seemed dead and there
was not a bud anywhere except a few crocuses which had
pushed themselves up to be dismembered by the wind. He
was hurrying along with frozen hands and watering eyes
when he saw her not ten metres away from him. It struck
him at once that she had changed in some ill-defined way.
They almost passed one another without a sign, then he
turned and followed her, not very eagerly. He knew that
there was no danger, nobody would take any interest in him.
She did not speak. She walked obliquely away across the
grass as though trying to get rid of him, then seemed to re-
sign herself to having him at her side. Presently they were in
among a clump of ragged leafless shrubs, useless either for
concealment or as protection from the wind. They halted.
It was vilely cold. The wind whistled through the twigs and
fretted the occasional, dirty-looking crocuses. He put his
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 367
arm round her waist.
There was no telescreen, but there must be hidden
microphones: besides, they could be seen. It did not mat-
ter, nothing mattered. They could have lain down on the
ground and done THAT if they had wanted to. His flesh
froze with horror at the thought of it. She made no response
whatever to the clasp of his arm; she did not even try to dis-
engage herself. He knew now what had changed in her. Her
face was sallower, and there was a long scar, partly hidden
by the hair, across her forehead and temple; but that was not
the change. It was that her waist had grown thicker, and, in
a surprising way, had stiffened. He remembered how once,
after the explosion of a rocket bomb, he had helped to drag
a corpse out of some ruins, and had been astonished not
only by the incredible weight of the thing, but by its rigidity
and awkwardness to handle, which made it seem more like
stone than flesh. Her body felt like that. It occurred to him
that the texture of her skin would be quite different from
what it had once been.
He did not attempt to kiss her, nor did they speak. As they
walked back across the grass, she looked directly at him for
the first time. It was only a momentary glance, full of con-
tempt and dislike. He wondered whether it was a dislike that
came purely out of the past or whether it was inspired also
by his bloated face and the water that the wind kept squeez-
ing from his eyes. They sat down on two iron chairs, side by
side but not too close together. He saw that she was about
to speak. She moved her clumsy shoe a few centimetres and
deliberately crushed a twig. Her feet seemed to have grown
368 1984
broader, he noticed.
'I betrayed you,' she said baldly.
'I betrayed you,' he said.
She gave him another quick look of dislike.
'Sometimes,' she said, 'they threaten you with something
something you can't stand up to, can't even think about.
And then you say, 'Don't do it to me, do it to somebody
else, do it to so-and-so.' And perhaps you might pretend,
afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it
to make them stop and didn't really mean it. But that isn't
true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think
there's no other way of saving yourself, and you're quite
ready to save yourself that way. You WANT it to happen to
the other person. You don't give a damn what they suffer.
All you care about is yourself
All you care about is yourself,' he echoed.
And after that, you don't feel the same towards the other
person any longer.'
'No,' he said, 'you don't feel the same.'
There did not seem to be anything more to say. The wind
plastered their thin overalls against their bodies. Almost at
once it became embarrassing to sit there in silence: besides,
it was too cold to keep still. She said something about catch-
ing her Tube and stood up to go.
'We must meet again,' he said.
'Yes,' she said, 'we must meet again.'
He followed irresolutely for a little distance, half a pace
behind her. They did not speak again. She did not actually
try to shake him off, but walked at just such a speed as to
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 369
prevent his keeping abreast of her. He had made up his mind
that he would accompany her as far as the Tube station, but
suddenly this process of trailing along in the cold seemed
pointless and unbearable. He was overwhelmed by a desire
not so much to get away from Julia as to get back to the
Chestnut Tree Cafe, which had never seemed so attractive
as at this moment. He had a nostalgic vision of his corner
table, with the newspaper and the chessboard and the ever-
flowing gin. Above all, it would be warm in there. The next
moment, not altogether by accident, he allowed himself to
become separated from her by a small knot of people. He
made a halfhearted attempt to catch up, then slowed down,
turned, and made off in the opposite direction. When he
had gone fifty metres he looked back. The street was not
crowded, but already he could not distinguish her. Any one
of a dozen hurrying figures might have been hers. Perhaps
her thickened, stiffened body was no longer recognizable
from behind.
At the time when it happens,' she had said, 'you do mean
it.' He had meant it. He had not merely said it, he had wished
it. He had wished that she and not he should be delivered
over to the
Something changed in the music that trickled from the
telescreen. A cracked and jeering note, a yellow note, came
into it. And then — perhaps it was not happening, perhaps
it was only a memory taking on the semblance of sound — a
voice was singing:
'Under the spreading chestnut tree
370 1984
/ sold you and you sold me '
The tears welled up in his eyes. A passing waiter noticed
that his glass was empty and came back with the gin bottle.
He took up his glass and sniffed at it. The stuff grew
not less but more horrible with every mouthful he drank.
But it had become the element he swam in. It was his life,
his death, and his resurrection. It was gin that sank him
into stupor every night, and gin that revived him every
morning. When he woke, seldom before eleven hundred,
with gummed-up eyelids and fiery mouth and a back that
seemed to be broken, it would have been impossible even
to rise from the horizontal if it had not been for the bottle
and teacup placed beside the bed overnight. Through the
midday hours he sat with glazed face, the bottle handy, lis-
tening to the telescreen. From fifteen to closing-time he
was a fixture in the Chestnut Tree. No one cared what he
did any longer, no whistle woke him, no telescreen admon-
ished him. Occasionally, perhaps twice a week, he went to a
dusty, forgotten-looking office in the Ministry of Truth and
did a little work, or what was called work. He had been ap-
pointed to a sub-committee of a sub-committee which had
sprouted from one of the innumerable committees dealing
with minor difficulties that arose in the compilation of the
Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. They were
engaged in producing something called an Interim Report,
but what it was that they were reporting on he had never
definitely found out. It was something to do with the ques-
tion of whether commas should be placed inside brackets,
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 371
or outside. There were four others on the committee, all of
them persons similar to himself. There were days when they
assembled and then promptly dispersed again, frankly ad-
mitting to one another that there was not really anything to
be done. But there were other days when they settled down
to their work almost eagerly, making a tremendous show
of entering up their minutes and drafting long memoranda
which were never finished — when the argument as to what
they were supposedly arguing about grew extraordinarily
involved and abstruse, with subtle haggling over definitions,
enormous digressions, quarrels — threats, even, to appeal to
higher authority. And then suddenly the life would go out
of them and they would sit round the table looking at one
another with extinct eyes, like ghosts fading at cock-crow.
The telescreen was silent for a moment. Winston raised
his head again. The bulletin! But no, they were merely
changing the music. He had the map of Africa behind his
eyelids. The movement of the armies was a diagram: a black
arrow tearing vertically southward, and a white arrow hori-
zontally eastward, across the tail of the first. As though for
reassurance he looked up at the imperturbable face in the
portrait. Was it conceivable that the second arrow did not
even exist?
His interest flagged again. He drank another mouthful of
gin, picked up the white knight and made a tentative move.
Check. But it was evidently not the right move, because
Uncalled, a memory floated into his mind. He saw a
candle-lit room with a vast white- counterpaned bed, and
himself, a boy of nine or ten, sitting on the floor, shaking
1984
a dice-box, and laughing excitedly. His mother was sitting
opposite him and also laughing.
It must have been about a month before she disappeared.
It was a moment of reconciliation, when the nagging hun-
ger in his belly was forgotten and his earlier affection for
her had temporarily revived. He remembered the day well,
a pelting, drenching day when the water streamed down
the window-pane and the light indoors was too dull to read
by. The boredom of the two children in the dark, cramped
bedroom became unbearable. Winston whined and griz-
zled, made futile demands for food, fretted about the room
pulling everything out of place and kicking the wainscot-
ing until the neighbours banged on the wall, while the
younger child wailed intermittently. In the end his mother
said, 'Now be good, and I'll buy you a toy. A lovely toy —
you'll love it'; and then she had gone out in the rain, to a
little general shop which was still sporadically open nearby,
and came back with a cardboard box containing an outfit
of Snakes and Ladders. He could still remember the smell
of the damp cardboard. It was a miserable outfit. The board
was cracked and the tiny wooden dice were so ill- cut that
they would hardly lie on their sides. Winston looked at the
thing sulkily and without interest. But then his mother lit a
piece of candle and they sat down on the floor to play. Soon
he was wildly excited and shouting with laughter as the tid-
dly-winks climbed hopefully up the ladders and then came
slithering down the snakes again, almost to the starting-
point. They played eight games, winning four each. His tiny
sister, too young to understand what the game was about,
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had sat propped up against a bolster, laughing because the
others were laughing. For a whole afternoon they had all
been happy together, as in his earlier childhood.
He pushed the picture out of his mind. It was a false
memory. He was troubled by false memories occasionally.
They did not matter so long as one knew them for what they
were. Some things had happened, others had not happened.
He turned back to the chessboard and picked up the white
knight again. Almost in the same instant it dropped on to
the board with a clatter. He had started as though a pin had
run into him.
A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bul-
letin! Victory! It always meant victory when a trumpet-call
preceded the news. A sort of electric drill ran through the
cafe. Even the waiters had started and pricked up their
ears.
The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of
noise. Already an excited voice was gabbling from the tele-
screen, 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 hap-
pened, as he had foreseen; a vast seaborne armada had
secretly assembled a sudden blow in the enemy's rear, the
white arrow tearing across the tail of the black. Fragments
of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din:
'Vast strategic manoeuvre — perfect co-ordination — utter
rout — half a million prisoners — complete demoraliza-
tion — control of the whole of Africa — bring the war within
1984
measurable distance of its end — victory — greatest victory
in human history — victory, victory, victory!'
Under the table Winston's feet made convulsive move-
ments. 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 Eur-
asian army that had perished! Much had changed in him
since that first day in the Ministry of Love, but the final, in-
dispensable, 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 at-
tention 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 every-
body. He was walking down the white-tiled 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 tak-
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en him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the
dark moustache. cruel, needless misunderstanding! O
stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-
scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was
all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished.
He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother.
THE END
APPENDIX.
The Principles of Newspeak
Newspeak was the official language of Oceania and
had been devised to meet the ideological needs of Ingsoc,
or English Socialism. In the year 1984 there was not as yet
anyone who used Newspeak as his sole means of commu-
nication, either in speech or writing. The leading articles
in 'The Times' were written in it, but this was a TOUR DE
FORCE which could only be carried out by a specialist. It
was expected that Newspeak would have finally supersed-
ed Oldspeak (or Standard English, as we should call it) by
about the year 2050. Meanwhile it gained ground steadi-
ly, all Party members tending to use Newspeak words and
grammatical constructions more and more in their every-
day speech. The version in use in 1984, and embodied in the
Ninth and Tenth Editions of the Newspeak Dictionary, was
a provisional one, and contained many superfluous words
and archaic formations which were due to be suppressed
later. It is with the final, perfected version, as embodied in
the Eleventh Edition of the Dictionary, that we are con-
cerned here.
The purpose of Newspeak was not only to provide a
376 1984
medium of expression for the world-view and mental hab-
its proper to the devotees of Ingsoc, but to make all other
modes of thought impossible. It was intended that when
Newspeak had been adopted once and for all and Oldspeak
forgotten, a heretical thought — that is, a thought diverging
from the principles of Ingsoc — should be literally unthink-
able, at least so far as thought is dependent on words. Its
vocabulary was so constructed as to give exact and of-
ten very subtle expression to every meaning that a Party
member could properly wish to express, while excluding
all other meanings and also the possibility of arriving at
them by indirect methods. This was done partly by the
invention of new words, but chiefly by eliminating unde-
sirable words and by stripping such words as remained of
unorthodox meanings, and so far as possible of all second-
ary meanings whatever. To give a single example. The word
FREE still existed in Newspeak, but it could only be used in
such statements as 'This dog is free from lice' or "This field
is free from weeds'. It could not be used in its old sense of
'politically free' or 'intellectually free' since political and in-
tellectual freedom no longer existed even as concepts, and
were therefore of necessity nameless. Quite apart from the
suppression of definitely heretical words, reduction of vo-
cabulary was regarded as an end in itself, and no word that
could be dispensed with was allowed to survive. Newspeak
was designed not to extend but to DIMINISH the range of
thought, and this purpose was indirectly assisted by cutting
the choice of words down to a minimum.
Newspeak was founded on the English language as we
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now know it, though many Newspeak sentences, even when
not containing newly- created words, would be barely intel-
ligible to an English-speaker of our own day Newspeak
words were divided into three distinct classes, known as
the A vocabulary, the B vocabulary (also called compound
words), and the C vocabulary. It will be simpler to discuss
each class separately, but the grammatical peculiarities of
the language can be dealt with in the section devoted to the
A vocabulary, since the same rules held good for all three
categories.
THE A VOCABULARY. The A vocabulary consisted
of the words needed for the business of everyday life — for
such things as eating, drinking, working, putting on one's
clothes, going up and down stairs, riding in vehicles, garden-
ing, cooking, and the like. It was composed almost entirely
of words that we already possess words like HIT, RUN,
DOG, TREE, SUGAR, HOUSE, FIELD— but in compari-
son with the present-day English vocabulary their number
was extremely small, while their meanings were far more
rigidly defined. All ambiguities and shades of meaning had
been purged out of them. So far as it could be achieved, a
Newspeak word of this class was simply a staccato sound
expressing ONE clearly understood concept. It would have
been quite impossible to use the A vocabulary for literary
purposes or for political or philosophical discussion. It was
intended only to express simple, purposive thoughts, usu-
ally involving concrete objects or physical actions.
The grammar of Newspeak had two outstanding pe-
culiarities. The first of these was an almost complete
378 1984
interchangeability between different parts of speech. Any
word in the language (in principle this applied even to very
abstract words such as IF or WHEN) could be used either
as verb, noun, adjective, or adverb. Between the verb and
the noun form, when they were of the same root, there was
never any variation, this rule of itself involving the de-
struction of many archaic forms. The word THOUGHT,
for example, did not exist in Newspeak. Its place was tak-
en by THINK, which did duty for both noun and verb. No
etymological principle was followed here: in some cases it
was the original noun that was chosen for retention, in oth-
er cases the verb. Even where a noun and verb of kindred
meaning were not etymologically connected, one or other
of them was frequently suppressed. There was, for example,
no such word as CUT, its meaning being sufficiently cov-
ered by the noun-verb KNIFE. Adjectives were formed by
adding the suffix -FUL to the noun-verb, and adverbs by
adding -WISE. Thus for example, SPEEDFUL meant 'rapid'
and SPEEDWISE meant 'quickly. Certain of our present-
day adjectives, such as GOOD, STRONG, BIG, BLACK,
SOFT, were retained, but their total number was very small.
There was little need for them, since almost any adjectival
meaning could be arrived at by adding -FUL to a noun-verb.
None of the now- existing adverbs was retained, except for a
very few already ending in -WISE: the -WISE termination
was invariable. The word WELL, for example, was replaced
by GOODWISE.
In addition, any word — this again applied in principle
to every word in the language — could be negatived by add-
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ing the affix UN-, or could be strengthened by the affix
PLUS-, or, for still greater emphasis, DOUBLEPLUS-. Thus,
for example, UNCOLD meant 'warm', while PLUSCOLD
and DOUBLEPLUSCOLD meant, respectively, 'very cold'
and 'superlatively cold'. It was also possible, as in present-
day English, to modify the meaning of almost any word by
prepositional affixes such as ANTE-, POST-, UP-, DOWN-,
etc. By such methods it was found possible to bring about
an enormous diminution of vocabulary. Given, for instance,
the word GOOD, there was no need for such a word as BAD,
since the required meaning was equally well — indeed, bet-
ter — expressed by UNGOOD. All that was necessary, in
any case where two words formed a natural pair of oppo-
sites, was to decide which of them to suppress. DARK, for
example, could be replaced by UNLIGHT, or LIGHT by
UNDARK, according to preference.
The second distinguishing mark of Newspeak gram-
mar was its regularity. Subject to a few exceptions which
are mentioned below all inflexions followed the same rules.
Thus, in all verbs the preterite and the past participle were
the same and ended in -ED. The preterite of STEAL was
STEALED, the preterite of THINK was THINKED, and
so on throughout the language, all such forms as SWAM,
GAVE, BROUGHT, SPOKE, TAKEN, etc., being abolished.
All plurals were made by adding -S or -ES as the case might
be. The plurals OF MAN, OX, LIFE, were MANS, OXES,
LIFES. Comparison of adjectives was invariably made by
adding -ER, -EST (GOOD, GOODER, GOODEST), ir-
regular forms and the MORE, MOST formation being
380 1984
suppressed.
The only classes of words that were still allowed to inflect
irregularly were the pronouns, the relatives, the demonstra-
tive adjectives, and the auxiliary verbs. All of these followed
their ancient usage, except that WHOM had been scrapped
as unnecessary, and the SHALL, SHOULD tenses had been
dropped, all their uses being covered by WILL and WOULD.
There were also certain irregularities in word-formation
arising out of the need for rapid and easy speech. A word
which was difficult to utter, or was liable to be incorrectly
heard, was held to be ipso facto a bad word; occasionally
therefore, for the sake of euphony, extra letters were insert-
ed into a word or an archaic formation was retained. But
this need made itself felt chiefly in connexion with the B
vocabulary. WHY so great an importance was attached to
ease of pronunciation will be made clear later in this essay.
THE B VOCABULARY. The B vocabulary consisted of
words which had been deliberately constructed for political
purposes: words, that is to say, which not only had in every
case a political implication, but were intended to impose
a desirable mental attitude upon the person using them.
Without a full understanding of the principles of Ingsoc
it was difficult to use these words correctly. In some cases
they could be translated into Oldspeak, or even into words
taken from the A vocabulary, but this usually demanded
a long paraphrase and always involved the loss of certain
overtones. The B words were a sort of verbal shorthand, of-
ten packing whole ranges of ideas into a few syllables, and
at the same time more accurate and forcible than ordinary
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 381
language.
The B words were in all cases compound words. [Com-
pound words such as SPEAKWRITE, were of course to be
found in the A vocabulary, but these were merely convenient
abbreviations and had no special ideologcal colour.] They
consisted of two or more words, or portions of words, weld-
ed together in an easily pronounceable form. The resulting
amalgam was always a noun-verb, and inflected according
to the ordinary rules. To take a single example: the word
GOODTHINK, meaning, very roughly, 'orthodoxy, or, if
one chose to regard it as a verb, 'to think in an orthodox
manner'. This inflected as follows: noun-verb, GOOD-
THINK; past tense and past participle, GOODTHINKED;
present participle, GOOD-THINKING; adjective, GOOD-
THINKFUL; adverb, GOODTHINKWISE; verbal noun,
GOODTHINKER.
The B words were not constructed on any etymological
plan. The words of which they were made up could be any
parts of speech, and could be placed in any order and muti-
lated in any way which made them easy to pronounce while
indicating their derivation. In the word CRIMETHINK
(thought crime), for instance, the THINK came second,
whereas in THINKPOL (Thought Police) it came first,
and in the latter word POLICE had lost its second syllable.
Because of the great difficulty in securing euphony, irregu-
lar formations were commoner in the B vocabulary than
in the A vocabulary. For example, the adjective forms of
MINITRUE, MINIPAX, and MINILUV were, respectively,
MINITRUTHFUL, MINIPEACEFUL, and MINILOVELY,
382 1984
simply because -TRUEFUL, -PAXFUL, and -LOVEFUL
were slightly awkward to pronounce. In principle, however,
all B words could inflect, and all inflected in exactly the
same way.
Some of the B words had highly subtilized meanings,
barely intelligible to anyone who had not mastered the
language as a whole. Consider, for example, such a typical
sentence from a 'Times' leading article as OLDTHINKERS
UNBELLYFEEL INGSOC. The shortest rendering that one
could make of this in Oldspeak would be: 'Those whose
ideas were formed before the Revolution cannot have a full
emotional understanding of the principles of English So-
cialism.' But this is not an adequate translation. To begin
with, in order to grasp the full meaning of the Newspeak
sentence quoted above, one would have to have a clear idea
of what is meant by INGSOC. And in addition, only a per-
son thoroughly grounded in Ingsoc could appreciate the
full force of the word BELLYFEEL, which implied a blind,
enthusiastic acceptance difficult to imagine today; or of the
word OLDTHINK, which was inextricably mixed up with
the idea of wickedness and decadence. But the special func-
tion of certain Newspeak words, of which OLDTHINK
was one, was not so much to express meanings as to de-
stroy them. These words, necessarily few in number, had
had their meanings extended until they contained within
themselves whole batteries of words which, as they were
sufficiently covered by a single comprehensive term, could
now be scrapped and forgotten. The greatest difficulty fac-
ing the compilers of the Newspeak Dictionary was not to
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 383
invent new words, but, having invented them, to make sure
what they meant: to make sure, that is to say, what ranges of
words they cancelled by their existence.
As we have already seen in the case of the word FREE,
words which had once borne a heretical meaning were
sometimes retained for the sake of convenience, but only
with the undesirable meanings purged out of them. Count-
less other words such as HONOUR, JUSTICE, MORALITY,
INTERNATIONALISM, DEMOCRACY, SCIENCE, and
RELIGION had simply ceased to exist. A few blanket words
covered them, and, in covering them, abolished them. All
words grouping themselves round the concepts of liber-
ty and equality, for instance, were contained in the single
word CRIMETHINK, while all words grouping themselves
round the concepts of objectivity and rationalism were
contained in the single word OLDTHINK. Greater preci-
sion would have been dangerous. What was required in a
Party member was an outlook similar to that of the ancient
Hebrew who knew, without knowing much else, that all na-
tions other than his own worshipped 'false gods'. He did
not need to know that these gods were called Baal, Osiris,
Moloch, Ashtaroth, and the like: probably the less he knew
about them the better for his orthodoxy. He knew Jehovah
and the commandments of Jehovah: he knew, therefore,
that all gods with other names or other attributes were false
gods. In somewhat the same way, the party member knew
what constituted right conduct, and in exceedingly vague,
generalized terms he knew what kinds of departure from
it were possible. His sexual life, for example, was entirely
384 1984
regulated by the two Newspeak words SEXCRIME (sex-
ual immorality) and GOODSEX (chastity). SEXCRIME
covered all sexual misdeeds whatever. It covered fornica-
tion, adultery, homosexuality, and other perversions, and,
in addition, normal intercourse practised for its own sake.
There was no need to enumerate them separately, since they
were all equally culpable, and, in principle, all punishable
by death. In the C vocabulary, which consisted of scientific
and technical words, it might be necessary to give special-
ized names to certain sexual aberrations, but the ordinary
citizen had no need of them. He knew what was meant by
GOODSEX — that is to say, normal intercourse between
man and wife, for the sole purpose of begetting children,
and without physical pleasure on the part of the woman: all
else was SEXCRIME. In Newspeak it was seldom possible to
follow a heretical thought further than the perception that
it WAS heretical: beyond that point the necessary words
were nonexistent.
No word in the B vocabulary was ideologically neutral.
A great many were euphemisms. Such words, for instance,
as JOYCAMP (forced-labour camp) or MINIPAX Minis-
try of Peace, i.e. Ministry of War) meant almost the exact
opposite of what they appeared to mean. Some words, on
the other hand, displayed a frank and contemptuous un-
derstanding of the real nature of Oceanic society. An
example was PROLEFEED, meaning the rubbishy enter-
tainment and spurious news which the Party handed out
to the masses. Other words, again, were ambivalent, hav-
ing the connotation 'good' when applied to the Party and
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 385
'bad' when applied to its enemies. But in addition there were
great numbers of words which at first sight appeared to be
mere abbreviations and which derived their ideological co-
lour not from their meaning, but from their structure.
So far as it could be contrived, everything that had or
might have political significance of any kind was fitted into
the B vocabulary. The name of every organization, or body
of people, or doctrine, or country, or institution, or public
building, was invariably cut down into the familiar shape;
that is, a single easily pronounced word with the smallest
number of syllables that would preserve the original deri-
vation. In the Ministry of Truth, for example, the Records
Department, in which Winston Smith worked, was called
RECDEP, the Fiction Department was called FICDEP, the
Teleprogrammes Department was called TELEDEP, and so
on. This was not done solely with the object of saving time.
Even in the early decades of the twentieth century, tele-
scoped words and phrases had been one of the characteristic
features of political language; and it had been noticed that
the tendency to use abbreviations of this kind was most
marked in totalitarian countries and totalitarian organi-
zations. Examples were such words as NAZI, GESTAPO,
COMINTERN, INPRECORR, AGITPROP. In the begin-
ning the practice had been adopted as it were instinctively,
but in Newspeak it was used with a conscious purpose. It
was perceived that in thus abbreviating a name one nar-
rowed and subtly altered its meaning, by cutting out most of
the associations that would otherwise cling to it. The words
COMMUNIST INTERNATIONAL, for instance, call up
386 1984
a composite picture of universal human brotherhood, red
flags, barricades, Karl Marx, and the Paris Commune. The
word COMINTERN, on the other hand, suggests merely a
tightly-knit organization and a well-defined body of doc-
trine. It refers to something almost as easily recognized,
and as limited in purpose, as a chair or a table. COMIN-
TERN is a word that can be uttered almost without taking
thought, whereas COMMUNIST INTERNATIONAL is
a phrase over which one is obliged to linger at least mo-
mentarily. In the same way, the associations called up by a
word like MINITRUE are fewer and more controllable than
those called up by MINISTRY OF TRUTH. This accounted
not only for the habit of abbreviating whenever possible, but
also for the almost exaggerated care that was taken to make
every word easily pronounceable.
In Newspeak, euphony outweighed every consideration
other than exactitude of meaning. Regularity of grammar
was always sacrificed to it when it seemed necessary. And
rightly so, since what was required, above all for political
purposes, was short clipped words of unmistakable mean-
ing which could be uttered rapidly and which roused the
minimum of echoes in the speaker's mind. The words of the
B vocabulary even gained in force from the fact that nearly
all of them were very much alike. Almost invariably these
words— GOODTHINK, MINIPAX, PROLEFEED, SEX-
CRIME, JOYCAMP, INGSOC, BELLYFEEL, THINKPOL,
and countless others — were words of two or three syllables,
with the stress distributed equally between the first syllable
and the last. The use of them encouraged a gabbling style of
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 387
speech, at once staccato and monotonous. And this was ex-
actly what was aimed at. The intention was to make speech,
and especially speech on any subject not ideologically neu-
tral, as nearly as possible independent of consciousness. For
the purposes of everyday life it was no doubt necessary, or
sometimes necessary, to reflect before speaking, but a Party
member called upon to make a political or ethical judge-
ment should be able to spray forth the correct opinions as
automatically as a machine gun spraying forth bullets. His
training fitted him to do this, the language gave him an al-
most foolproof instrument, and the texture of the words,
with their harsh sound and a certain wilful ugliness which
was in accord with the spirit of Ingsoc, assisted the process
still further.
So did the fact of having very few words to choose from.
Relative to our own, the Newspeak vocabulary was tiny,
and new ways of reducing it were constantly being devised.
Newspeak, indeed, differed from most all other languages
in that its vocabulary grew smaller instead of larger every
year. Each reduction was a gain, since the smaller the area
of choice, the smaller the temptation to take thought. Ulti-
mately it was hoped to make articulate speech issue from
the larynx without involving the higher brain centres at
all. This aim was frankly admitted in the Newspeak word
DUCKSPEAK, meaning 'to quack like a duck'. Like various
other words in the B vocabulary, DUCKSPEAK was ambiv-
alent in meaning. Provided that the opinions which were
quacked out were orthodox ones, it implied nothing but
praise, and when 'The Times' referred to one of the orators
1984
of the Party as a DOUBLEPLUSGOOD DUCKSPEAKER it
was paying a warm and valued compliment.
THE C VOCABULARY. The C vocabulary was supple-
mentary to the others and consisted entirely of scientific
and technical terms. These resembled the scientific terms
in use today, and were constructed from the same roots, but
the usual care was taken to define them rigidly and strip
them of undesirable meanings. They followed the same
grammatical rules as the words in the other two vocabu-
laries. Very few of the C words had any currency either in
everyday speech or in political speech. Any scientific work-
er or technician could find all the words he needed in the
list devoted to his own speciality, but he seldom had more
than a smattering of the words occurring in the other lists.
Only a very few words were common to all lists, and there
was no vocabulary expressing the function of Science as a
habit of mind, or a method of thought, irrespective of its
particular branches. There was, indeed, no word for 'Sci-
ence', any meaning that it could possibly bear being already
sufficiently covered by the word INGSOC.
From the foregoing account it will be seen that in New-
speak the expression of unorthodox opinions, above a very
low level, was well-nigh impossible. It was of course pos-
sible to utter heresies of a very crude kind, a species of
blasphemy. It would have been possible, for example, to say
BIG BROTHER IS UNGOOD. But this statement, which
to an orthodox ear merely conveyed a self-evident absur-
dity, could not have been sustained by reasoned argument,
because the necessary words were not available. Ideas inim-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook.com 389
ical to Ingsoc could only be entertained in a vague wordless
form, and could only be named in very broad terms which
lumped together and condemned whole groups of heresies
without defining them in doing so. One could, in fact, only
use Newspeak for unorthodox purposes by illegitimately
translating some of the words back into Oldspeak. For ex-
ample, ALL MANS ARE EQUAL was a possible Newspeak
sentence, but only in the same sense in which ALL MEN
ARE REDHAIRED is a possible Oldspeak sentence. It did
not contain a grammatical error, but it expressed a palpa-
ble untruth — i.e. that all men are of equal size, weight, or
strength. The concept of political equality no longer existed,
and this secondary meaning had accordingly been purged
out of the word EQUAL. In 1984, when Oldspeak was still
the normal means of communication, the danger theo-
retically existed that in using Newspeak words one might
remember their original meanings. In practice it was not
difficult for any person well grounded in DOUBLETHINK
to avoid doing this, but within a couple of generations even
the possibility of such a lapse would have vaished. A per-
son growing up with Newspeak as his sole language would
no more know that EQUAL had once had the second-
ary meaning of 'politically equal', or that FREE had once
meant 'intellectually free', than for instance, a person who
had never heard of chess would be aware of the secondary
meanings attaching to QUEEN and ROOK. There would
be many crimes and errors which it would be beyond his
power to commit, simply because they were nameless and
therefore unimaginable. And it was to be foreseen that with
1984
the passage of time the distinguishing characteristics of
Newspeak would become more and more pronounced — its
words growing fewer and fewer, their meanings more and
more rigid, and the chance of putting them to improper
uses always diminishing.
When Oldspeak had been once and for all superseded,
the last link with the past would have been severed. History
had already been rewritten, but fragments of the literature
of the past survived here and there, imperfectly censored,
and so long as one retained one's knowledge of Oldspeak
it was possible to read them. In the future such fragments,
even if they chanced to survive, would be unintelligible
and untranslatable. It was impossible to translate any pas-
sage of Oldspeak into Newspeak unless it either referred to
some technical process or some very simple everyday ac-
tion, or was already orthodox (GOODTHINKFUL would
be the Newspeak expression) in tendency. In practice this
meant that no book written before approximately 1960
could be translated as a whole. Pre-revolutionary literature
could only be subjected to ideological translation — that is,
alteration in sense as well as language. Take for example
the well-known passage from the Declaration of Indepen-
dence:
WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT,
THAT ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL, THAT THEY
ARE ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR WITH CERTAIN
INALIENABLE RIGHTS, THAT AMONG THESE ARE
LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 391
THAT TO SECURE THESE RIGHTS, GOVERNMENTS ARE
INSTITUTED AMONG MEN, DERIVING THEIR POWERS
FROM THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED. THAT
WHENEVER ANY FORM OF GOVERNMENT BECOMES
DESTRUCTIVE OF THOSE ENDS, IT IS THE RIGHT OF THE
PEOPLE WALTER OR ABOLISH IT, AND TO INSTITUTE
NEW GOVERNMENT...
It would have been quite impossible to render this into
Newspeak while keeping to the sense of the original. The
nearest one could come to doing so would be to swallow the
whole passage up in the single word CRIMETHINK. A full
translation could only be an ideological translation, where-
by Jefferson's words would be changed into a panegyric on
absolute government.
A good deal of the literature of the past was, indeed, al-
ready being transformed in this way. Considerations of
prestige made it desirable to preserve the memory of cer-
tain historical figures, while at the same time bringing
their achievements into line with the philosophy of Ingsoc.
Various writers, such as Shakespeare, Milton, Swift, By-
ron, Dickens, and some others were therefore in process of
translation: when the task had been completed, their orig-
inal writings, with all else that survived of the literature
of the past, would be destroyed. These translations were
a slow and difficult business, and it was not expected that
they would be finished before the first or second decade of
the twenty-first century. There were also large quantities of
merely utilitarian literature — indispensable technical man-
1984
uals, and the like — that had to be treated in the same way. It
was chiefly in order to allow time for the preliminary work
of translation that the final adoption of Newspeak had been
fixed for so late a date as 2050.
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com
Alexander Merow
Prey World
Citizen 1-564398B-278843
Novel
Parti
Prey World
Chapters
Foreword 5
Citizen 1-564398B-278843 7
Automated Trial 23
Big Eye 31
The Change 49
Outsourced 56
World Peace in Ivas? 82
Rebellion and Fresh Snow 98
Procrastination is the Thief of Time! 116
Aux Champs-Elysees 139
The Lull before the Storm 155
Bomb-happy... 171
Red Moon 178
With him 193
Prey World - Citizen 1-564398B-278843
Content
The year 2028. Mankind is in the stranglehold of a
worldwide surveillance state. Frank Kohlhaas, a petty
citizen, lives a cheerless life, working as an agency worker
in a steel plant.
One day, he gets into a conflict with the tyrannical system,
because of an unfortunate accident. An automated trail
convicts him to five years of imprisonment and Frank
disappears in a detention centre, where he suffers under a
cruel system of brainwashing and reeducation.
After eight months of pain, the authorities decide to transfer
him to another prison. On the way there, something
unexpected happens. Suddenly everything changes and the
young man finds himself caught between the fronts...
Foreword
This is the English version of the first book of Alexander
Merow's "Prey World" series. The novel was translated by
Thorsten Weber - and the whole procedure entailed a lot of
work. But it was also really funny.
It is not a professional translation and the translator is not a
"native speaker" or English teacher. He is just a guy who
loves science-fiction and dystopias. So try not to laugh at
some of the translated phrases, or the wrath of a real freak
will come over you!
Nevertheless, we thought that would be a good idea to
translate this interesting, courageous and critical novel into
the English language. At the same time it will also enable
English speaking people to join Alexander Merow's growing
audience.
"Prey World" is neither an ordinary book nor light
entertainment. There is already plenty of "light
entertainment" in our times - far too much. On the other
hand, there are not enough books like "Prey World". Books
that make you think about the world we live in. And it is
important that people begin to think.
The author has already found numerous interested readers
all over Germany, and we hope, he will find additional
readers in the English-speaking countries. We would also
be glad, if a "real" mother-tongue speaker were to edit this
English version one day.
Some readers compare "Prey World" with George Orweirs
"1984", the classic among the dystopic novels. Others see
elements of Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451" in it.
However, critical thinkers and friends of so called
"conspiracy theories" will have their fun with "Prey World". Is
Alexander Merow' s vision of the future really realistic at all?
A worldwide surveillance state? A World Government under
the control of a ruthless secret society? We will see!
And always remember...
"Only a fool would think that "Prey World" is nothing
but fiction!" (Alexander Merow)
Have fun!
Alexander Merow and Thorsten Weber, Berlin 201 1
E-mail: A.Merow@gmx.de
"Maybe it is nothing but madness and suicide. Maybe it will
not change the world, but this is not important for me.
Nevertheless, it will change something for me!
I have suffered too much to humble myself anymore. They
have told us to humble ourselves - since the kindergarten.
Shut up! Consume! Obey! Endure! Believe everything!
Watch shit! Buy shit! Eat shit! Turn the other cheek!
What has become of us? Why have we become sheep?
Why do we endure this all without doing something? Why
has nobody the guts to act?
Thorsten's books were a real eye-opener to me! Now, I
know who they are and what they plan for us all. And I can't
forget what they have done to me. They call us "cattle".
Okay, then I will be the black sheep in the flock. And the
black sheep will fight back now! And it does not fear the
butcher anymore, because even a butcher can be killed.
Franky, the little black sheep, will make them pay now! And
I hope that the flock of white sheep will wake up some day."
P.S.: If I don't come back, please give this book to Julia...
Diary entry of Frank Kohlhaas, 17.02.2029
Citizen 1-564398B-278843
Frank Kohlhaas, who was called citizen 1-564398B-278843
in his everyday life, because this was his official
administrative code, was already dreaming of the
unpleasant smell in the hall of his flat, reminding him of
rotten eggs. In his mind, shortly before 5.00 o'clock in the
morning - soon the dream would be terminated by the
alarm - Frank was on a walk through a sunny valley. But
even at this beautiful place, the moldy smell was still
pervasive, so that Frank wondered, how such a beautiful
valley could smell so repulsive.
When the alarm-clock rang, it quickly became clear that the
sunny valley was just fantasy, although the smell was real.
The noise was shrill and Frank awoke swearing. Now he
had to get up, put on his clothes, have a hasty breakfast
and walk to the production complex 42-B.
„Damn!", hissed the unshaven man as he moved his not
excessively tall, but amazingly strong body from his cheaply
produced bed.
„Hmmmhaaa!", yawned Frank, shuffling through his still dark
apartment to the next room, where a dirty kitchen was
waiting for him. The citizen tore open the refrigerator door
and chocked down a cheese sandwich, the meager left-
overs from yesterday's supper.
The water kettle was started with a loud whoosh and, after a
few minustes, supplied hot water for a cup of instant coffee.
„Nnnhhaa!", uttered the young man, a statement, that could
be interpreted in many ways at this early hour, and could
have referred to his life situation in general. At 5.27 o'clock,
Frank closed the battered door behind himself and walked
listlessly down the dark corridor on his way to descend the
even darker stairway. The source of that foul stench, that
had been torturing Frank's nose for days, was somewhere
here. Perhaps one of the other tenants, damn idiot, had left
his garbage in the corridor.
J don't know...", he muttered.
Each morning it was the same old story: „Rising, eating,
walking, slogging away...", as Kohlhaas always said.
In the past years, he had learned to hate his life. He was 25
years old now, living in a more than shabby flat on the
outskirts of the former FRG capital, Berlin, working for
modest wages as a temporary help in a steel plant. In
former times, he had wanted to study, but this issue was
over - for reasons that Frank never mentioned.
Actually, he was not dumb, but, according to his own words,
he couldn't hack it yet. However, the job at the steel plant
was better than nothing, because it gave him the chance to
earn some money and to survive - an advantage that was
not enjoyed by millions of Germans in the year 2027.
As he now groped along again on this particular morning,
step by step towards the plant, he passed demolished
houses in the twilight and crowds of homeless people lying
in masses in the dark corners of the streets.
„What would be, if I simply didn't care about the
consequences and went home again, got back into my bed
and just slept until tomorrow?", he thought sometimes.
„What would it be like if I just packed my bags and
disappeared from this rotten city, this scruffy country?", he
asked himself occasionally.
But where was it any different? He should enjoy, what he
had - he'd got a job and didn't go hungry. That was at least
something, thought Frank.
After the worker had gone through a very long and dark
underpass without giving a Globe coin to the drunken
beggar there, the production complex came into Frank's
vision. It was 5.53 in the morning and the workers for the
early shift stood there waiting, smoking, jawing.
When the factory gates finally opened at 6 o'clock, about
200 workers poured through them like a viscous mash. Most
of them were not in any rush to begin their work, but it had
to be, there was no other way.
"No alternative!", as Frank always said.
After ten hours, they went back home again. All were dirty
and tired, but happy that the work was over for the day.
Frank crept through the corridor on his floor, which was still
dim even by day, and unlocked the door of his apartment.
There were no new messages on the Scanchip and that
was good, because it were usually only calculations:
electricity, water and such things. Frank had placed the
television in his bedroom the day before, so if he couldn't
fall asleep, he could turn it on. The program did not interest
him, but with the sound of anyone talking, he didn't feel so
alone in this dark block of flats.
Kohlhaas just knew his neighbours from brief encounters.
Many of them only left their apartments to go to work and
some of them had become serious boozers in recent years.
From time to time someone would bawl from his balcony or
accosted people, passing "his block" - but after a while,
everyone was sleeping.
Citizen 1-564398B-278843 watched television till 22.37
o'clock: the news („War of the global armed forces against
dangerous terrorists in Iran"), talk shows, easy
entertainment on all fronts, warnings of the second dog flu
epidemic and the necessity for the immediate compulsory
inoculation. Then he fell asleep, although meanwhile the
foul smell from outside seemed to have lodged itself in his
pillow....
Next day...
10
„Good morning, Frank!", muttered Dirk Weber, one of the
foremen. „Good morning, Dirk!", answered Frank listlessly. It
was 6.03 o'clock, the morning shift began. A-341, this was
the designation of the young man as worker and temporary
help in the steel plant, gave his helping hands for many
operational steps till the clock indicated 10.30.
Now it was time for a short lunch, and when Frank
unwraped his only bun which was covered with a piece of
salami, he did not suspect, that an unpleasant stroke of fate
would wait for him in the following minutes.
Since approximately half a year, the production complex'
administration had arranged the singing of the "One-World-
Song", due to a new international regulation, before every
lunch time in each production complex - for the increase of
work moral and to strengthen the international doctrine of
„peace, freedom, prosperity and equality" that was
propagated by the World Government since 2018. The
official of the "Ministry for Production Supervision", stationed
in this enterprise, Mr. Gert Sasse, who was mostly in his
office above the factory building, had conscientiously come
down to the workers to sing the "One-World-Song" with
them. It was always the same.
..Workers, now is lunch time! But we will sing first!", he
shouted through the hall and the steel workers formed to a
bored line, in order to enjoy the short break after the
singing:
"We are the children of One-World and we are all equal!
We love our One-World, the great realm of peace!
We don't know any classes, we don't know any races..."
Frank heard ever more rarely on the text in the last weeks,
didn't move his lips and stared at the ceiling of the dirty
production hall. ..Hurry up!", he thought and boredly scraped
11
with his left foot over the dusty ground. Then the singing
was over.
„Gosh! This stupid song is really getting on my nerves!",
said the labourer very quietly to himself.
„AH right, men! That could be done - halfway! Enjoy your
meal!", called the official of the "Ministry for Production
Supervision" and A-341 looked forward to a hungry bite in
his softened roll.
But while his teeth eagerly crushed the salty piece of
salami, he was hit by an angry look of Mr. Sasse. The
supervisor narrowed his eyes to slits and looked like an
aggressive bulldog.
„A-341! Yes, you! Come to me! Hurry!", he roared at the top
of his lungs.
This got Frank's adrenalin flowing. He didn't need quarrel at
work anymore.
„Come on, A-341!", yelled Mr. Sasse, waving the worker
nearer. Kohlhaas followed the order immediately.
„l am just a fool for you, isn't it?", hissed the man.
„Eh...no! Of course not, Sir. ..eh. ..Mr. Sasse!", stammered
Frank.
J fail to see what you mean...", he added stumbling.
„How I mean this, you idiot?", screamed the official with a
look which gave the young man the biggest possible
uneasiness. A malicious silence prevailed for several
oppressive seconds. Meanwhile, the eyes of the superior
threateningly became smaller and bushy, black eyebrows
were pushed over them.
A second later, Frank saw a fist with fatty fingers fly towards
his face. It suddenly hurt and his nasal bone reacted with a
cracking on the punch. While some blood threads flowed
down from his nose, A-341 heard a growl: „How I mean that,
you numbskull?"
12
„lf I give the instruction that the „One-World-Song" has to be
sung, you have to sing it too. This was an order!",
completed Mr. Sasse his powerful argument.
His intonation varied now between satisfaction and
rampantly growing meanness. In the meantime, Kohlhaas
had gone to the ground. This punch had been really hard
and Sasse gave him another kick in the ribs now.
„Do you understand, idiot? You probably think, that you
have a special status here, isn't it?", he roared.
The other workers googled at him and hid their faces behind
their rolls. Meanwhile, Kohlhaas felt like a kicked dog,
humiliated in front of the rest of his colleagues - what was
very close to reality. Without considering his action, he
jumped up and positioned himself in front of the official of
the "Ministry for Production Supervision".
"You can be glad, that you are my superior, otherwise I
would break you every bone!", screamed Frank with boiling
fury. Gert Sasse was baffled. A-341 obstinately wiped off
the blood from his lip.
One hour later, the worker still waited in front of the door of
the production complex leader. Sasse was in his office and
Frank heard him swearing and ranting. This was no good
sign.
„A-341, come in!", resounded the voice of the highest boss
of this work plant over the brightly illuminated corridor. The
young man started moving and took a seat on the chair in
the middle of the office room. A short silence followed, then
it began.
J took a look on your Scanchip, A-341!", reported Mr.
Reimers, the production complex leader. „ln the ten years of
your activity here, you had come too late three times. Apart
from that, this is not the first time that you make a spectacle
13
of yourself. You are already occured to me, because of
subversive statements at work which can probably also be
confirmed by your colleagues. We have even marked you
with a blue code 67-Beta, if you didn't know it yet, A-341!
We will examine the video tapes of your working days in this
complex in the next days, with our new "Voice-Analysis-
System", and Tim sure that we will find some more
subversive statements.
But what you have done today, is a real scandal!
Threatening an official of the highest authority of production
supervision. Is there just air in your head, boy? If I don't
take drastic measures in a case like this, my superiors will
make me a lot of problems.
I must dismiss you, A-341! Further, I am correctly obligated,
to react on such an unbelievable incident with a message to
the responsible administration. Disappear now from this
production complex, and never come back, A-341!"
Frank Kohlhaas, the just dismissed worker, was struck
dumb with horror. His vocal chords seemed to be rusted, his
throat was tied and his courage was put on ice somewhere.
He went out, just went out, pale as death, with a roaring
head, without answering. Frank had lost his job, his source
for subsistence. And this was no fun in these joyless days.
Like in trance, the young man went into the changing room
of the production complex and absently opened the baggy
sheet door of his spint. ..Dismissal" - this word sounded like
the cut of a razor in the ear of each listener in this time. It
was related to the word ..liquidation", because it was the
destruction of the social existence. Being dismissed meant
to get no more Globes, as the international currency was
called since the year 2018. If Frank would not find a new
employment as soon as possible, he could lose his
apartment, his food and finally also his life. Any social
14
security, warranted by the state, had completely been
abolished since the total collapse of world economy in
winter 2012/13. And it was more than difficult, to find work in
a time, in which the industrial production in old Central and
Western Europe had mostly been outsourced to the Third
World. Therefore, millions of Europeans tried to survive by
doing extremly bad paid jobs in this dark present. They had
nothing to lose, so they were glad about every breadline
wage they could get. Those, who were not able to find a
possibility to earn some money in any way, ended as
beggars and homeless people, hanging around under
bridges or in vacant house ruins.
On the next day, Frank was not awaked by the shrill sound
of his alarm, after an sorrowful and restless night, but by the
disgusting stench which came from the stairway. The smell
had not been liquidated by anyone - against the spirit of the
age.
Only in the early morning hours, he had been able to sleep
for a while, because of his constant brooding and the
unpleasant thoughts that had tortured him during the night.
As first thought of the new grey day, the face of Mr. Sasse
appeared in his head and the face of citizen 1-564398B-
278843 changed to a hateful grimace, when he mused
about killing the official with an iron rod.
„This damn hybrid! If my life goes down the drain, because
of that guy, then I will smash the skull of this bastard before
I go to hell!", hissed Frank, erupting in anger.
He finally crept out of his bed and stared down at the dirty
street in front of his apartement block.
„Damn! What shall I do now?", he thought. J must find a
new job, otherwise they will close the account on my
Scanchip, because I can't pay the fucking calculations any
longer."
15
After a further hour of useless musing, he left his dwelling,
tried not to inhale too deeply on the corridor, and walked the
dark stairs down to the ground floor.
The elevator was defective since months and nobody
seemed to waste a thought about repairing it. The only one,
Frank could imagine as a potential employer in this
hardship, was Stefan Meise, the junkdealer, an old
schoolmate.
Meise' s scrapyard was about half an hour foot march
distant from Frank's apartment block. He hit the road,
walked down the ugly street, which was covered with
garbage, and finally reached his goal - a place full of rusty
cars and all kinds of metal debris.
Nevertheless, Stefan Meise was not difficult to find between
the mountains of scrap iron. He was very tall, thick, bearded
and looked hardly differed from what he collected and sold.
„Hello Stefan! How are you?", welcomed him Frank quietly,
trying to smile.
„Oh, Frank Kohlhaas! What's up, man?", answered the thick
junkdealer. "You haven't been here for ages!"
"I just thought, I could visit you. Does the scrap metal trade
still run, Stefan?", asked Frank. „You have here... eh... a lot
of rusty stuff... Where do you find so much junk?"
„Ha! I collect, what I can find. As all junkdealers do. Why do
you ask me this, Frank? Can I help you?", returned Meise.
„l have lost my job yesterday", told Frank, while the fat man
looked at him quizzically. Then, Meise stroke with his oily,
broad fingers over his dirty black overall.
.That's a disaster, Frank! And now?", asked Stefan and
shook his head.
„Now, I'm looking for something new. Some kind of
temporary job, you know? Perhaps, you still need another
helping hand?", murmured the young man.
16
For half a minute, Meise just googled at the unemployed
man with his yellowish, bulging eyes. Then he looked
around and tried to give his unpleasant answer as carefully
as possible.
..Working for me?", he inquired. ..Thus, Frank, the situation
is... eh. ..the times are bad. We all know this, my friend. I
almost run everything alone here and only Ralf helps me
from time to time. This is actually enough. I don't need a
second man, sorry!"
Frank Kohlhaas had never been a good actor and who saw
him now, could feel his disappointment.
„And only for two months?", he asked.
„l need none here, and I can't afford a second man, Frank!",
explained the thick, filthy man and turned away. „l'm sorry,
but I have to do some work now. No offense, but there is no
chance for you to find work here."
Back home, Frank hissed one of his worst curses and
kicked against the kitchen table. He desperately scanned
his brain for other possibilities of employment and checked
all production complexes around Berlin in his mind. But the
problem was, that his boss had given him a negative entry
in his Scanchip register after the conflict with Mr. Sasse,
what made it difficult to get a job in another steel plant.
He still had 246 Globes on his electronic account for this
month. More than 400 Globes he had to pay only for his
apartment in this rotted estate of prefabricated houses.
Time pressed now, with each day a little bit more, and the
dark shadow of despair grew with the passing hours. It
occupied Frank's mind like a malicious ulcer.
After the young man had watched an extremely stupid
sitcom, he switched off the television and tried to sleep. But
it was only 23,00 o'clock and regrettably the exhaustion had
not achieved the necessary level yet, to turn off Frank's
brain and give him some peace of mind.
17
Several hours followed, when Frank was staring at the dark
ceiling, cursing the production complex 42-B with all its
superiors, supervisors and workers.
Then the stench from the hall became noticeable to him
again and the fog of despair in his head swelled so strongly
that the young man thought about killing himself.
He mused about operating the bad thoughts and concerns
under his skullcap with a heavy-calibered shotgun which
would completely spread his brain over the yellowed
wallpaper behind his bedstead. And Frank Kohlhaas still
thought about many other things in this terrible night.
He brooded over his so far senseless life, the isolation, the
monotonousness and the gaping abyss that waited for him
now. Frank came to no solution in this night and not even
the smallest glimmer of hope seemed to shine somewhere.
Nothing. Outside it was dark. In front of the house, Frank
could recognize a few ripped garbage bags, which already
lay there since several weeks. Then he was finally so tired,
that he fell asleep with his head on the window sill.
Up to the end of the week, the search for a new job was
unsuccessful - as he had already expected it. It seemed
that there was no more work at all, in the periphery of
several kilometers. Furthermore, a inquiry at the local
administration had proven that Frank had meanwhile a
negative entry in his Scanchip register, because of
..disturbance of peace at the workplace".
..Perhaps, the idea with the shotgun is not too bad at all! But
before that, I will visit this Sasse!", grumbled Frank on
Friday, when the short weekend for his former colleagues of
the production complex 42-B began.
On Saturday and Sunday, he invested his last Globes in the
cheap liquor from the kiosk at the corner. Alone in his small,
modestly furnished apartment, in the dark block of flats, in a
18
much darker time. His fate and his pain was not noticed by
anyone else. Just like Frank Kohlhaas had never noticed
the pain of the others who lifed their lives in their
honeycombs, behind the shabby, gray walls of this
plattenbau.
If he would drink himself to death or blew his head away, he
would soon smell like the corridor on his floor, and it would
probably not even been noticed by his neighbors. This
thought was somehow so sick that it elecited Frank a
tormented smile.
Hard alcohol had not the best reputation, but one thing was
clear: It had already given millions of desperate people a
good sleep. No concern could be so big, that it couldn't be
drowned in a wave of the good and, above all, cheap booze
from the nearby kiosk. Frank checked this old truth in a
"self-experiment".
„Beep! Beep! Beep!", it resounded on Monday at 6.30
o'clock in the morning from the kitchen, where the drunk
man had forgotten his Scanchip. „Beep! Beep! Beep!"
An electronic woman's voice always repeated...
„Good morning, citizen 1-564398B-278843! You have a
message of priority level alpha on your Scanchip!"
„Good morning, citizen 1-564398B-278843! You have a
message of priority level alpha on your Scanchip!"
„Good morning, citizen 1-564398B-278843! You have a
message of priority level alpha on your Scanchip!"
„Hmmm...", hummed Frank, still a bit dazed from the night
before.
19
„Damn! What?", he muttered and rolled out of his bed which
still smelled of alcohol.
„What the hell? Damn! Shut up!", he grunted and walked
with a bad headache to the kitchen table.
It lasted a little eternity until Frank had remembered the pin
code and had found his way through the message-menu of
the Scanchip.
"What...?"
"Citation? What?", whispered citizen 1-564398B-278843. He
had to read it twice, in order to believe it. Did somebody try
to kid him?
„What the fuck is that?", he could only say.
Official citation:
Citizen 1-564398B-278843,
You are officially cited to an automated trial on
14.08.2027 at 8.00 o'clock.
Accusations:
- Massive disturbation at the workplace
- Theoretical aggravated battery
Appear at the mentioned time in court cell 4/211, at your
local juridical complex. In the case of nonappearance,
you will be punished with the deletion of your Scanchip
or arrest! (*§127b, „Citizen Obligations and theoretical
Sanctions")
Official document code: 257789000-0100567-
2345441 1 1 3-EGN-59900-4/21 1
Culprit number: 319444-556.77
20
Thank you for your cooperation!
Frank's atomised brain began to hurt and to rotate.
..Citation? What do you want from me?"
He was totally confused and couldn't remember any crimes
in his past life.
..Just because I've yelled at this damned Sasse?", he
thought. ..This can't be true! I finally did not touch him. I
have just lost control for some seconds. I don't understand
this. And what the hell do they mean with ..theoretical
aggravated battery"?"
And there was no doubt. Frank Kohlhaas, the helping out
citizen with the official code 1-564398B-278843, had never
done something bad to another person. Except for the time
in the kindergarten, back then, as he had given this stupid
Kevin a little slap and his parents had been called to the
authorithies. The local education officials had briefly
become anxiously and had explanied that Frank would have
some ..subliminal aggressions" and a ..precarious masculine
behavior". Then they had suggested a therapy with
tranquilizers.
But this was many years ago. Furthermore, the therapy
could be avoided, after the child had repetend its "sins" in
front of a committee of psychologists and social
pedagogues, and his parents had insured, that they would
immediately report Frank's next "crimes", if he would
become noticeable again in this context.
But he never became noticeable again. He always stuck to
the rules until this day; in the kindergarten, the elementary
school and everywhere else. Since his fifth year of life, he
had always been a good boy. No, he was not noticeable at
all. And of course he was no human being with ..subliminal
aggressions". Sometimes in his thoughts or dreams, he beat
up a superior or an administrative coworker, but this was a
21
secret and Frank had never talked about his thought crimes.
He was just "normal", as he meant.
Apart from this, it was also the first time that the otherwise
perfectly inconspicuous plattenbau-inhabitant Frank
Kohlhaas had come in contact with an ..automated trial". The
citizen had already heard about this, once in the news,
since it had been introduced by the World Government
three years ago. But the young man could not imagine, what
this strange process really was. But why should a decent
person like Frank think about such things? He had never
become culpable and had nothing to do with criminality.
Therefore, the accused had not the foggiest notion, what
waited for him now and so he wasn't too much concerned
about this citation.
It was probably nothing but a pure formality, circumstances,
which could be clarified. Frank had not hurt anybody and
therefore he also could not be condemned. The young man
had already lost his job, because of the so called
"disturbation of peace at the workplace". There was no
reason to be worried, thought Kohlhaas.
Now the unemployed man absently hit the button ..Voice
Presentation" so that the message was slowly read out by a
computer-animated woman's voice. This was also a
novelty. The administration had introduced the "Voice
Presentation" some years ago, because more and more
citizens of Berlin were illiterate, above all, the younger
generation. So an important official message had always to
be available in read out form.
The rest of this day wasn't very spectacular and the
"automated trail" was already tomorrow. ..Then I will have a
reason to rise", said Frank to himself and grinned cynically.
Shortly afterwards, Kohlhaas tried to call his father to ask
him for some money, but he didn't reach anybody during
22
the whole day. Nevertheless, there was some more liquor in
the kitchen. Frank decided to get royally drunk once again,
and fell asleep at midnight. He almost forgot to set his
alarm-clock...
23
Automated Trial
Although it was August, this morning was very cold and
dark. Frank's neck hurt and he had another headache from
last night's drunkenness. The local juridical complex was
over one hour foot march distant from his apartment block,
but the citizen thought, that it could be a good idea to go
and get some, more or less, fresh air. In addition, he could
fight the aftereffects of his hangover.
He hastily gulped down some toast, swallowed the
dissolvable coffee and examined the label on the plastic can
of the coffee powder.
„Globe Food" was written on it and Frank could see a world
ball. Above the globe was a pyramid with an eye on its top.
At the bottom of the picture was the slogan: „Food for the
people!"
„Amusing symbol!", murmured Frank into his three-day
beard.
He had never noticed this logo before, although he only
bought his food in the cheap „Globe Food" supermarkets,
which dominated Berlin. Then the thought left his head
again, as fast as it had come.
The unusual cold weather let Frank shiver. A draft of fresh
air blew through the dark stairway and temporary flushed
away even the smell of bad eggs. In front of him, a neighbor
walked down to the exit and Frank considered if he had
seen the face of this man ever before.
The man said something sounding like "Hello!", but
Kohlhaas wasn't sure. The accused slowly walked forward
and was still dizzy. He briefly looked at the playground in
the yard and beheld some children who were screaming
24
with shrill voices in an incomprehensible language. Was it
Turkish? Or Arabic?
When the clock indicated 7.43, he could already recognize
the outlines of the juridical complex from the distance. It was
a large red building with hundreds of windows and over 30
floors. Dozens of court cells were in front of it, one of them
was waiting for him. The chambers, in which people could
get their "automated trial", were made of a gray metal and
about four meters wide, as Frank guessed from his distant
view.
Three other citizens already stood before them, between
them were some police officers. Slowly he became nervous.
Perhaps this hearing was nevertheless more unpleasantly,
than he had imagined at first.
Now it was necessary to pass an electrical gate, which was
protected by a doorman in a small, brown house. The
official gave Frank a sign to come nearer.
„Come here!", he called.
The young man ran forward and positioned himself in front
of the entrance of the guardroom.
„Scanchip!", said the doorman, holding a laser scanner in
his hand. Wordlessly he pulled the Scanchip out of Frank's
hand, without looking at him, and said after a short „beep" of
his code reader: „Court cell 4/211! Hurry up! It is nearly 8.00
o'clock! If you come too late, it will be just more expensive
for you!"
Frank's heart started to pound faster. Fearfully, he started
to search the court cells, in order to find his number. The
other accused examined him with some brief looks.
„Row 4! Shit! I must hurry up... 211...", lamented Frank,
becoming more and more nervous. Meanwhile, only two
minutes remained, till his hearing would start. He began to
25
run and with a racing heart and an increasing headache, he
correctly reached his court cell in time.
Gasping for breath, he was welcomed by an electronic
woman's voice: ..Welcome citizen 1-564398B-278843, to
your automated trail! Please enter your culprit number on
the display and press OK!"
Frank pulled the Scanchip out of his trouser pocket, opened
the message menu, and tried to enter his culprit number. A
rarely known panic attacked him now. He looked around,
gasping for breath again.
..Actually, I don't have to go in this damn metal box,
because I didn't do anything!", he whispered, but the door
was already open. Frank's hands became sweaty, while he
breathed louder.
In front of him, a weakly lit up metallic hole had opened
itself, which requested him to step forward now.
..Come in, citizen 1-564398B-278843! Your trial is already
running!", it resounded from a loudspeaker at the ceiling of
the halfdark chamber. Frank Kohlhaas knew that he had no
chance to refuse the order. It was nevertheless an official
instruction and there was never and in no case room for a
discussion or exception.
He made a step forward and his knees felt more weak with
each passing second. Then a screen flashed. The
"automated trial" against the theoretical delinquent Frank
Kohlhaas took its course.
In large and bright letters, the reproaches could be read on
the screen:
Accusations:
- Massive disturbation at the workplace
- Theoretical aggravated battery
26
Frank swallowed and let out a big gush of air. The terribly
sounding woman's voice, as friendly as an unnoticed virus,
began with some remarks. A detailed description of the
progression of events, the listing of witnesses and additional
"sub-charges" followed, for example ..subversive statements
at work" - and some more.
For several minutes, the young man didn't say anything,
and besides, nobody had asked him for his point of view,
only the computer voice was talking, implementing and
accusing.
Frank's former colleagues, Schmidt, Adiguzel and Nyang,
had confirmed the fact, that the young man had refused the
singing of the "One-World-Song" several times and had
even described the text as "nonsens" on 02.04.2027.
Production supervisor Sasse had added that the aggressive
mimic and the use of "strong vocabulary" during the
argument in the factory, would be an evidence for Frank's
tendency of "unnecessary analyzing of absolutely justified
instructions" and "subliminal aggressions".
The boss of the production complex had confirmed this too.
Further details followed: legal regulations and regulations
for extended and deeper instructions in the reference to the
list and redefinition of defaults - and more.
"You can be glad that you are my superior, otherwise I
would break you every bone!"
The intention of striking the superior, was more than clearly
proven, in the eyes of the automated court. The difference
between a (in such a way) formulated intention and an
actually implemented act, was relatively small, according to
the modern understanding of law which was oriented
towards psychology and statistics. Further, the probability to
commit this act one day in reality, had also enormously
27
increased, because the intention had clearly been
formulated. (Compare: „BMI of calibration of actual,
theoretical and probable behavior" from 02.10.2020,
document code: V-LUN-36777192934457656-Z, (89) ")
Frank googled at the screen like a stunned cow, which had
walked against an electrical fence. He was not able to think
that fast, how this computer programme made him to a
potential interference factor, a danger for the order of the
worldwide system, basing on freedom and humanitarianism.
After an hour, the lecture finally came to an end. Now a new
menu appeared on the screen. The woman's voice with the
electronic taste kindly read out the sentences, sounding like
sudden frost in Frank's ears:
„lf you deny the charges, please click on NO!"
"If you admit the charges, please klick on YES!"
Citizen 1-564398B-278843 hesitated, perked his eyebrows
up and tried to arrange his thoughts.
„What is this shit? Tve done nothing wrong, nothing at all!
This whole crap is a bad joke!", yelled Frank through the
court cell. For a second, he thought about crushing this
damn screen with a kick.
„l will choose NO! I'm innocent! No! I click NO! No
question!", he screamed angrily.
The accused hammered on the keys in front of him and
selected NO. Now he had to wait. The computer hummed.
..Loading" could be seen on the screen in bright letters.
Frank felt relieved for a short moment.
„Now that fucking thing knows that I am innocent. I
expressed myself clearly: NO!", he said grimly. Then he
smiled, a bit exhausted, while the inner tension started to
28
die down. Shortly afterwards, he got the answer of the
automated court computer, with metallic sound and cruelly
combined letters on the bright screen:
..Accused, you selected NO! This means, you deny the
reproaches and assume our juridical system, led by
humanistic principles, not to consider these!
Unfortunately, we must tell you that the selection of the
menu option NO leads, in principle, to an increased
measure of punishment, because it shows the
intransigence of the culprit..."
The court decision is loaded...
The young man paused, gaped at the screen and cursed
quietly, while his mouth became an astonished, shocked
hole. Frank Kohlhaas' understanding seemed to be
blocked, briefly put on „standby". The data were too large
and too terrible, in order to be able to be processed by his
brain. The biological computer under his skullcap just
seemed to fall into chaos and started to collapse.
Then the gleeful shining screen of court cell 4/21 1 struck in
his face with still more malice. The judgement was
announced:
„Citizen 1-564398B-278843! You are condemned to 5
years of detention in a center for reeducation and
resocialization!
To the reason: In your case, the statistic probability for
theoretical aggravated battery is at 78, 11%!
The statistic probability for prospective subversive
behavior is at 53.59% in your case! Moreover, the
selection of the menu option NO increases the penalty.
But you can be unconcerned. Meanwhile, there are
29
numerous governmental institutions, in which human
beings like you can get modern theraphies on the
highest level of science, in order to begin a happy and
adapted new life in our humanistic society! We thank
you for your understanding!"
Frank's eyes bored into the screen and his ears roared. The
electronic woman's voice resounded in his head like the
echo of an atomic explosion. It became a slimy worm, which
ate its way through his pinna towards his brain.
„5 years of detention?", stammered the man.
Frank tried to explain himself, that his hearing had deceived
him, but the cruel news were also in front of his eyes.
Unfortunately, both senses could not err. He was
condemned. It was correct.
Still in a condition of shock, the accused hardly noticed,
when the electronic lock engaged behind him, blocking the
court cell automatically. The damnation had been
proclaimed and the trap had sprung. In the first minutes,
Frank was much too perplex to be able to realize this. The
despair in this early moment was far too big that it could
give room to feelings like hate or rage.
For this procedure, 411.66 Globes were deducted from
Frank's Scanchip account, what was also mentioned by the
computer voice.
He might behave and wait, until the police officers would
come to arrest him. Then he would be brought to a transport
vehicle, as the computer explained. Citizen 1-564398B-
278843 listened to these further instructions without
showing any emotions. The condition of torpidity was too
serious. Half an hour later, he suddenly jumped up in his
despair, in order to cry. But a strange weakness had
30
captured his mind and after a short emotional outburst,
Kohlhaas crept into a dark corner and waited.
..Perhaps it is just a misunderstanding? It could surely be
cleared up!", it temporarily flared up in his mind. "I must talk
to the officials. They can. ..can help me, to find a solution.
The computer must have erred."
When two policemen arrived at the court cell, about one
hour later, they already heard Frank complaing from a
distance.
J think, that is the loudest guy today!", sneered a
policeman.
"He has a real big mouth!", said the other.
The steel door of the dark court chamber opened and
offered a sorry sight to the policemen. But it was not a
picture, which was strange to them. Outbreaks of accused
people after automated trials, were nothing new for them.
They brought Frank to one of the vehicles...
31
Big eye
The transport to „Big Eye", one of the largest and most
modern high safety prisons in the entire administrative
sector ..Central Europe", did not last for a long time, but it
seemed to go on forever for Frank. Mentally absent, like hit
by an arrow full of narcotic poison, he stared vacantly into
space.
The police officers ignored him and talked most of the time
about a new TV show, called „The Little Whisperer", where
children could win prices if they uncovered "subversive
behavior" among their relatives or neighbors.
Actually, the young man had planned to address the police
officers, to tell them that everything was just a judicial error,
but he did not do it. And they did not seem to have any
interest to make some small talk with him.
After a while, the outlines of an enormous prison complex
appeared on the horizon. This was „Big Eye". Frank had
once seen a report on television about this institute, where
only happy and healed ..patients" (this was the official
designation) were shown to the people. Now he was on the
way there.
The building was surrounded by high concrete walls, which
were provided with barbed wire and watchtowers. It had
several floors and on an outside wall, the prisoner
recognized the strange symbol, he had already seen before
on the label of his coffee powder glass.
A pyramid with an eye on its top. The sign looked somehow
differently than the escutcheon of the "Globe Food" chain of
stores, but nevertheless, the similarity was clear. „Big Eye" -
the great eye. Nobody could escape from its view!", thought
Frank, driven by fear. He should be right.
32
The patient finally left the transporter and the officers did not
have to become rough this time. He followed them, was
silent and accepted all their instructions like being on drugs.
Dress order, behavioral code, sleeping time. He hardly
heard on all the talk, musing about the rising nightmare
around him.
If he listened or not, was quite immaterial. He should remain
here for five long years, according to an official court
decision, and had therefore time enough to internalize the
routine of the day to the smallest detail. After Frank had
undressed, he received a white shirt and white trousers, just
as white trainers.
„You will get a new set every week!", explained one of the
attendants. „Follow me now, citizen 1-564398B-278843!
From now on, you are called "Patient 111-F-47" in this
institute! Do you understand this?" Frank answered with a
nod and followed the man.
„Now go with the execution officials, they will bring you to
your cell in block F. Don't make problems!"
The new prisoner was lead many stairways up to one of the
highest floors of the prison complex. Internally broken, he
stared at the ground, but even in his lethargic state of
shock, he noticed that nothing could be heard from the other
prisoners. No discussions, no crying or any other sound. It
was oppressing. The long corridors of „Big Eye" were
uncanny quiet and all the numbered cell doors were made
of extremely thick steel. The cell with the number 47, in
block F, was provided for Frank. He tried to explain himself,
that everything was nothing but a nightmare. It could not be
real and soon he would wake up, in order to enjoy the
stench from his stairway at first. He would run out of his
apartment and loudly yell over the corridor: „Nice, that you
are here, stench!"
33
Yes, he would do it, because this prison could only be a
cruel vision in the depths of his mind, and in the next
moment this scenario would just split like an unpleasant
thought. But it was not like that.
„1 1 1-F-47! Here we are! This is your cell!", one of the
execution officials suddenly said. The sturdy man with the
brown mustachio and the sharp-edged cheek bone entered
an access code and the cell door opened.
„ln there, 111-F-47!", he grunted.
In this second, clarity returned to Frank's mind again. The
young man abruptly realized, that he would spend the next
five years in this room. This let his sanity splinter like glass.
He broke down and lost consciousness.
After an indefinite time, Frank came round again. Waked up
by a blazing neon light, which penetrated his lids. He was
still dazed, felt sick and the glow stabbed in his skull like a
sharp spear.
„Wake up, patient 111-F-47!", said a voice somewhere in
the room.
„Wake up, patient 111-F-47!", it resonated again. Frank
layed with his back on a light gray plank bed of pleather and
his headache returned with a vengeance.
„Wake up, patient 111-F-47!" Again and again and again.
The head of the young man hurt, as if somebody had put it
into a vice, he was hungry and felt tired and frail.
„l_eave me alone!", he begged and tried to turn away from
the sharp light, but it was impossible.
„Patient 111-F-47! Listen!", it resounded from the ceiling of
the cell.
Frank sat down on the edge of the plank bed and held the
hands over his eyes. „What do you want from me?", he
gasped.
34
..Welcome to your holo cell, patient 111-F-47! Don't be
scared! You are in a mental hospital and we want to help
you!", told the metallic woman's voice from the loudspeaker.
..This new holo cell is a part of your therapy, patient 111-F-
47! We use these mechanisms here in „Big Eye", helping
you to regain the path of the adapted citizen. In this holo
cell, all outlines just blur; it is unlimited, like our "One World",
whose happy citizen you will be after your healing, patient
111-F-47!
Trust us and our newest therapy. Developed by
philanthropists, in order to help people. This cell contains
the freedom, because it does not know borders. It is your
freedom to heal yourself, the freedom of your mind which
will learn with our help!"
Frank Kohlhaas still held his hurting head. This light was
intolerable and it should still last weeks, until he had got
halfway accustomed to its sharp brightness. Finally, he
examined his new home. The room had a size of perhaps
hundred square meters, maybe it was a bit smaller. Frank
could hardly see the outlines of the walls or the cell door,
because of the bright, white light.
The glow was terrible and it penetrated his brain completely.
Even if Frank screwed up his eyes, this unnatural brightness
besieged his barricaded head persistently like an army.
Frank's headache became stronger. Then he just vomited
on his plank bed and crept into a corner.
..Patient 111-F-47! Do you hear us? You are in a holo cell!
Do you understand this? If so, then lift your hand!",
demanded the loudspeaker energetically.
The sick man signaled the fact that he had understood and
still huddled in the corner. In the cell were no things, only
the plank bed and a toilet at the opposite wall. Otherwise,
here was only the biting light.
35
„You will get one hour of reeducation, twice a day!",
explained the unnatural voice from the upper corner of the
room. „The first reeducation hour begins in 30 minutes,
patient 1 1 1 -F-47! Get ready!"
Frank was overtaxed with this situation and dug his face,
still hiding in the corner, behind his knees. He tried to think
about nothing and would have done everything to switch
that light off. But this was not within his power. As nothing in
„Big Eye" was within his power.
He was nothing but a white mouse here, a small laboratory
rat in a cage, that had to endure everything the sadistic
inventors of this so called „mental hospital" had invented.
Shortly afterwards, the reeducation hour began, whereby
the loudspeaker intensively explained 111-F-47 the reasons
for his „therapy" again. It said, that they wanted to make a
„good human being" of Frank. „A human being, which is
human, by overcoming its humanity!"
The brainwash lasted a whole hour, while the light burned
and hurt more and more. Occasionally, the prisoner lost
orientation, because the sharp light was like a white nebula.
Frank tried to fight the pain in his head, but he was at this
cell's mercy. Furthermore, he was in the hands of the cruel
blaze and the metallically sounding talk of this steel
computer woman, that tormented him.
„l can't stand this insanity for two weeks!", said Frank to
himself and winced. „l want it to stop! Please, God!", he
whined.
But God didn't hear him. The acoustic insulation of the holo
cell was much too perfect, deep down in the prison complex
„Big Eye". If Frank had a God here, then it was him or her or
it, the thing behind the loudspeaker. At night, at 22.00
o'clock, the sharp light was switched off. The whole room
suddenly became dark then. So pitch-dark that even the
smallest source of light did not remain. Frank couldn't see
36
the hand before his eyes anymore and in his head, the
aftereffects of the blinding blaze jumped around as manifold
colors. There was only extreme brightness or extreme
darkness in this cell. Whoever had developed the concept of
this instrument of torture, knew exactly, that this cruel form
of conditioning could transform even the unruliest man to a
willing slave, within only a short time. And so the first days
in „Big Eye" slowly passed, leaving countless deep scars in
the mind of the young man. But there was no escape. No
possibility to flee, no rescue by God. Only the devil seemed
to be interested in „Big Eye" - probably he had even
designed this hell on earth.
„Stand tall, patient 111-F-47! Here in „Big Eye" is no quarrel
among the inmates, there are no rebellions and no
annoyance - everyone remains for himself, during the entire
term of imprisonment. You, 111-F-47, are one of the first ill
human beings, who have the luck, to receive a therapy in a
holo cell. We are happy for you, that the computer-assisted
selective procedure has chosen you for this room.
Behave willingly, be flexible and learn to respect the rules of
the system! Not every patient here has the luck, to be
healed a holo cell. You are one of the prototypes. Support
the developers of this new form of healing, by helping your
therapy to success!", it resounded through the room one
morning.
On other days, patient 111-F-47 was explained, how
important it was to believe everything the media told him.
How necessary it was, to free human beings from their
instincts, to format and reprogram their minds so that they
could overcome all their natural instincts. Furthermore, how
inevitable the sedation of human beings was, so that they
could reach a state of happiness. How important
37
consumption and maximization of profit were, for a
functioning society.
In these long weeks of isolation, the strange artificial days
and the black unnatural nights, it was Frank's largest
concern, not to go insane. The isolation, the boredom and,
above all, the haunting light had soon transformed him into
a pathetic creature. He often thought about his father and
his sister, the only members of his family, who were still
there. Frank's mother had died three years ago, he had
loved her very much and with her death he had lost not only
his biological mother, but also his best friend, his closest
reference person in this world. The time after her death had
been hard. Now, nobody was left to talk to.
To his father, Rainer Kohlhaas, who lived in the eastern part
of Berlin, Frank had had only irregular contact. Rarely, too
rarely, he had visited him so far, if he was honest. But
Rainer Kohlhaas was an unemotional, taciturn man, and
each discussion with him was laborious.
Frank and Rainer had frequently argued in former times.
Often the father had openly shown his displeasure about
Frank's path through life and had always upholded Frank's
sister Martina, as the positive example. His son had hated
these permanent comparisons, but now, all this was no
longer important.
From time to time he had telephoned with his older sister,
the more successful one of the two children. Martina had
become a teacher, had married and Frank had often envied
her, because of her good payment. But one day, she had
confessed to him, how fraught and exhaustive her job was.
She just hated to work on her school.
She teached the subjects „Biology "and ..English" at a
school complex in Wuppertal, in the sub-district Westfalen-
Rheinland. Martina described the situation in German
38
schools as more than intolerable, and Frank had the
suspicion that she already drank and took tranquilizers. But
she held on, for her husband and her son, the little Nico.
However, citizen 1-564398B-278843 had seen his nephew
only twice and had always been proud to be his uncle.
In these terrible days, he often thought about the rest of his
family which probably didn't know at all, that he was locked
up here. Perhaps, they would only be surprised about the
fact, that Frank didn't answer the telephone since weeks.
Perhaps the police had even informed his family members -
that he had become an offender and was a criminal now,
and had to face his fair punishment in that prison. He just
didn't know, but he could imagine his father's face, if he got
that message.
J have always said, that the boy wastes his life. Now my old
sorrow has finally been confirmed!", he had probably
murmured. The prisoner didn't try to think too much about
these unpleasant things.
„What has happened to my apartment?", he pondered. „l'm
sure that they have already rented it to another person. This
can be done fast if the rent can't be deducted from the
Scanchip anymore."
In these days, Frank could only speak with himself and tried
to handle the pain. But it did not change anything. He had
served only one month in this room, but Frank already got
the feeling that he had walked from one end of hell to the
other.
It was not easy to persevere here. And the daily two
reeducation hours finally became even the most interesting
things, which happened on a day in the holo cell. After a
while, Frank occasionally even looked forward to them.
Nevertheless, sometimes he tried to destroy the
loudspeaker, which hung much too high, to tear it down.
Then he became so angry that he kicked against the walls
39
or bit in his underarm till it bled. Frank's lonely fight against
windmills continued for a while in such a way. Always
unsuccessful and ever more closer to the loss of his good
judgement. Sometimes he cried below the loudspeaker,
begged for grace and forgiveness and promised to follow
each rule and each regulation for all eternity. He swore, to
believe everything, what they told him. But nobody ever
answered.
When two months had passed, Frank broke out in tears
ever more frequently or crawled under his light gray plank
bed. He thought, that insanity had already found him and
skid down into a state of permanent panic. Patient 111-F-47
didn't trust his own judgement any longer and felt seperated
from the rest of the world like by a great ocean.
In the second month of his term of imprisonment, he made
"insanity" to his companion. He invisaged him as another
inmate, as a cellmate.
A very tall guy, gaunt, with completely pale skin and deep
furrows in the face. Also dressed in the correct white cell
clothes of „Big Eye". However, if the "insanity" sat beside
him on the plank bed, he unfortunately never answered. He
just sneered at him, showing Kohlhaas his yellowish-brown
teeth. But nevertheless, Frank told his spooky friend a lot of
things.
Sometimes the patient also imagined, that „Mr. Madness",
as Frank called him after a while, snored in the complete
darkness of the night, lying somewhere in the room. Then
he crept over the ground and tried to find his strange
cellmate, in order to tell to him that he might be silent. Frank
thought about much confusing things and nobody could say,
if the young men still knew, that it were confusing things. It
was a nocturnal trip beyond the borders of human
understanding, a mental journey through the darkest tunnels
40
of his mind. And every morning, Kohlhaas was awaked by
that bright, hellish light again.
..That's the army of the light particles, which destroys my
lids with their ramming supports, piece by piece, pouring
into my head-fortress with loud screams - slaughtering
everything without further warning. And this cruel horde
massacres my helpless grey cells!", said the young man, if
he could hardly bear it.
Then he had phases, in which he searched his body on
diseases for hours. He found malicious knots and parasites
everywhere. His body seemed to be full of degenerated
pimples and strange maladies under the skin, which filled
his mind with sorrows.
At the end of the third month, he discovered some red
points on the white wall behind the toilet, when he huddled
on the ground, in order to protect himself against the
aggressive light. Frank was sure that it were traces of blood,
which had only provisionally been overcoated with white
color by the prison's staff.
Mr. Madness had no opinion about this, he just sat in the
corner and beheld Frank sadly. Often Kohlhaas
remembered, whether it was actually possible, to smash his
own head against the wall or the ceramic toilet bowl so
hardly, that this torture was over. What would happen?
Would the attendants save him, just to let him rot here until
doomsday? Another possibility was, to bite open his pulse
veins. Unfortunately, there were no bedlinen or other things
in this cell, which would have made a suicide possible.
But each time, when Frank had these thoughts, he finally
lost the courage to do it. Moreover, Mr. Madness always
looked worriedly at him in these situations, still sitting in his
corner. The light disappeared, it was 22,00 o'clock.
Starting from the fourth month of his captivity in the holo
cell, Frank Kohlhaas spent the most days with being just
41
motionless for hours, lying on his belly - under the plank
bed.
„May this damn light hit Mr. Madness! May he sit on the
plank bed! I will stay here. Here, that blaze will never find
me!", he said to himself with a lunatic smile.
Meanwhile, Frank thought about his family more rarely. And
what was the use anyhow? He was separated from the rest
of the world. And his father, his sister or the little Nico, could
not safe him from this horror.
And as the computer-controlled woman voice had already
explained in one of the reeducation hours: „The connections
to family and kinship are errors of nature, and all citizens of
the New World Order must get along without them! They
must be corrected by modern rules.
Interhuman relations harm the new order and obstruct the
economic development. Humans must learn to overcome
them. Having a family is not progressive, it restrains every
advancement. Forget your family, because your new
community is the community of the "One-World". You are
part of the whole, patient 111-F-47, and the whole is a part
of you!"
His only entertainment in this confusing time was to
examine the dust grains on the cell ground and Frank
wondered how many interesting forms and colors he could
find.
Sometimes it was really fascinaiting for him and so he
hardly listened, if the gentle voice of reeducation from the
loudspeaker explained to him, why the old order of the world
was just wrong, and the new order was good without
exception.
When the fifth month began, Frank suddenly became
talkative. He talked with Mr. Madness about a lot of things
and often his speeches lasted several hours. He invented
lectures, which were similar to the instructions of the
42
reeducation hours. Meanwhile, Frank planned to reeducate
Mr. Madness, a very important personality who had already
visited millions of people around the world.
Sometimes he preached the most important facts of each
current reeducation hour, he recited them, yelled them and
sometimes he tried to kick or beat Mr. Madness, if his pupil
didn't show enough interest. Although, he actually viewed
this gentleman in the corner, who sometimes also sat on his
plank bed, as his cell comrade and friend, he had
occasionally to give some pain to him, so that he learned.
But all his attemps to hit the imaginary man were
unsuccessful. After a while, Frank had kicked a little hole in
the white wall of the holo cell - but he had never hit Mr.
Madness.
When another month had passed, Frank had given it up to
convince Mr. Madness, to become also a good citizen of the
new world state. Now he tried to memorize every single
word of the reeducation hours and often he could
completely repeat the first two or three minutes by heart.
He cried, sang and howled the slogans from the
loudspeaker like a parrot. The necessity of the registration
of earth's population, the obligation of obeying, the
autoregulation of economics, the inevitability of a society
without sexes, nations and races, the necessary dissolution
of all cultures and religions, the requirement of inhumanity
as the basis of a new humanity.
His memory proved, although it was already owergrown by
a mushroom of insanity, as amazingly good. Frank saw
himself as a learner and with bloodshot eyes he cried, while
the loudspeaker talked: „Jawohl! This is the only truth!"
43
Meanwhile half a year had passed and patient 1 1 1-F-47 had
developed many possibilities of overcoming the hours and
days. He had even set up an own daily plan in his mind:
- Meal
- Learn as much words from the reeducation hour as I can
- Explain them to Mr. Madness (however, only if he listened)
- Investigate the fibers of the white wallpaper more exactly
- Finding new dust particles on the ground
- Lunch
- Arguing with Mr. Madness
Frank's meal rations came through a hatch in the wall three
times a day. The inventors of the holo cell had kindly made
certain that he had never to leave this terrible room, not
even for the intake of food.
Two months later, the monitoring cameras of „Big Eye",
which always kept every corner in this big prison complex in
sight, including room 47 in block F, saw a broken man, lying
like dead with face down on his plank bed.
Frank Kohlhaas, patient 111-F-47, seemed to have slipped
into an endless lethargy. Meanwhile, he wished nothing
more than the end of his shattered existence.
The cruel treatment had internally destroyed him, and even
the irrational behavior and the emotional outbreaks, which
had kept him alive for so long, were over.
Over eight months of holo cell had corroded his mind so
strongly, that his body seemed to refuse its service any
longer under such inhuman conditions.
The sharp, malicious light, which tormented him 14 hours a
day, hand in hand with the impenetrable darkness of the
artificial nights, had finally crushed Frank's will to live. The
holo cell 47 in block F, this hell chamber without windows,
44
with only a plank bed, a toilet and a little hatch in the white
wall, was ultimately the winner in this war against insanity.
Not even Frank's only friend, the mutely smiling Mr.
Madness, had had the guts to stay here any longer - he had
vanished.
On 21.03.2028, the light was switched off again at 22.00
o'clock in the evening by the computer-controlled system of
„BigEye".
The unconscious Frank Kohlhaas, who layed somewhere in
this cell, down on the ground, with his face in a puddle of
saliva, was swallowed by the darkness again. He did no
longer notice it.
The next day, the army of light particles started another
great attack on Frank's head. With loud crashing it surged
against his lids like a battering ram and awoke the halfdead
patient again. But Frank's will was already destroyed and
why should he be interested in another day of hundreds
more in this holo cell. He hoped, with the still smoldering
rest of his understanding, that he would meet death as soon
as possible. Kohlhaas was sure, that he would praise the
Grim Reaper like a redeemer, when he would finally come.
On 22.03.2028 at 9.45 o'clock in the morning, the electronic
woman voice suddenly resounded through the brightly
illuminated cell. Frank lay on the ground like a dying animal
and hardly heard this anymore. The small part of his brain,
which hadn't been razed to the ground and hadn't been
brunt by the horde of light particles yet, was briefly surprised
for a second about the fact that there was another
announcement after the wake-up call. Then Frank's mind
switched off again. Nevertheless, this was unusual.
„l_isten, patient 111-F-47! Your holo cell has been given to
another patient by the computer-controlled administration of
„Big Eye". You will be brought to the mental hospital "World
45
Peace" in Bonn, where your therapy will be continued for
the next four years and four months. Please be
unconcerned, your healing process will not be interrupted. A
holo cell of the same type is available for you in "World
Peace"!"
The young man hardly thought about the content of the
announcement. They should freight him, whereto they ever
wanted. He would hopefully soon be dead and free.
But up to the next morning, he still lived. Or better said: His
heart refused stopping, although his owner really wished it -
"from the heart". He hadn't moved at all, during the whole
day and the following night, because he took his desire to
die very seriously.
But the three execution officials, who opened his holo cell
punctually at 8.00 o'clock and entered the room, didn't
understand this. They were the first human beings since
over eight months, who visited Frank here - to bring him
from A to B, from one hell chamber to the next.
„The guy still breathes, but he is totally down!", said one of
the three guards.
„Hey! Stand up, man! Don't waste our time!", remarked
another and kicked Frank in the back.
„Hrrrr!", hummed the prisoner.
„Shit, the guy is really broken! Uwe, look at this!" The third
enforcement officer was astonished. "Bring us some
stimulants! We need some extra help in this case!"
One of the officials departed and came back with a cup of
water and two red pills after a quarter of an hour.
„Hey! Hey, 111-F-47! Open your mouth!. Yes, good boy!
And now, down with it!", he muttered.
Frank swallowed the pills and was able to walk after a few
minutes. He didn't understand, what happened to him and
46
hardly noticed, that he was on the way to leave the
abhorrent holo cell behind him.
„Go! Get a grip, man! Just walk!. Yes, this is good. One foot
before the other one! Forward!", said the guard and
supported Frank cynically.
Patient 111-F-47 had to be carried out of the prison building,
more or less, because he was too weak to walk. After a
while, the policemen simply pushed the young man forward.
„That the guy isn't fit yet, after two pills of steroin!",
remarked the officer with surprise. „Hurry up! The driver of
the transporter is waiting in hall B!"
The three man brought the picture of misery, which once
had been called Frank Kohlhaas, with the help of steroin, a
highly concentrated stimulant, and some beats against the
head to the transport van.
Frank crept over the three stages of a metal stair and sank
down on one of the seats. His hands were secured with
handcuffs behind his back and he stared at the ground.
„Watch out for this guy! He is finished! Maybe he gonna
vomit in our van! Ha, ha!", said a guard to his colleagues.
„We will watch out for him! Don't worry!", answered one of
the policemen with a grin.
Next to Frank were two other officers and a further prisoner
in the back area of the transport van. The cops were armed
with shotguns and tied Frank, who almost slipped on the
ground, and also the other inmate, with an additional seat
belt. Both men could only move their legs now.
The transport van started moving at 9.00 o'clock, and finally
left the prison complex. Even if Frank had had the
opportunity, to have a last look at the hated place of horror,
which had brought him to his knees, he probably wouldn't
have done it. First of all, the back area of the transporter,
secured by lattices, had no windows anyway, and secondly,
47
patient 111-F-47 didn't care, where he would find death. If it
was in "Big Eye" or in "World Peace" or somewhere else,
wasn't important anymore. His only concern was, if it would
go fast.
After they had driven one quarter of an hour and nobody
had spoken a word, the prisoner, sitting diagonally opposite
to Frank, hissed: „Hey! Pssst! I am Alf! Who are you?"
Frank ignored the question of the man. It didn't interest him,
who still sat there. He stared at the metallic ground of the
van's back area with blank look.
Suddenly one of the policemen said: „Baumer, you crank!
Stop that damn whispering! Contact among prisoners is
against the regulations!"
J thought, we are patients?", answered the prisoner
sardonically, giving Frank a nod.
Now the policeman reacted. He struck Baumer in the face
and grumbled: „Oh, I'm sorry, asshole! I didn't want to be
impolite."
The prisoner swallowed some blood and saliva and looked
at Frank with psychotic eyes. However, the young man was
still mute and didn't mention the small sign of defiantness,
the other prisoner had shown.
"Alf Baumer!", he thought briefly, then his mind sank again
into a blurred fog.
Alfred Baumer, patient 578-H-21, was a tall man. He had a
dark brown beard, broad shoulders and a tattoo at the neck.
The few hasty looks, Frank had given to him, showed the
picture of an aggressive man, who was about thirty years
old. Above all, Alf's bright blue eyes and the large scar in
the right half of his face were noticeable.
How long the trip had already lasted, Kohlhaas could hardly
say anymore. Perhaps a further quarter of an hour. Alfred
seemed to have the things more clearly in sight. He
hatefully stared at the police officers with his blue eyes,
48
baring his teeth and looking at Frank from time to time. This
man seemed to wait for something...
49
The Change
In a small forest, close to the highway BAS-74, four men
lurked in the rainy undergrowth and peered eastwards. They
wore camouflage clothes and their faces were hidden under
black balaclavas. Three of them fumbled nervously with
their assault rifles, while another man had a field glass and
gave instructions to his comrades.
„How much longer, Sven?", asked one of the men.
„l will already tell you. They must soon be here! And
remeber: Jens only shoots at the tires, the rest only shoots
at the drivers!", answered Sven. „And don't perforate the
back area of the van by mistake, got it?", he added.
„The whole thing is damn risky. I hope, we will come home
alive!", said one of the men quietly.
„lt is too late for such thoughts now. We will just do it! Check
your weapons!", hissed the young man with the field glass.
The minutes passed and the four men crawled further
forward, in the direction of the road. Sven suddenly stopped,
waving the other men nearer.
„Look! Over there! It's the van! Go!", he called.
All jumped under cover and grabbed their assault rifles. The
transport van, the four men had waited for several hours,
came closer with medium speed.
Another long and tense minute passed, full of doubts and
uncertainty in the hearts of the four men. Then it began. And
while the three policemen, who sat in the driver's cab of the
transport van, were still grouching about the fact that they
had to drive from Bernau to Bonn, just because of the
transfer of only two prisoners, they suddenly saw four
shadows, coming closer to their vehicle from the forest.
50
„Now! Fire!", roared the scout with the field glass and all four
men raised their weapons in the air, rushed forward and
sent a deafening hail of bullets to the transporter.
„Tac! Tac! Tac! Tad", it echoed through the small forest and
the four men continued to shoot at the windshield and the
tires of the vehicle.
With a loud clank, the windows of the transport van bursted
and it turned out in hurling. Then the damaged vehicle
stopped.
„Kill these rats!", screamed a masked men and fired at the
driver's cab. One of the two officials in the forepart of the
van got a headshot and an enormous bloodstain spreaded
over the headrest of his seat. Another policeman was also
hit in the arm and tried to find cover behind the engine
mount, searching for his weapon in panic. The third tore up
the passenger door and fired wildly at the masked attackers.
A salvo of two assault rifles finally sent him to the ground.
Meanwhile, the four men had come so close to the vehicle,
that they could also fire from the side at the policeman, who
huddled between the seats. One of the men raised his rifle
and executed the official with an angry burst.
..Destroy the detector!", screamed one of the masked men
and the guy, who was called Sven by the others, jumped
forward and shot with his pistol at a radio-like thing in the
front part of the transporter.
„Bolt cutters! Hurry! Hurry!", he yelled and the four men ran
to the backdoor of the vehicle.
The sound of gunfire, coming from outside, had not been
unnoticed by the two police officers, who guarded Frank
Kohlhaas and Alf Baumer. Even patient 111-F-47 seemed
to have briefly lost his mental confusion and looked around
with surprise.
51
„What the hell goes on there?", said one of the officers,
loading his shotgun. Then he opened the door of the van's
back area. The other policeman followed him.
„Help me out!", roared Baumer at the top of his lungs and
gave one of the officers a kick in the abdomen.
In the same moment, the door was broken up and light fell
into the darkness of the back area from the outside. One of
the guards fired out of the van and hit a masked attacker,
who tried to enter the vehicle. The head of the man
exploded like an overripe melon and Frank stared at a cloud
of blood and bone fragments, while he staggered to the
ground.
The remaining three attackers answered with fire bursts of
their assault rifles and killed the policeman, who stumbled
on the street like a bleeding sieve.
Meanwhile, Frank began to cry like a tormented child. He
shrieked in pain and wildly pulled, in an accumulation of
unrestrained rage, on his additional seat belt, tearing it out
of its holder. Then Frank hit the second guard's face with a
high kick and the man tumbled down.
Now the inmate squealed like a pig and started then to
laugh loudly. Finally, the laughter became an insane
screaming. Suddenly Frank's eyes were clear and gory, and
before the three other masked men had come into the back
area of the vehicle, he had sent the last policeman to the
ground with a headbutt. His hands were still bound on his
back, but he stomped on the guard's face and the man
broke down again.
Frank swooped down on him and bit in his cheek like a wild
animal. A shot from a handgun followed, which had almost
hit the crazy Kohlhaas - then also the last policeman was
dead. Frank howled and still kicked several times in the
head of the dying man. The other men finally pulled him out
of the van. His white dress was blood-smeared and Frank
52
reminded the masked men, who confusedly stood in front of
him, rather of a mad butcher than a prisoner. Now he
seemed to fall in a state of blankness again and sat down,
totally exhausted, on the metallic stairs of the transport
vehicle.
„Well, what's up now, man? Come on! Or do you want to
wait for the next policemen?", asked Alf.
Baumer trailed him and followed the three other men into
the forest. Now it was important to hurry, because the
operation had lasted far too long and, moreover, such a
slaughter hadn't been planned.
Furthermore, they had lost a man and it was just luck that
no other car had come along the country road, otherwise
the bloodshed would have been much worse. The three
disguised men and Alfred, who was trying to propel Frank,
fastly ran through the thicket.
„Move!", roared one of the three masked men. „Dash it!
What are you waiting for?"
Alf Baumer gripped Kohlhaas at the collar and ordered him
to run faster, but the confused young man still walked slowly
behind him.
„lf your buddy does not hurry a little more, I will shoot him,
Alf! I mean it!", yelled one of the three men, who was
running ahead.
Alfred stood before Frank, vibrated him and growled: „This
is your only chance, you idiot! If they get you now, you are a
dead man! Come with me, trust me!"
Frank Kohlhaas hadn't been able to trust anyone in the last
months and the mental bleeding, the holo cell had
demanded of him, had been enormous. But the word „trust"
sounded like a gentle balsam in his ears, that had only
absorbed poison for such a long time. The fresh cold forest
air, he was inhaling now, slowly showed him that this
opportunity to attain freedom, should not be thrown away.
53
Suddenly he ran, ran and ran, catched up with the others
and disappeared with them in the thicket of the forest. The
five men reached a large field after some minutes, where
were an old looking and small airplane was waiting for them.
They jumped into the flier and shut a rusty door behind
themselves. All were totally exhausted and wheezed loudly,
while the plane took off.
„Who is that guy, Alf?", asked one of the three liberators
with an unfriendly undertone and pulled the balaclava from
his face. The young man was blond, with short hair and a
boyish face.
J have no notion! He has been transported together with
me!", answered Alf.
„Tell us your name, man!", demanded the blond man and
regarded Frank with a searching look.
„Frank Kohlhaas, citizen 1-564398B-278843....", hummed
Frank and closed his eyes.
„Your citizen number isn't interesting for us, buddy! We
don't need to have this shit!", hissed the young man, who
was called Sven by the others. „We are free men and no
slaves with citizen numbers."
„Well, I think this man has been in a holo cell. That's the
reason, why he is so abstracted!" Alf tried to explain.
„Such a cell... ", stammered Frank.
„A holo cell? That thing, which is currently tested by the
GSA in all prisons worldwide? Really?", asked one of the
three rebels with surprise.
„No wonder, that you seem to be on drugs. These things are
the worst instruments of brainwashing of our time. How long
have you been in this hellish cell?"
J think, since August 2027. ..leave me alone...", hummed
Frank quietly and hid his face behind his knees again, as he
had done it so often in the last months. Then he turned to
54
the side and dozed in his usual half-sleep, although the
outdated airplane made a big noise and vibrated during the
whole flight.
In the year 2028, it was not easy to organize an operation
like this, because of the almost perfect air surveillance in
"Central Europe". However, this flier was inconspicuous,
because it had been registered as an outdated, but
nevertheless permitted transportation in the Baltic. If the
plane was scanned by the computer of a satellite or an air
surveillance station, it was just shown as the transport
aircraft of a man called Matas Litov, a Lithuanian farmer, in
the data bases of the European monitoring servers.
The chip card of the plane had been changed by a highly
gifted computer hacker, who had made it perfectly
inconspicuous. But even the arts of this man had their limits,
and one day the constantly improved monitoring could
probably also recognize his tricks.
Anyhow, the authorities hadn't been prepared for such a
brutal attack on a prisoner transporter. And it was also just
luck, that the operation had finally been successful.
Frank Kohlhaas, whose citizen number was no longer of
importance, flew with the others over Poland towards the
the former Baltic states, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania.
Meanwhile, the three abolished national states had been
summarized with other former countries of Eastern Europe
to a single administrative sector.
In Eastern Europe, the complete monitoring of the
population and the entire public life was so far not as perfect
as in North America or in Western Europe. Many states of
Eastern Europe had refused to blindly obey the instructions
of the World Government for a long time. This new power
had been established in the western regions at first and so it
55
just took longer, until a complex monitoring network of
western standards could be installed there.
But the World Government also planned the same extensive
system of total control for Eastern Europe. And it did
everything, to build it up, as soon as possible.
In the year 2028, the British islands were the most sharply
supervised area of the world. Here, the doom had built up
its first strong bastion in the past, from where it had come
over the rest of mankind.
In England, the World Government already tested and
introduced the next steps for global domination. For
example, the complete prohibition of sexual contacts
between men and women, the total destruction of any family
structures, and even a breeding of the population after the
defaults of economic necessity.
Who wanted to fight against this tyranny, was really a
dreamer and had to have a good relationship to his maker,
because the propability to meet him soon, was very high.
Like Alf and his fellows, who apparently thought, that they
could change something. Anyhow, Frank Kohlhaas was with
them now - and enjoyed it. He was just happy to breathe
fresh air and had the feeling, that he had been born again.
How often he had begged the Grim Reaper to come, to end
the torture of the holo cell. But the Gevatter apparently did
not want him yet. Now, everything had changed...
56
Outsourced
..Outsourcing" was one of the infamous terms of
globalization, which had broken loose with all its power at
the beginning of the 21th century. Now Frank had also been
outsourced somehow. He had left the administrative sector
..Central Europe" and was "stored" elsewhere.
The old airplane flew over the area of the former state of
Poland, over the city of Kaliningrad, the old Konigsberg,
which had meanwhile fallen into ruins, and finally was on its
way to the Southern Baltic, in order to land in a rural area
north of Vilkija, in a little village called Ivas.
The five men were exhausted and hardly noticed the
landscape below them beyond the windows. Frank was still
disturbed and could only occasionally understand, what was
happening to him. He suffered under strange muscle
cramps and was, despite his constant fatigue, not in the
condition to sleep for longer than half an hour.
His eyes were always half open and he felt, as if someone
had put a bag full of cement on his head. After the airplane
had landed, Alf helped him to step out and led him to an
rundown house.
„Can I sleep somewhere, or just lie down?", asked him
Frank.
„Yes, don't worry! I have found a place to sleep for you!",
answered Alf and pulled the young man into the building.
„We have to discuss something, Frank. You can rest here -
see you later!", said Alf and showed Kohlhaas an old bed in
an untidy and halfdark room with a dark red, peeling
wallpaper. Frank turned to the side and tried to sleep. He
hardly made it, but nevertheless, the young man had the
feeling that he already felt better. After he had been in a
57
condition of dozing for some hours, he finally nodded off. He
did not dream about anything. It was just black in his head.
As black as it had always been in the holo cell, in the eight
artificial hours of the night.
Next day...
„We have escaped the next cops by the skin of our teeth, as
I think. I feel sorry for Rolf Weinert, a good man, only 29
years old", said Alf to the others. „Thank you, that you have
delivered me from this hell. I know, I always seem to be
hard and tough, but I was also close to the end in "Big Eye".
That other guy is simply wasted, but it would probably be
the same with us all, if they would cage us in a holo cell for
eight months. This Frank is a poor creature!"
„We haven't planned the liberation of a second man, Alf!",
remarked a young man with red hair.
„So what? What should have been done? Would it have
been right, to let this Frank just die? He would not have
survived one more week in "World Peace", got it?", returned
Baumer.
„Well, actually the fate of an unknown man is not interesting
for us. The only important thing is our own thing, okay?",
said another man sternly.
J will care for him. What will he do? Call the fucking
Lithuanian police?", grumbled Alf with an angry face.
„This is a real problem, Baumer! If the guy becomes a
safety risk, we must kill him. You know about our rules!",
said a blond man.
„l know that, little boy! You don't need to tell me our
principles! I have already joined our fight in a time, when
you were nothing but a panty wetting baby!", hissed Alf in
the direction of the young fighter.
58
„Peace, people! You were successful and you are still alive!
Meanwhile, only the big armored busses are used for
prisoner transports since two years. This has been an
exception! The fact that they have used an outdated
transport van this time, was just because only two prisoners
had to be transferred to Bonn. And a bus would have
exceeded the budget for such an unimportant trip. These
new tank-like monsters are not so easy to stop. You need a
rocket launcher or something like that, to bring them to a
halt!", said a tall man in the background. He was perhaps
about fifty years old.
The man had come later to the small group. His name was
Thorsten Wilden, a former businessman, who had fled to
Lithuania some years ago. Slender, gray haired, with an
oblong face and a remarkable pointed chin. The man
seemed to be very rational and impersonal, and gave the
impression that he had already gone through a lot of
hardship in his life.
..However, the boy is right. Tomorrow I want to become
acquainted with this Frank. I hope, he won't make us
problems here, otherwise we have no other choice than
silencing him", said the tall man, who apparently had a
leading position is this group of men.
„He won't make problems! Nevertheless, the boy is totally
exhausted!", meant Alf and rolled his eyes.
„Where is he now?", asked Wilden.
„ln my house. Thus, I mean, in John's house. He is
sleeping!", muttered Alf. "I will keep him in sight and I will
also bain for him. Is this enough now?"
"Okay, men!", shouted the leader of the group. "In the next
days, the good old routine in our village will return for you
all. We have to resow and to do a lot of other work. Alf can
help this new man to recover and I want you, to leave him
alone with this task. By the way, HOK told me, that the
59
release operation has been on TV in "Central Europe",
yesterday evening. We should watch this report, HOK has
recorded everything!"
"Yes, have fun with it, I go home now and want to be alone
for the rest of the day", groaned Alf and left the room.
Dusk was falling and Frank lay between some unwashed
pillows. A great burden slowly fell from his soul and his
mind, which had swollen like a red, throbbing growth. Now
the pain began to fade away. In the next room he heard a
rustle, shortly thereafter loud smacking and the sound of
cutlery on a plate. Some minutes later, his sponsor entered
the room. „You must eat something! Here!" Alf presented
him some slices of bread and two fried sausages.
„Thanks!", said Frank and ate slowly and leisurely. „You
don't have to worry. Nobody can find us here. We are in
Lithuania. Far away from Germany and this „One-World"
cage called "Central Europe". Eat, and then I let you sleep
again", whispered Alf, trying to calm him down.
It was a weird situation. If Frank would have seen Alfred
Baumer in former times on the street, then he would
probably have gone to the other side. This tall man really
looked boldly and violent, what he surely was, if it had to be.
He gave the impression of the typical criminal, who had
received a life sentence.
Brawny, with a dark, pointed beard, a tattoo at the neck and
a keen look. Frank Kohlhaas looked, however, rather
harmless and even still juvenile at first sight, although his
body was also sturdy. He had a dear face with a button
nose and his good-natured smile was characteristic. Mostly
Frank was kind and peaceful.
But in the production complex 42-B, he had lost control over
his feelings and this time had been one time to often. His life
had almost been destroyed by the consequences of this
60
incident. Compared with Alf, whose face always showed
latent rage and frustration, Frank's countenance could
change, in a case of extreme excitement, from good-
natured to psychopathic. If Frank was really furious, his
green eyes started to gaze into space and he threateningly
perked his dark, broad eyebrows up. Then he looked like a
fanatical preacher, somehow mentally absent, with an
indestructible will and ready for everything.
Only a few people had ever faced this sight so far, but
Frank's angry outbreaks had increased in the last years -
slowly and constantly.
Now, however, the former citizen 1-564398B-278843 was
just glad to be with Alfred Baumer. Although it was a man,
he didn't know at all, but who seemed to be a trustable
person.
Despite Alfs aggressive appearance, a honest core
seemed to be under his hard shell. A feeling of hope
sprouted in the heart of the young man. He clung to Alfs
broad shoulder and murmured quietly: „Thanks, man!
Thanks that you have liberated me! You have saved my
life!"
Some minutes he mutely cried in Alfs arms. Then Baumer
pushed him back gently. „lf s okay. You are welcome here!",
said Alf, who was simply overwhelmed with so much
sentimentality.
"The others have freed me from this damn prison too. "Big
Eye" would have been my doom as well. They put me two
years in incommunicado detention, luckily, I had not the
pleasure to get a so called "therapy" in a holo cell.
I would have gone to hell there, no doubt. Apart from this,
they don't let you just go, when your time in jail is over. One
or two are also liquidated, if their behavior analysis is too
negative. These damn holo cells have once been an
experiment for perfect conditioning and brainwashing. The
61
former "Mind Control", which the NSA, when it still had this
name, had developed together with many other methods",
declared Alf. "These holo cells will be used against all
prisoners with politically incorrect tendencies one day. You
have been one of the first human guinea pigs. It has just
been interesting from them to analyze, how long you would
suffer this torture. Of course, they knew that you would not
survive this procedure!"
"Fuck these rats!", said Frank and tried to banish the
thoughts about the terrible time in the holo cell.
"The entire political and historical background can't be
explained in two sentences, above all, if you have never
thought about it before", ended Alf his small speech.
Frank signaled by turning around and pulling the cover over
his head, that he wanted to sleep now. It was 21.16 o'clock
and the young man was still exhausted and weak. He dozed
for a while and examined the shabby, dark red wallpaper,
then he fell in a deep and restful sleep.
On the next morning, Frank Kohlhaas felt unusually
recovered. He had slept over 13 hours and for the first time
since months, he had not awoken with a start in the middle
of the night. He yawned and noticed that Alf had put some
fresh dresses beside his bed.
Kohlhaas still wore his white prison clothes, which smelled
of sweat and were still covered with dark red traces of the
policeman's blood.
Frank plodded out of his room and noticed that it was very
quiet in the house. Nobody sat in the kitchen, so that he
could look around without ruffle or excitement. Everything
looked very poor. Dirty dishes were piled up in a rusty sink
and in the corner of the room, an ugly mold spot was on the
wall. Indeed, Alf lived in a hovel - if it was his house at all.
However, his housemate seemed not to be here. The young
62
man walked over some old wood stairs to the upper floor,
where he found only a few empty and poorly furnished
rooms. One of them was full of cardboards and wooden
boxes, almost up to the ceiling. But Alf Baumer was
nowhere to be found.
„Where am I here at all?", thought Frank and scratched his
head.
Since the escape from "Big Eye", he hadn't been in the
condition to think about these strange men, who had
rescued him. Who were they?
He opened the entrance door of the house and stepped
outside, left it open a bit, so that he could come back again,
because he had no key for the ramshackle door. When he
looked down the street, in which Alf s house was, Kohlhaas
saw a lot of further hovels on each side. Some of the
houses seemed to be empty, others had weathered fronts
and in the gardens, a sprouting, uncontrolled growth was
spreading everywhere.
Some of the windows had been nailed up with rotted
boards, probably long ago. One house had even a
collapsed roof. In addition, here and there, one of the
houses had been renovated again and Frank heard the
voices of children out of a side street. He could even
understand their language, it was German.
Nevertheless, the sun shone on all the roofs, whether
desolate or repaired again. But many people didn't seem to
live in this rundown village. Finally, Frank saw two men, who
unloaded crates out of a delivery van. A tractor rattled
somewhere in the distance and a mature woman leaned out
of the window in the house opposite to him.
Frank walked down the road and came to a square, which
probably must had been the center of the small village in
former times. Weed sprouted out of the cracks between the
63
cobblestones, which covered the whole place. Here, in the
center of this ghost town, Frank could see three old houses
with big shopwindows. Two of the large windows were
broken and the buildings looked dilapidated. The
shopwindow of the other house was completely plastered
with yellow cellotape. In the center of the square was a
memorial stone, completely overgrown with all sorts of
grass and bushes. It was surrounded by a wooden fence.
Kohlhaas could hardly recognize the memorial stone and,
apart from this, the inscription on it was in Cyrillic, so that
the man from "Central Europe" could not read anything.
On the stone, a soldier with a helmet and a rifle was shown.
Nevertheless, Frank had already seen this helmet from the
old time in a history book. Furthermore, he was able to
decipher the years, which had been engraved on the
memorial stone: 1941 and 1989.
The young man continued his walk and regarded a
moldered church, which stood next to the village square. Its
roof was damaged and had enormous holes, bricks covered
with moss and lichens lay in front of the rotten, wooden front
door, that was adorned with a hardly recognizable picture.
On the tower was a rusted cross of iron. The winged thing
on the door of the church, which was completely overgrown
with lichens, was probably an angel, that had symbolically
welcomed the people at the entrance of the church in the
old times.
But in a world, that had been left alone by God, perhaps
even this angel had lost his "job" one day. Frank pushed the
large wood door to the side and climbed over a pile of
planks, in order to reach the inner part of the old church.
Dried out leaves, dirt and dust were everywhere on the
ground in front of him. The benches of the old building were
dirty and everything made the impression of being lost. The
altar was also damaged and had small tears and cracks,
64
probably because of the cold of a hard winter. The visitor
finally turned his head towards the ceiling and examined the
wooden frescos on the walls, which also showed traces of
decomposition. Frank beheld some angels, that were
fighting against strange looking demons or something like
that - creatures from hell. Other frescos depicted mother
Maria and Jesus Christ.
"The superstar of Christianity...", said Frank to himself and
smiled cynically. This church appeared old and somehow
also sublime. The chapel had possibly been built in the late
Middle Age, but Frank did not know it for sure. He knew
nothing about history.
But the young man didn't care about the age of this church.
Only one thing was true - the building touched his inner
self, although, he never had believed in anything.
Maybe just because it was beautiful and old. In his previous
world, he had never beholden an old building. Gray
plattenbauten, dirty streets, underpasses and factories were
nothing new to him, but he had never looked at old
churches or castles. This house of God was just like a
memorial of a forgotten time. A time far beyond this dark
age.
The church had probably been the heart of this village for
many decades or even centuries. At this place, the people
had prayed to a higher power, begging it to take care of
them. But in the end, it all had come differently. In the year
2028, mankind was alone, and Frank had never noticed a
higher power, that wanted to protect its children.
„Father, if you exist at all, why have you left us?", said Frank
quietly to himself and looked at the fragile ceiling of the old
building again. Then he went back to the square.
He walked through the hopeless village for several hours.
Again and again, up to the other end and back. Around the
65
locality were fields and forests, and only a muddy street
seemed to connect it with the rest of the world. The young
man sat down on a bank and looked at the sky, when three
little children, probably those, who he had already heard
before in the side street, ran across the road in front of him.
They briefly examined him and smiled, but Frank didn't take
heed of them.
Somewhere a dog barked in a house, which looked
inhabited. He stood up and passed some vacant, rundown
houses. This village, the renegate citizen had already
forgotten its name, was a bleak place, as Kohlhaas thought.
Nevertheless, he prefered this village to the rotten, former
FRG capital Berlin, his old home. He wouldn't miss the
criminality, the cultural and racial tensions and all the decay,
that was typical for the shabby metropolis, where he had
grown up. Now he was here. In this strange hicktown...
„lvas!" Now Frank remembered the name of the village. Alf
had said it several times. Ivas, somewhere in Lithuania. But
what was this for a strange village? Frank Kohlhaas was
puzzled.
Meanwhile, he was tired and his shoes were completely
covered with mud. He finally decided to return to Alfs
house, because the front door was still open, although it
was improbable, that the other villagers would steal from
them. It was not like in Berlin. Soon the day came to an end.
Frank didn't know yet, where he was here.
„ln three days we must leave this house, Frank! I must leave
it too, because it is doesn't belong to me", explained
Baumer after a meager lunch.
„As I already guessed. Whose house is it?"
„lt belongs to another villager, who is currently in Minsk to
buy some things", answered Baumer. „Wilden has said, that
we can live here for a few days. If the owner comes back
66
home, we can surely move to one of the other vacant
houses in the village."
„What is that for a odd village?", murmured Frank.
„Wilden will explain it to you tomorrow. Actually, he already
wanted to talk to you today, but you were not here. You took
a little walk, isn't it?", said Alf, whose tiredness meanwhile
shone in his eyes.
„Tell me, where are you from, Baumer?", asked Frank
suddenly.
„Well, I was born in Dortmund and have lived in some other
cities in the Ruhrgebiet, also in Frankfurt am Main, for four
years", said Alf and took another tea.
„Why have they brought you to „Big Eye"?, Frank became
curious.
„My God, you ask a lot. But well, you will have to remain
here in Ivas, this is hopefully obvious to you, and therefore, I
will tell you a few things about me."
Alfred Baumer decided to make another camomile tea and
went to the boiler. Then he fetched a cigarette and began
with a small lecture about his life.
Frank actually didn't want to know all the details, but Alf
seemed to look forward to a little speech. Now he was
awake again.
J had troubles with the authorities since my 16th year of life.
I was active in various political groups, which you don't
know, as I think. Anyhow, they are all forbidden since many
years.
I have already been in jail for one year in 2013 - when the
political system of the FRG still existed. They have punished
me for so called "opinion crimes" - because I have designed
a few Internet sites, which were uncomfortable for the state.
At that time, I was just 19 years old. My parents have lost
their jobs during the great world economic crisis in 2012/13,
and have jettisoned me after my term of imprisonment. I
67
have never returned back home again. Afterwards, I have
lived with some friends, in various housing groups, and of
course also alone. After six years, in 2020, I have joined the
Red Moon groups, always trying to live inconspicuously.
Nevertheless, it has gone wrong."
„The Red Moon groups?" Frank looked surprised. „They
were terrorists, isn't it? These guys have burned a hospital
in Berlin, right?"
..That's nonsense! Lies!", grumbled Alf and gave Frank an
annoyed glance.
„l'm sorry. They have said it on television at that time",
remarked Frank and tried to calm down his comrade.
„On television. ..on television...! Nevertheless, fucking
television is even the biggest lie of that world system, man!
Didn't you understand this yet?", grunted Baumer and felt
accused wrongly.
„No offense meant!", apologized Kohlhaas.
„No, it is a lie, Frank. The Red Moon groups publicy
protested against the World Government and united
thousands of young people in their fight. Opponents of
globalization, free philosophers, patriots and others. After
that damn hospital hoax, which the media exaggerated with
all their might, we were criminalized. It had been the work of
the GSA, the international secret service, there is no doubt
for me. It has not been activists of our group! However, the
following crusade of the international media, broke the neck
of the Red Moon organization. Tell me, why should a group
of freedom fighters burn innocent people in a hospital?",
asked Alf with visible rage.
„Do you see the tattoo on my neck? This is the „Red Moon",
the blood-red moon of the fight for liberty - our old symbol!"
„l don't know enough about all this and I don't care...", said
Frank. „l only know, that I hate that goddam World
68
Government, that terrible system - from the bottom of my
heart!"
„Then Ivas is the right place for you, my friend!", said Alf and
stared at his tea cup, clenching his fist.
„And then?", asked Frank.
„Then? Then I was still active. After the Red Moon groups
were forbidden worldwide, we continued our struggle in the
underground. Finally, I was arrested during an illegal,
spontaneous demonstration, which I have organized with
some of my comrades. I had to go to jail again.
My time in „Big Eye" began and I can be glad, that they did
not find other loading material during the house search at
that time, otherwise I would have been liquidated."
„What material?", questioned Kohlhaas. Alfred Baumer
looked at him and shook his head.
„You ask very much for a man, who still was flat on his face
a few hours ago. Never mind! That would have made me
more than just some problems, believe me. So I was
sentenced to nine years of detention, only because of the
spontaneous demonstration. I would have never endured
that. In my time as an activist of the Red Moon groups, I
became also aquainted with some of these weird guys from
here. They have already told me years ago, that I should
escape from the sector "Central Europe", to come with them
to Lithuania.
Nevertheless, I was not willing to give up the fight in my
homeland, because it was my aim, to liberate it from this
global insanity. Today I say to myself, that it was just stupid
to wait for so long. It would have been wiser to leave
"Central Europe" in time, because the great enemy is much
too strong in the West."
„Well, now you are here. And me too. The best thing that
could happen to us, Baumer. This fucked up sector "Central
69
Europe" shall go to hell, it shall rot forever!", hissed Frank
and wiped off some tea drops from his lip.
"We must not let our compatriots go to the hell! It is our
country! No, we are not on vacation here! We just relocate
our fight. We will only surrender, when the maggots corrode
us in our graves!", answered Alfred and put his foot down.
Frank was astonished and observed his partner, who
snatched the teapot with a loud curse. "We are not on
vacation here!"
Frank was surprised about this statement, his housemate
had shouted out with so much passion. What did Alf mean
by that?
Again, Frank Kohlhaas slept well and firmly. He had
amazingly regenerated himself, in this short time.
Sometimes he even felt euphoric.
„l am not even afraid of the devil!", he thought then and
smiled proudly.
But it was not that simple. The aftereffects of the holo cell
were far more malicious, than he could imagine and they
were still there, deep in the dark corners of his brain. They
just lay in wait and planned to erupt, in order to strangle
Frank's peace of mind, while he was sleeping.
Like the mourning, after the death of a beloved person,
usually comes in waves, it was the same with the mental
horror, the holo cell had unleashed in Frank's mind.
The dread had only entrenched itself and waited now, in its
fortified position, for the signal to attack Frank again. No, the
fright wasn't gone. But in these first days of his new
freedom, Kohlhaas had a peaceful time - so far.
The rain pattered on the corrugated iron roof of the small
shed in front of Frank's window, and the untiring noise
made him wake up. It was already after ten o'clock on this
70
wet morning and the young man rolled from one end of the
bed to the other. Suddenly Alf entered the room and said:
„Good morning, Frank! Please get up! Wilden is here and he
would like to talk to you!"
The village boss already sat in the kitchen and sipped his
coffee. He welcomed Frank friendly and told him to follow
him to his house after the breakfest. Somehow, the situation
was unpleasant for Frank, but he tried to avoid problems
and obeyed.
„We must talk about some things, Kohlhaas!", remarked the
leader of the village community, who wore a long gray coat
and a hat with a narrow brim.
The rain had softened the muddy roads of the village, and
Frank waded behind the somehow authoritarian and
impressive Mr. Wilden through the dirt. After a short foot
march, they finally came to an amazingly well renovated
house, which was even surrounded by a beautiful garden.
„We go upstairs!", said Wilden.
The former entrepreneur sat down behind an adorned desk
of dark wood and remained silent for some minutes. Frank
took a seat on a soft armchair of black imitation leather,
which smelled cleaned. He looked around. The room
seemed to be an office and was in a perfect condition.
Everywhere he could see pictures on the wall with the light
brown wallpaper: battle paintings, framed photos of some
great men from the old times and a lot of other things.
„Well, Frank Kohlhaas. Do you like our village?", asked the
gray-haired man, smiled and tried to take the uncertainty
from his young guest.
„Nice!", was Frank's short answer.
„Nice!", repeated Wilden soberly. J want to make it short,
and I will not talk around the bush", said the village boss
and looked out the window.
71
Then he continued: „This village is called Ivas. It is in the
area of the former state of Lithuania, in the southwest part
of this actually beautiful country. It is small and insignificant.
A small village, that has been abandoned by its former
inhabitants under the pressure of the worldwide economic
collapse some years ago. A ghost town, as you may know
them from North America.
"Aha...", said Frank.
„This village is so small and so unimportant, that even the
sharpest eye must look twice to see it", explained Wilden.
..Therefore, I am safe here!", joked Frank.
..Well, security is relative. Particularly in our time, Mr.
Kohlhaas. Above all, nowadays!", said the host quietly.
„But here...", remarked Frank.
„As I already said, Frank Kohlhaas", interrupted him Wilden.
..Today it is a benediction to be safe. You are here in Ivas,
an insignificant village, in an also not excessively important
country in Eastern Europe. This village is so unimportant
that even the big eye, the eye, which can see the whole
world and always wants to see more, did not notice it yet.
Do you know, what this village really is, Frank?"
„No! Just tell it to me!", Frank reacted nervously.
..Then I want to explain it to you exactly. Where you are
here, and with whom you are here!", answered the man with
a serious look. ..This is no usual village in the contemplative
Lithuania and we are no holiday community. We are rebels,
who fight against the World Government. Ivas is one of our
bases. Some of our men live here, with their families or
alone.
A few of these ramshackle houses, I had acquired for
relatively small sums from the former Lithuanian state in the
period of its dissolution. Finally, my fellows and me settled
in this abandoned village. Some more men will still come
72
and we will establish our position here. But there is one
important rule: Everybody has to be quiet!"
Frank wondered. ..Rebels against the World Government?",
he thought and beheld Wilden with surprise.
„l think, I know, what you mean!", he said then.
„You came to Ivas and you will stay here. We can't let you
go, because you already know too much and this is a safety
risk. Even if you tell just one single word about us and this
village, we must kill you! I say it to you not as your foe. This
is the situation, in which you are, Frank Kohlhaas!", spoke
Wilden and nodded. „And believe me, we will not hesitate,
to wack you immediately, if you endanger our group!", he
said with a cold voice.
„l understand!", Frank was more than confused.
"But I don't want to threaten or frighten you, my friend. You
had suffered enough and I wish you a good recovering here.
Furthermore, I don't want to force you to join us. Just trust
Alf, he is a man with a pure heart and could even become a
good friend to you. Moreover, he bailes for you and told me,
that you are a nice person", said Wilden and smiled again.
„l want to rest, as a start, and then I will take a look at your
organization. And believe me, I'm really grateful, because
you saved my life. Don't worry, I would never betray you. I
give you my oath", said Kohlhaas to the older gentleman
and sounded resolute.
..Trust me, Frank. You are here now, and you will find your
peace of mind among us. And on the other hand, there is no
turning back for you anymore. If they would ever catch you,
you would be liquidated immediately.
You are registered as a terrorist and a murderer, in all
worldwide databases of any administration and authority,
and a so called "normal life" is an illusion now. Whereby,
however, it becomes clear at a closer look that we are the
only ones who live a "normal life", because we are free men
73
and no slaves of this global system, born of terror and
oppression", explained Wilden with a more gently becoming
voice.
„l wanted to thank you again...", whispered Frank quietly.
"No problem, my young friend! I am glad about the fact, that
Alf and the others didn't let you die", answered Wilden with
a paternal countenance.
The talk with the founder of this base took a long time and
Wilden became more and more kindlier. It seemed, that the
older gentleman, who had appeared so cold at first sight,
would have a fancy for Frank.
Since 2013, when the great crisis had shaken the entire
globe and had driven millions of people into poverty,
destroying innumerable existences and finally even leading
to famines, this village had been left by its former
inhabitants.
The collapse of the economy in Lithuania had caused a
mass exodus of young people, who had been driven by the
illusion, to be able to find jobs in the countries of Western
Europe.
Villages like Ivas, which had lived on retail trade and
agriculture to a large extent, had just collapsed, and their
inhabitants had moved into the larger cities of the country or
to the West.
A ghost town had finally remained and meanwhile the rural
areas of Eastern Europe were full of abandoned villages.
Thorsten Wilden, the former entrepreneur from Westphalia,
had decided in 2018, when the shadows of a global
dictatorship had come over the former FRG, to leave his
homeland and to acquire houses in Ivas with his last money.
Wilden had already been registered as a political dissident
in the databases of the secret service, even at the time of
the FRG. He had too often been noticeable. When the
74
entrepreneur had stood for a political incorrect party against
the FRG system in 2012, the media had tried to
economically ruin him with a big campaign. The German
had already thought about emigration in these days. But he
had still persevered for a while, although the media had
called up to boycott his company and his family had been
threatened by incited fanatics. And the situation had
continued to become worse. During the great world
economic crisis, the entrepreneur had lost the biggest part
of his fortune and had become a target for the political
police of the FRG.
Thereupon, Western and Central Europe had been shaken
by a breakdown of the social system and racial and religious
conflicts. Europe had finally been close to civil war.
In the year 2018, Germany had been taken over by the
World Government, while Wilden had escaped to Lithuania
with his family.
He had offered the rest of his savings and had bought some
of the empty houses and also a few properties in Ivas, for
relatively small sums from the collapsing Lithuanian state.
The dying national state, which had been driven into
complete bankruptcy by the crisis, had been glad about
each cent that a foreign investor had given.
In the years 2018 to 2020, the World Government had been
established. The new rulers had promised the masses to
master the great crisis, and had moreover seized the
opportunity, to abolish the old states of Europe.
Then a massive wave of liquidations of political incorrect
persons had followed. Who had been located as a
suspicious person, had been arrested or killed by the
ruthless oppressors.
Shortly afterwards, the Lodge Brothers had founded the
international secret service, the GSA, to eliminate political
opponents. Campaigns of mass arrests, mass liquidations,
75
brainwashing, terror and intimidation had been the order of
the day in this years. Finally, the face of Europe had been
crushed to a bloody pulp. Only in the USA, the GSA had still
raged more effectively and had executed even larger parts
of the population as in Europe.
In this time of terror, Wilden had already escaped to Eastern
Europe and had overcome the first onslaught with his family
unharmedly. However, many of his political fellows of that
time had disappeared in prisons or mass graves.
Nevertheless, the terror had reached the countries of
Eastern Europe too, but the preparatory work for a perfect
surveillance state had only been made half-heartedly and
languidly here. Moreover, the registration of the whole
population wasn't as extensive as in the West yet. So the
strike of the World Government against the nations of the
world, had lost a lot of its power in Lithuania.
Apart from this, Russia and the other states of Eastern
Europe had become members of the world system in the
year 2020, two years after the official takeover of the new
rulrs. Here, some air for breathing had still remained. But
the Lodge Brothers were willing to make up leeway, in the
countries outside of North America and Western Europe.
After these difficult facts and explanations, Frank had never
thought about before, he was impressed by Wilden's talent
to elucidate things. Altogether, he was fascinated by him.
Communities of men like Ivas, had some more time to live in
peace, but the officials even pressurized the sector "Eastern
Europe" more and more, to create a modern system of total
control. So also in Ivas, strictest secrecy was increasingly
necessary to survive, and Wilden's village had ever more
problems to keep up the image of an unimportant village,
inhabited by some farmers. HOK or Holger K., who didn't
betray his surname to anyone, except for Thorsten Wilden,
76
was one of the most important men in Ivas. The former
computer scientist was a master in tampering scanchips
and to rewrite registration datas of vehicles and airplanes in
a way, that they were inconspicuous. After four hours, Frank
Kohlhaas finally left the house of Thorsten Wilden. This new
world really impressed him and for a man like Frank, a
return to his old life was impossible at this point.
When the young man came into HOK's study two days
later, he was welcomed by a thick, burly man. The
information scientist sat in front of a big, wireless computer,
surrounded by a lot of crates and cardboards, which were
repleted with all kinds of things. He looked like the typical
computer genius and reminded Frank of a comic figure.
HOK smiled and examined Kohlhaas from top to bottom.
Meanwhile, he scratched his head and gabbled something.
„You need a new Scanchip? You will get a new Scanchip!
He, he!", said the weird computer scientist and typed on his
keyboard.
„Oh! I am HOK! Specialist for electronic questions and other
problems in this beautiful village!"
„Hello!", said Kohlhaas.
„Oh, how good that nobody knows, how uncle HOK is really
called. A little joke, I always like to tell", returned HOK and
hastily waved his lower arms. „And soon, also nobody will
know your name anymore!"
J will always be Frank Kohlhaas!", answered the young man
and grinned.
„Sure! And I will be always HOK, even if I am sometimes
Mike Weber or Enrico Althaus", said Holger K. with a
philosophical undertone.
„However, you will get a new Scanchip now, because
otherwise you are just fucked up in this world."
77
HOK let the keys rattle and worked for the next minutes as
under hypnosis in front of his computer screen. He visited
various servers and data bases and explained, that it could
last a while. Anyway, he had to generate a large number of
new access codes and this was a lot of work. His virtual
attacks on the secret servers of administrative districts and
registration banks had remained unnoticed so far, and could
not be retraced. The coding and safety precautions, which
HOK used, were impressing and reflected the quite entitled
paranoia in his head.
„This computer officially stands, from its source code, in
Patah Keadan in Malaysia. Sometimes I also attack from
Siberia, northern China or Angola. This is always very
funny!", gaggled the cyberfreak and smiled proudly.
J believe you, man. But I know nothing about computers!",
groaned Frank .
„Code here and code there..."
"No, does not fit..."
"Shit! Why not?"
"Ah.. .Okay!"
"Well, there we have been landed..."
"He, he, he..."
"Well!"
And: Go!"
"Starting from the data..."
"Great!"
"Copy!"
"Paste!"
"Mist! Elender Mist!"
HOK murmured and continued to swim through a sea of
datas and facts in the international cyberspace. He vacantly
stared at the screen and Frank was just silent. Then
Kohlhaas finally sat down on a damaged office chair, which
probably had already suffered under HOK's weight.
78
The operation lasted almost three hours. In the meantime,
Frank had gone out of the house, to take a little walk
through the village. When he returned, the passionate cyber
fanatic expected him. HOK grinned from ear to ear. Then he
theatrically made a curtsey in front of his new client:
..Welcome citizen 08-71 1369Y-1 91 947, in our wonderful
„One-World"! I may call you, nevertheless, here among us
and completely unofficially, Maximilian Eberharter, okay?"
..Sounds amusing, but good...", returned Frank.
..Your Scanchip account has also been topped up again.
Congratulations!" HOK seemed to be very happy. He had
done his work like a pro.
Referring to the general defaults for citizen registrations,
Frank Kohlhaas was now announced as the proud owner of
the citizen number 08-71 1369Y-1 91 947, living in Graz and
working as an underground construction engineer. His wage
was not bad too. Over 1300 Globes per month, he had
never earned that much.
Who this Maximilian Eberharter really was, Frank did not
know and he did not ask. Perhaps the citizen number 08-
711369Y-191947 had been discarded, because the owner
had died. Perhaps, it was also just invented, rewritten or
something else. HOK surely knew, what he did.
Indeed, the computer scientist with the weird behavior and
the emotional fluctuations, was just irreplaceable in Ivas. He
procured official registrations for the inhabitants and topped
up their Scanchip accounts, gave them "jobs" and secured
their income - at least, as a computer file. This man was
ingenious. No question!
Additionally, the village community also subsisted on an
own agriculture and various illegal exchanges and
commercial transactions. It functioned better, than the new
born citizen could ever imagine.
79
Nevertheless, Ivas was a dangerous place. And only, if all
inhabitants kept their mouths shut and never boasted, an
inconspicuous life was possible. Regarded from the outside,
this village just appeared inconspicuously and its citizens
were even good taxpayers, who were not noticeable to the
tax authority of the sub-sector "Belarus-Baltic".
From this point of view, they all were in a favorable
situation. It would probably just become unpleasant, if an
official would ever examine this place more exactly. But
since the financial situation in the sub-sector was
catastrophic and the region was in a permanent state of
worst poverty, it was improbable, that authorities, which
hadn't enough employees, because of staff savings, would
ever send someone to an unimportant village like Ivas. The
lethargic officials were just content, if the taxes were paid
regularly.
This mentality of indifference, which was far common in
Eastern Europe, increasingly annoyed the powerful
gentlemen of the World Goverment. Nevertheless, in former
Lithuania still existed an administration, but this was not
self-evident in other regions of the world.
In Africa, the World Government had never tried to
introduce a complete monitoring of the population at all,
what was much too difficult. But from the position of the
Lodge Brothers, this was not necessary on this continent.
The African countries were politically insignificant and it was
only sufficient, to recruit parts of the population as cheap
peons for the big concerns. Furthermore, the World
Goverment held the whole continent in an iron grip of
dependence by indebtedness. Occupation troops enforced
the rough adherence of the instructions from above. This
was enough. Otherwise, the World Government only
occasionally intervened, in order to decimate the population.
Hunger blockades and even epidemics, made in
80
laboratories, ensured, that the population could not grow too
much. Other countries, for example in Eastern Asia, were
also controlled from the outside. The new rulers simply used
the weapons of financial dependence, the military threat or
economic sanctions.
In these regions, including India and China, the Scanchip
had been introduced as replacement for credit and identity
card a few years ago, but the number of people in these
countries was just too big for a close monitoring.
Together with the downfall of formerly high technicalised
Europe, the infrastructure in these regions slowly moldered.
Nevertheless, the World Government also wanted to accept
this challenge. Much still had to be done. At first, the 1.9
billion Chinese and 1.5 billion Indians had to be decimated,
that further political steps could follow.
The appropriate plans for this cruel process, were already in
the drawers of the think-tanks of the New World Order. They
worked on it.
In the last decades, the nations of Europe, once highly
developed and sophisticated, above all Germany, England,
France and Russia, had successfully been destroyed by a
creeping procedure of decomposition by the predecessors
of the now ruling forces. Finally, they had brought the
Europeans to their knees. Knowing about their
inventiveness and their ability to create high civilizations,
they had purposefully selected the Old World as their
primary target. And soon they had taken control of the Great
Powers of the old age.
And it had been the same with the North American
continent. These regions had to be taken at first, even if it
wasn't always easy to conquer them. But the hidden power
behind the curtains of world policy, had acted intelligently,
cleverly, shrewdly. There was no doubt, if one analyzed the
81
past. In the old age, the Europeans had been proud and
strong, and had patronized values like freedom or
independence. Therefore, they had to be slowly poisoned,
as you never attack a powerful lion directly, but put it to
sleep or sicken it first.
It would last a long time, to describe all the procedures,
which had made the world to the sad place that it was
today. But it was nevertheless a cruel fact, that these once
great old countries were in just one hand today - without
exception. The European nations crumbled, decomposed
and were close to total extinction.
Foreign people were brought to these lands, and soon all
the big centers of European civilization were a puzzle of
different races, cultures and religions. The international
yoke of modern slavery and the imperative to consume,
preached by all the media of the global system, was the
only thing, which connected them. And this had always
been the plan.
So the danger was avoided, that united fronts could be
formed one day against the world dictatorship, because the
interests and purposes in life of the numerous nation
particles and cultural fragments were too different. It had
worked well, the hidden forces had infiltrated the Old World
like a virus.
The plan had been successful and the Lodge Brothers had
laid the foundation, for what the Elders of the New World
Order had already prophesied long ago: The "Multicolor-
Man". A so called "united" human, without clearly defined
origins, torn inside his soul and groundless.
"Will will create the Eurasian-Negroid future-race!", was the
slogan of this new policy. So the powerful gentlemen
worked on a creature without an own culture, without a
higher intelligence and without an identity - the natural born
slave.
82
World Peace in Ivas?
„Not this Ronald Miller shit again!", groaned Alf on the next
morning, as he sat in front of his laptop and watched the
news from all over the world. On an Internet site, which was
officially marked with a blocking note and should actually
not be accessible for "good normal citizens", he saw the
commemoration ceremony of a soldier of the international
GCF troops in New York, kidnapped and shot by Iranian
partisans.
The video had already been shown by the official television
stations, but the forbidden Internet site complemented it with
some background informations and let its content appear
differently, from what the media of the system wished.
The World President squeezed out some crocodile tears in
front of the cameras, which rolled along his beaked nose.
Then he thanked the not anymore "unknown soldier" for his
fight against terrorism, for human rights and world peace.
The television report showed Ronald Millers crying widow,
his newborn baby and his daughter in the kindergarten. The
report about his sweet little children lasted a whole hour.
The daughter told, that she liked to paint pictures with her
wax mark pins, loved her hamster and finally cried for her
dead father - in close up.
The World President visited her in the kindergarten, tried to
look affected and explained to the kindergartner, how
important it was, to go on with the war against Islamic
fanatics and renegade tendencies in all regions of the world.
„Those fucking media rats should mention, that the World
Goverment has nuked Teheran nine years ago!", screamed
Alf furiously and banged on the table. "So they could also
make some good video reports about crying children there!"
83
He turned around to Frank. „At that time, over one million
people, women and children, were burned to ashes. The
GCF just wiped them out, in order to make an example!"
„l know... ", answered Kohlhaas.
„Oh, shit! I just hate the fucking media! I would execute
them all, if I had the chance!", he spat out.
„lfs the usual propaganda", said Frank and went into the
kitchen. „Calm down, Alf! Don't risk a heart attack..."
Baumer still grumbled for a while and finally followed Frank.
He stood before his fellow and raised the forefinger.
„Today John comes back from Minsk", he said. „We must
talk to Wilden, so that he tells us, where we can live here in
the near future."
..Living together with you? Then I will give you the
prohibition to watch TV!", answered Frank with a smile.
..Don't make me angry, little boy!", hissed Baumer, grinned
villainously and made some boxing movements toward his
interlocutor.
The discussion with the leader of the group was short and
factual. Wilden told them that they could move into another
vacant house at the further end of Ivas. It was an incredible
hovel, but at least, it had an old wood fired oven and the two
men could even get some electricity for the barrack.
When Frank and Alf returned to their provisional home, they
met a probably 45 years old man in a cord sweater,
unloading some crates from a shabby, white combi-van.
With him was a beautiful young woman with long fair hair,
which she had tied up to a queue. John and the woman
welcomed them.
„Oh, who are you? Allow me, I'm John Thorphy!", he
introduced himself.
..Julia Wilden!", added the blonde and smiled.
84
„Alfred Baumer, we don't know each other yet", answered
Alf.
„Eh... Frank Kohlhaas!", said the young man.
John Thorphy had a strong English accent, which, however,
clarified the question of his origin only superficially.
„We lived in your house. Thank you again. We have been
freed, straight from prison", explained Alfred.
„No problem!", replied John and continued to unload his car.
„rm sure that my father has organized everything correctly",
said Julia and examined Frank with an inquiring look.
„And how was it...?" Frank tried to begin a conversation.
„How was what?", asked the young woman and stroked with
her fingers through the blonde hair. Then she beheld
Kohlhaas again.
"Where you have been... I mean. ..your trip...?"
"Nice!", returned Julia.
„The man is... eh... John. ..an Englishman?", asked Frank.
„No, and he does not like Englishmen!", he heard from Julia.
John is an Irishman. Don't talk with him about England or
even Englishmen..."
"It was just a question", said Frank and looked unconfidently
at the young beauty.
"Okay, all questions have been answered. Now you can
help us to unload the van", said Fraulein Wilden and kept a
straight face.
„No problem!", answered Baumer and waved Frank nearer.
In the following weeks, Frank and Alf had a lot of work to do.
Necessary renovations in their new home waited for them,
and furthermore, Wilden gave them some more tasks, in the
name of the community. Kohlhaas became acquainted with
some of the other villagers and thought that most of them
could stand him - more or less. However, a few still faced
him with distrust and avoided to talk to the young man.
85
Nevertheless, the fact that he had been in a holo cell,
caused a mixture of compassion and respect in many of the
villagers.
Julia Wilden mostly just ignored him and didn't seem to
seek his proximity. He rarely saw her, even when he
unusually often walked past Mr. Wilden's house, although it
was located in a side road.
„She looks good, but she is „Misses Important", the
daughter of the great boss...", thought Frank sometimes.
"She thinks that she is better than the rest here and she
obviously doesn't trust me very much."
Frank was right. Julia Wilden and also the young Sven
belonged to those villagers, who avoided the contact with
him.
But Kohlhaas tried to understand the behavior of these
people. They didn't knew him and he had only come to this
strange place, because of luck and coincidence. What
should he expect now?
Prison or even liquidation would wait for them all, if he
would prove himself as a blabber or a safety risk. So the
fear of the unknown man wasn't unjustified. But Alfred
Baumer and Thorsten Wilden seemed to like him. The
village boss took every opportunity, to explain to him any
political and historical facts. He started with world history,
from the ancient cultures of the Indogermanics, over
Alexander the Great, up to the present. Sometimes,
however, even everything at the same time.
„They could have used Wilden for the reeducation hours in
the holo cell, apart from the fact, that he preaches the
converse theses. Nevertheless, he talks even more than
that computer!", said Frank to Alf once.
Baumer admired the former entrepreneur, because of his
universal knowledge about politics and history, but this time,
he had to laugh about Frank's statement. So the days,
86
weeks and months passed in monotonousness. Often some
of the villagers disappeared for a while. Occasionally, even
one of the three small transport aircrafts left its hideout, in
order to fly somewhere and to come back again a few days
later.
The airplanes were always hidden under camouflage nets
or in large, old barns. Although it was not illegal to own
them, since they had been duly registered, caution was the
first rule in Ivas.
In the meantime, Frank and Alf were working hard, in order
to make their house more habitable. Wallpapers were
procured over many detours, because there were no more
shops in the periphery of many kilometers, which got such
articles. At least, the most important rooms could be
renovated.
Similar difficulties also appeared with the building materials,
which had often to be taken from the other vacant houses,
for example intact bricks to repair the leaky roof. It was a
long and toilsome work, but the two men became friends
along the way.
There was still only a very old wood fired oven in the biggest
room of the house and both men became a bit nervous,
when the thought about the coming winter of the year 2028.
At the end of the month, Frank's sleep disturbances
suddenly came back. He had scary nightmares, in which the
cruel light of the holo cell tortured him again, and also Mr.
Madness returned.
Sometimes in these dreams, this strange man talked, and
Frank was surprised that his voice was high and shrill.
Baumer often woke him up, when he flailed or talked while
he was sleeping. It was weird. Right now, where peace had
entered his life, compared to the time in „Big Eye" even the
idyl, the bad memories came back. Kohlhaas had thought,
that the pain in his mind was over - but he was wrong...
87
One day in August, HOK stood in front of the entrance door
on an early morning and asked Alf for Frank. Kohlhaas sat
in the provisionally furnished kitchen and came to the door
after a few minutes.
„Good morning, Frank! Please come with me, immediately!",
said HOK with a sad face.
..What's up?", asked Frank with an uncomfortable feeling
deep inside.
..Hurry up! Just come with me!", answered the computer
specialist and spreaded a disastrous atmosphere.
Shortly afterwards, the two men went to HOK's house and
Frank hardly noticed the warm and bright autumn sun,
which stroked the little village on this day. HOK ran to his
untidy office and sat down in front of his computer.
..Please take a seat, Frank!", hummed HOK. „And try to stay
calm, with all, I will say to you now!"
„Tell me, what has happened?", claimed Frank with a
mixture of impatience and deep concern, because HOK's
countenance let expect nothing good.
„l have examined your old Scanchip. I meant no harm by it,
but it is an order of Wilden, concerning each new person
that comes into our village. It is a safety precaution. The
Scanchip is examined for suspicious sub-datas and cross
references. I penetrated an internal data server and studied
some not public informations, which are automatically
collected about every citizen in the sector ..Central Europe"
by authorities or secret services. These sub-datas contain
many informations about a citizen's life. Of course, the
ordinary people don't know anything about their existence.
Okay, I have the skill to look for all this stuff. Let's see..."
„Aha...", answered Frank with a complete lack of
understanding.
„An usual Scanchip has about 500 internal sub-datas and
cross references, which can't be read by the owner,
88
because they are only for the authorities", explained HOK
hastily.
Frank's brain was tormented again with some technical
terms of the computer language, although HOK tried to
explain everything understandably for the layman.
The sub-datas of each Scanchip contain a fulness of
informations, for example:
- Behaviour analysis at the workplace
- State of health, for the further economic utilization
- Income
- Consument behaviour statistics
- Social compatibility
- Subversive statements at the telephone, on the internet...
- Family members and relatives
- Reactions on political propaganda and advertising
- Religious faith
- Friends and acquaintances
- Frequentcy of contacts to friends and acquaintances
- Sexual behavior
There are still hundreds of further informations and details,
but I think you know, what we are talking about", said HOK.
„And now? What's wrong?", asked Frank quizzically.
Just wait!", answered HOK. „l have to look for some special
things. For example, if there is an entry like: JOS" (informer
of the state) or „ROP" (receiver of official privileges) - what
would mean, that you are an informer - or you have been it
once."
„What do you want from me? Tim no informer, man!",
screamed Frank.
„You don't have anything to do with such things! Your old
Scanchip is clean, don't worry!", calmed him HOK.
89
„This is not the problem...", he continued. „We must be very
careful and everybody in Ivas has to endure this process!"
„Then you want to establish your own little surveillance state
here, isn't it?", gnarled Frank angrily.
„No, we do not want that!", replied HOK and seemed to feel
ashamed.
„l looked at the cross references, concerning your family
members and your relatives. I'm sorry, this didn't belong to
my tasks and I must excuse myself for that", murmured
HOK sheepishly and stared at his keyboard.
„And then you pretend to fight against the World
Government! Maybe these guys were also just bored, and
so they decided one day, to spy out all the other people!",
grumbled Kohlhaas.
"I'm sorry! Really!" HOK tried to calm down his angry guest.
..Unfortunately, I have noticed something terrible on your
Scanchip: Rainer Kohlhaas is your father, right? And
Martina Gunther, born Kohlhaas, your sister, isn't it?
Nico Gunther your nephew. . .? "
..What's up with them?", asked Frank excitedly.
„The Scanchips of Rainer Kohlhaas and Martina Gunther
are shut down. Their citizen numbers will be assigned to
other people in the near future...", spoke HOK quietly.
"What?", Frank winced.
„On the Scanchip of your father, there is an arrest note on
09.04.2028. At the beginning of June 2028, it has finally
been shut down. As additive there is a footnote: "ODOA"
(official deactivation by official arrangement) and further
„CSO" (citizen switched off). He has been liquidated!",
explained HOK.
..What?", cried Frank in pain.
„lt's the same in the case of your sister. She was first
arrested, and then liquidated. Your nephew..." HOK was
interrupted.
90
„What? What's up with Nico?", gasped Frank with fright in
his eyes. "Tell me what..."
„He is registered here as an "orphan in national care". So he
is still alive!" The computer scientist didn't dare to look in
Frank's direction.
But it didn't work. The young man was speechless with
terror and sank back on the chair. He struggled for air and
tried to shake off the claws of horror that griped his throat
and took his breath away. But it was impossible.
Within a few seconds, he fell into a black hole of despair
and ran crying out of the house of the computer scientist. All
the distress and the fear had returned now. They had
spared him in the last months, to come back in this second
in their whole, dark size.
In the next days, Frank hardly left his sleeping room. Alf
tried to explain to him, that the arresting of relatives or
family members was used by the system, to lure
disappeared offenders out of their hideouts, to make them
ring up at home, while the telehone call was bugged, or to
make them even visit their old homes. But Frank just told
him to back off.
Now the scary nights returned and the mental terror, the
holo cell had kindled in his mind, crawled around him in the
darkness, arm in arm in old unity with the new horrors.
Again, the young man thought about following his parents
and his sister to the netherworld, he mused about
terminating his hopeless existence, but Alf stopped him from
doing such things and cared for Frank as good as he could.
When September brought the autumn to Ivas, Frank was
afflicted by a strange dream one night. He could no longer
completely remember each detail, when he woke up again
91
on the next morning with a bad headache, but the most
pictures remained in his memory.
He was a spectator in an hall, which looked very similar to a
court room. In front of him were the judge desk and the
dock, and only this place was lit by a lamp. The rest of the
room remained in a hazy twilight, also the seat rows of the
spectators, on which Frank sat alone. In front of the dock
were two persons and Frank could not exactly recognize,
who it was, because he saw only their backs. Behind the
judge desk was no human being, it was rather a shadow or
a ghost.
"The negotiation starts!", called the shade. „Be quiet please!
Today, we talk about the following criminal case: The
politics against Mr. Rainer Kohlhaas and Mrs. Martina
Gunther, born Kohlhaas."
The two accused turned around and gave Frank a fearful
look. It were his father and his sister. Now they turned
around to the judge again, because he began with his
remarks. The spectator nervously stared at the ghost and
tried to decipher the name on the plate, which was on the
desk in front of him. Only after an arduous staring, Frank
was able to recognize that there was no name. The only
words on the plate were "The Politics". Now the judge read
out the charges and began with the interrogation.
J will start with you, Mr. Rainer Kohlhaas", he said with a
glowering, deep voice. „Can you remember, that you have
ever cared about the important facts around me?"
„Well, I have already been concerned with you, if it had
something to do with my life", stammered Rainer Kohlhaas.
„Can you describe that more exactly?", asked the judge.
„Thus, I watched TV and read the newspapers", Rainer
Kohlhaas tried to explain.
92
„And you, Mrs. Martina Gunther? Did you have ever
seriously worried about me?", grumbled the shady judge
with a threatening voice.
..Perhaps not enough. Only sometimes. I was too busy,
most of the time. My job was full of stress and so I had other
things on my mind than thinking about you...", replied
Frank's sister sheepishly.
„And it was the same in your case, Mr. Kohlhaas?",
resented the judge angrily.
,,1'm sorry, but if Tm honest, I have just worked all my life,
and have primarily cared about myself. It was a constant
struggle to survive and to make money. And finally, there
has been no more time to think about any politics",
explained Rainer Kohlhaas ruefully.
„And you really think, that was enough? That you could just
ignore me in all these years?", hissed the ghost.
"Please forgive us, Mr. Judge! Today, we know that we
have made a big mistake! But we still have watched the
news on television...", Rainer Kohlhaas tried to justify
himself.
"Yes, I did the same!", agreed Martina.
"And you think, it was sufficient, if others talked about me
and you just parroted their slogans? Why didn't you think
about me for yourself?", asked the shadow reproachfully
and stared at them.
"Forgive us, Mr. Judge, but we viewed many other things in
our life as more important, than caring about politics!",
lamented the two accused, full of sorrow.
Suddenly Frank appeared at another place in his dream. A
disgusting stench became noticeable to him at first. It
crawled over the ground right into his nostrils. He was on a
great field that extended till the horizon, and only some
mountains were recognizable, somewhere in the far
93
distance. Now he saw, what covered this field. It were
corpses. Hundreds, thousands, millions. They terribly stank
and rotted. The grey, dead skin of the bodies was shrunken,
and larvae, maggots and worms crept out of the mouths and
eye sockets of the dead.
This graveyard was gigantic, it was full of men, women,
children - some had died lately, others were already putrid
and had become skeletons.
Frank had to be careful, trying not to slip and fall by walking
on this carpet of bones and rotting flesh, because the sea of
the dead seemed to be endless and it filled the plain till the
horizon. The young man simply went straight ahead for
some hours and he was scared of this terrible environment.
But the plain still extended and was still covered with
countless corpses. Then he suddenly recognized, that the
mountains in front of him were gigantic piles of skulls.
Millions of skulls, towering up, to create an atrocious picture.
Frank walked through the land of the dead and when he
already thought, that he would never find a way out of this
terrible world, he suddenly heard a voice.
„Frank Kohlhaas!", it resounded from somewhere far
beyond. The dreamer went to the place, from which he had
heard the voice and could soon recognize a dark spot that
continued to grow, the nearer he came. Then he saw that it
was the shadowy man, the eerie judge, who called him.
J am the politics, Frank Kohlhaas! Nice going, my boy! Now
you have found me! Here they are!", said the ghost and
pointed at the ground.
There lay Rainer Kohlhaas, his father, and Martina Gunther,
his sister. Both had been killed with a headshot and their
bodies were rotting, while maggots crawled over their faces.
94
"Mark my words, Frank Kohlhaas! If you don't care
about politics, politics will care about you one day!",
shouted the judge.
Frank startled up and could not sleep anymore for the rest
of the night...
The rest of the year 2028 passed without any changes in
the life of the young man. The winter in Lithuania was really
unpleasant and very cold, and there was no sign of that
global warming, the international media had proclaimed in
2011, in order to justify coercive measures and further
restrictions of civil rights.
Frank's fear, his sleep disturbances and his depressions
still came in waves and particularly in these dark winter
months he had to suffer.
Wilden and the other villagers had given him a lot of tasks,
he had to do for the community. And this was good,
because it diverted him. During autumn, the fields around
Ivas were harvested by the inhabitants and the yields were
made winterproof, like in old times.
All this was also a new ground for Frank, since he had only
eaten the cheap food of the big agrarian companies so far.
Moreover, Alf and he renovated the old house, but they
progressed slowly. Apart from this, the young renegade was
not yet ready to join the group of rebels - if it were rebels at
all.
Except for talking, Frank hadn't noticed any considerable
rebellion, although Wilden told him everything about politics,
without having a break.
His daughter didn't seem to think a great deal of him and
Frank was sure that she still distrusted him too. But at least,
he had aroused her compassion. ..Nevertheless, ti is
something!", thought Kohlhaas.
95
When it was stormy outside and the ice rain pattered
against the still leaky windows, when it was dark and cold,
Frank felt lost. Even if Alf was in the next room, looking for
some new informations on the Internet. Sometimes
Kohlhaas heard him rant and sometimes Baumer jubilated.
„ls this my life for the next decades?", he occasionally asked
himself. „ls this my fate? Hanging around in this dump in
Lithuania, with this gang of so called freedom fighters?"
If he saw the face of his father and his sister in front of his
inner eye, if he thought about the holo cell and about the
fact, that his little nephew was raised somewhere in an
institute for brainwashing, while his sister, who had never
done something wrong in her life, was rotting in a mass
grave, he was fuming with rage.
„Alf, what is the meaning of the symbol of the "Red Moon"
groups? Please explain it to me again?", he asked his fellow
one evening.
„l already answered that question!", remarked Alf, who
wanted to go to bed.
„l want to know it - exactly!", said Frank with a black look,
which even caused some respect in Alf.
„Well, it is an old cult symbol. The "bloody moon" or „blood-
moon". The old Celts, just as many other people of the
ancient times, knew this mystical indication. In the winter, it
was more important than everything else. At that time, the
cattle was slaughtered in great numbers before the
beginning of the snowfall on a certain full moon night.
Therefore, our ancestors called this moon the "blood moon".
Moreover, it was also a ritual for the old gods, in order to
invoke their protection and assistance in the cold months.
The elders cast a magic circle with blood, drank red wine,
prayed and danced. Some even believed, that during this
ritual not only the souls of the decedents were present, but
96
also the spirits of the animals, which had donated their lifes
to give food to the humans", explained Alf.
„Then it was some kind of ritual for the dead?", asked Frank
then.
„This is one meaning. The other meaning is the coming war,
the revenge, the bloodshed, the rage of battle. One also
knows the bloody moon as a warning to the enemy. It just
depends on the interpretation of the symbol. The founders
of the „Red Moon" groups thought, that this sign would just
look cool or interesting", said Baumer.
„l like the second meaning! Yes!", hissed Frank.
Alfred looked at him with surprise, scraping with his fingers
over the wooden table.
„l_et us bring the blood moon upon our enemies! I will talk to
Wilden. If I join your so called rebellion, I fucking want to
make rebellion!", grumbled Frank.
„We are rebels...", returned Alf and stared at his aggressive
fellow.
"I hope it! I want to take lives!", screamed Kohlhaas and
banged his fist on the table. „Revenge! Blood moon!"
Frank turned around and went to his room. He slammed the
door behind himself and up to the next morning, Baumer
didn't see him again.
97
Rebellion and Fresh Snow
It did not last long, until Ivas was covered with a thick
mantle of snow and it was bitterly cold. Frank and Alf could
only stay in the largest room of their house, where the old
wood fired oven was located.
This season was more than unpleasant and often both men
needed some blankets to warm theirselves. But at least, the
roof didn't have no more holes and it didn't snow into the
upper floor of the old building. This was better than nothing.
Today, Frank Kohlhaas made the decision to talk to
Thorsten Wilden. He wanted to become a real rebel and
promised himself to join the fight - but he still didn't know
how.
It was a grey winter morning and the few sources of light in
the inhabited houses of the village, had no real chance to
repel the twilight.
A resolute Frank trudged through the fresh snow of the last
night, toward the house of Thorsten Wilden. The young man
finally had enough of the monotonousness in this so called
rebel base.
„You want me? You can have me!", he whispered to
himself.
After a while, Frank reached the house of the village boss
and knocked on the door. Agatha Wilden opened and Julia
could be seen behind her in the corridor. Kohlhaas gave
them a quiet „Hello!". Then Wilden appeared on the stairs,
which led to the upper floor.
„Frank! Welcome! What can I do for you?", asked the gray-
haired gentleman with sursprise. The village boss seemed
to be overslept and was still unshaved.
98
„We need to talk, Mr. Wilden!", answered Frank with a
vacant expression, which neither Julia nor Agatha Wilden
had ever seen before. Kohlhaas scowled and crossed his
arms.
„Well, we go to my office!", said the rebel leader.
„Okay! Let's go!", muttered Frank and went up the stairs.
Then both men sat opposite to each other and Frank started
to talk, before Wilden could begin.
„This is not a holiday camp, you have said to me. Well!
Well!", spoke Frank with an angry face. „This is a rebel
base, you have told me, Mr. Wilden!"
„lt is!", returned the older gentleman, looking at his young
guest, who behaved queerly today.
„AII right! Then we shall start a rebellion! First, I would like to
learn to shoot! Assault rifle, machine gun, handguns. Is that
okay, Mr. Wilden?", said Frank, somehow demanding.
J think you can! ", answered the village boss.
„Great, Mr. Wilden! I am ready now. I know that some of the
guys here talk about me after the slogan: We just feed that
Frank, but he is useless and does not join our great fight.
Well, here I am! Ready for combat! If there is a big fight
here at all, because I haven't noticed a fucking rebellion
yet!", teased the young man.
„First and foremost, we develop self-sufficient structures.
The armed operation, concerning your liberation, has been
an exception. Otherwise, we plan no further things of that
character for the next time", explained Wilden.
„However!", said Kohlhaas. „lf any special operations start,
then let me know it. I will join them. My life isn't important
and I will show you, that I have more guts, than most of
these farmers, who treat me with scorn. Thus, you let me
know, if there is some action, okay? Have a nice day and
greetings to Fraulein Julia, Mr. Wilden!"
99
Frank knocked on the table, smiled informally and left the
room. He ran down the stairs, murmured a "Tschuft!" to
Julia and closed the front door behind him. Thorsten Wilden,
his wife and his daugtherwere perturbed. This part of Frank
had been unknown to them yet. And Frank was surprised
about that side of his personality too.
"If I shall revolt, I have to learn to shoot, Alf! Where are your
weapons?", Frank edged his unnerved friend.
"You make my nerves explode, Kohlhaas! What do you
want from me?", screamed Alf. His roommate didn't stop his
urging and slowly became aggressive.
J go to Wilden!", grumbled the young man.
„Okay, I have a gun. If you like, we can do some firing
practices in the forest", groaned Alf.
„AII right! What are you waiting for?", answered Frank with a
grin.
Baumer went into the cellar and finally returned with a Glock
in his hand. Then the two men left the house.
„rm dying to know if you hit something!", teased Alf his
friend on the way to the nearby forest behind the village, but
Frank just gazed at the ground. After they had waded
through the high snow for a while, Alf stopped.
„Do you see that knothole in the birch over there?", he
asked Frank.
„Of course, give me the gun!", answered Kohlhaas.
Without further thinking, the young man aimed for the tree,
which was about ten meters away from him.
„Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Alfred ran to the birch, after Frank had shot the magazine
empty. He was astonished. Most of the bullets had hit the
little knothole and large pieces of crust had been torn out.
„Not bad, boy!", he remarked and waved the inexperienced
shooter nearer.
100
„How many times have you already shot in your life?"
„Never before!", answered Kohlhaas and smiled.
„Your lately grown self-confidence seems to make even a
good shooter of you", murmured Alf.
Shortly afterwards, Kohlhaas shot three further magazines
empty. Then they had to stop, in order to waste not too
much ammunition. Baumer was quite impressed, that his
fellow had hit the target relative exactly.
„Wilden can organize an assault rifle and a machine gun for
you. Then you can practice with them", promised Alf. A little
later, they went back to their house again. Dusk was falling.
So strange and insignificant it was, at first sight - Alf s
compliment had filled the young Frank with pride. He smiled
confidently and looked already forward to the next firing
practices with the bigger war weapons, the real "Wummen".
Apparently, he had a talent for shooting. And that he had a
talent for something, he hadn't heard all too often in his life
before.
Frank spent the first two weeks of the cold and wet January,
the ugliest month the year, with numerous firing practices
and the reading of political and historical books, that Wilden
had given to him. Moreover with occasional works for the
community.
Meanwhile, he felt a little more accepted by the other
villagers, after he had signaled that he was ready to join the
fight.
Even Julia Wilden had smiled at him for the first time, when
he had asked her father for more ammunition for his
weapons at the door. He blustered into the thought of
becoming a rebel. Therefore, Kohlhaas shot during his firing
practices, in his mind, rather at hazy prison guards,
policemen or politicians, as at bottles or trees. Often he
grinned like a happy child, when the cold steel of a rifle slid
101
into his hand. His shooting results became better and better
and when he went to bed, after an arduous day, he often
mused about the blood moon and did not notice, how
malicious his smile had become.
Alfred observed him with scepticism. Frank appeared
calmly, and sometimes he just absently stared out the
window and bit on his lower lip, till it began to bleed.
Usually he did not even seem to notice it. The young man
was eager to learn the art of killing in all its facets. Often he
talked of nothing else but fighting during the dinner. He
philosophized about the possibilities of resistance, the
revolution and the counter-propaganda. Some ideas
appeared to Alf even ingeniously, others were just childish
and crazy. Something proceeded under Frank's skullcap,
was slowly bred like an evil child.
In these days, in which Frank only talked about assault
rifles, grenade launchers and methods of killing people,
Baumer thought, that Kohlhaas was screwy. Moreover,
Frank asked John Thorphy to buy a whole arsenal of
weapons for him.
„Maybe, your beloved war will find you sooner as you think,
my friend", told him Alf once. "We will have a bigger meeting
at the end of the month, then I can take you with me!"
„A Meeting? What meeting? To shovel some snow?",
scoffed Frank.
„Fuck off! I can't hear your speeches about the revolution
anymore, Frank. Keep cool and find the way back to reality.
We will not start to run around like a horde of boozy apes to
shoot everybody. Do your firing practices or throw your knife
at trees or do something else!", grumbled Baumer angrily.
Now, Frank became angry too and went to his undercooled
room. Most of all, he had liked to kick Alf in the face - or
someone else. Meanwhile, Kohlhaas was burning inside like
102
a torch. A stubborn hate had crept into his brain and he had
problems to suppress this feeling. So the young man just
brooded and escaped into a dreamworld full of rebellion and
revenge.
The former citizen 1-564398B-278843 dawdled away till the
end of the month and nervously waited for the meeting, Alf
had talked about. From now on, Baumer didn't tell Frank
any further details, concerning the gathering, and just
ignored him.
It was the last day of January 2029, and the restless young
man had got up early today. The meeting of the villagers
was set for 18.00 o'clock, and Frank walked through the
cold house for hours, like a nervous tiger. He friendly smiled
at Baumer, again and again, full of expectation.
In the late afternoon, Frank and Alf finally left the house and
went to a brightly lit-up barn, where a few radiant heaters
had provisionally been stationed. Wilden was waiting for
them here, in the middle of a larger group of people.
Frank and Alf briefly welcomed the others and went to a
dark corner. Both crossed their arms before their chests and
looked at Wilden, who started his speech: ..Welcome, my
dear comrades!"
Kohlhaas nodded to Julia, who stood behind her father.
Then he smiled and the young woman smiled back.
..Tm glad that all of you have come to Ivas. I welcome our
guests from France and all the others, who visit our village
today."
Kohlhaas' expectation rose to the immeasurable. He gave
Julia a volatile look again. She winked at him and Frank
winced, because he had never seen such a friendly gesture
from her before. Her father continued: ..Tm sure you all
know, what is our topic today. Tve bought this village some
years ago, anyhow, some of the houses, in order to create a
103
retreat for all, who have pure hearts and want to fight
against the global system of enslavement. Since then, we
have achieved a lot and this former ghost town has been
made to a halfway habitable place again. We have our
peace here - so far.
However, I have the impression, that many of us meanwhile
enjoy this calm life so much that they have forgotten, what
the true sense of this base is. The sense is to have also a
place for a free life, for those, who still know, what freedom
really is, but Ivas is more than that. It is a place of
resistance against the World Government.
The last months have been calm, we have behaved calmly.
We have renovated our village and have secured our
subsistence, what is essential before you start a great fight.
This phase is finished now, and the question remaines, how
we can bring back freedom to our brothers and sisters in our
old homelands. The fight must begin now!"
A short applause from the about 100 persons in the large
barn followed. Frank was staring into space with blank
expression.
„Most of you, who are here today, live in Ivas. Others are
from the outside. Andrej is here, from the "Russian Patriotic
Section", Robert and William from the organization „Free
Britain", moreover our friends from Belgium, better from
Flanders. Further, Baptiste and Hugo from France. And also
comrades from Scandinavia have visited us.
Apart from this, I don't want to forget Soheil and Nirvan, the
rebels from Iran, because they probably have the longest
way behind themselves.
Unfortunately, our comrades from the Spanish „Citadel
Group" had not been allowed to leave their country, and I
hope they are fine. Well, I think that I haven't forgotton any
other guests from outside!", said the village boss.
104
„Now I want to give a lecture on our actual topic: Today we
talk about March the 1 st , 2029, when the World Government
will celebrate the "Festival of the new World". This
worldwide event, which takes place in Kiev this year, here in
the sector ..Eastern Europe", is also celebrated in Paris, in
"Central Europe". For that reason, the new governor of
..Central Europe", Leon-Jack Wechsler, will come to the
former capital of France, in order to open the ceremonies
and military parades.
The international media will report about this event, whereby
the ceremonies in New York and Paris will be the politically
most important ones, and will get the greatest attention."
..That much is clear!", whispered Alf quietly.
..Since the official takeover in the year 2018, the
celebrations of the "Festival of the new World" have always
been an enormous spectacle, that even excelled the soccer
world championships and the Olympics!", said Wilden.
..Even if the media have hushed it up in the last months,
France is a country, which stands close to big chaos. The
introduction of the "additional water consumption tax" in the
last year has annoyed millions of people.
Furthermore, the poverty of the masses is still becoming
worse, as everywhere in "Central Europe". Meanwhile, the
conflicts between the Moslem Algerians and the other
immigrants, who have the majority in all big French cities,
and the native population, has achieved an explosive
extent. If the GCF occupation troops wouldn't press the lid
on the cooking pot with outermost force, France would fall to
pieces tomorrow", explained the rebel leader, while the two
Frenchmen nodded approvingly.
..Already in the last year, there have been social and racial
riots in Paris and Marseille with almost 1000 deads. The
police and the GCF have finally shot down the people
without mercy. We all know the pictures", said Wilden.
105
„Anyhow, it has still become worse this year, as I have
already expected it. More monitoring, more unemployed
people, more homeless people, more crime and more war in
the streets, as everywhere ..Central Europe", where the so
called philanthropists give us their political benedictions!"
„He talks about politics again...", groaned Frank.
..What will we do now? What will we do on 01. March 2029,
when probably between one and two million spectators
come to Paris?", asked Wilden the others.
„lf the media and so many people are there, why don't we
make any spectacular actions? With transparencies for
example...", suggested a villager.
„We plan a lot of such things, and we don't need any foreign
assistance for these simple campaigns. We have enough
men in France for actions like that!", explained one of the
Frenchmen and shook his head.
..Perhaps, we should join the crowd and...", said a young
man.
..Wait!", interrupted him Frank suddenly. „We kill that Leon-
Jack Wechsler! Than we would set an example!"
Wilden and the others turned their heads toward the dark
corner, from where the bold proposal had come. Frank
stared back and kept a straight face.
..Forget about that, boy! Around Wechsler is a security zone
of two kilometers, full of GCF soldiers, agents and cops!",
said a man and looked disdainfully at Frank.
„No more nonsens! Just shut up!", hissed Alf nervously.
..Well, but throwing leaflets at the soldiers during the parade,
or stick out the tongue at the governor, is just pathetic!",
returned Frank. „l will kill this son of a bitch! Who comes
with me?"
Now Wilden intervened, because many visitors became
angry: „We should be realistic. There is no place here for
macho behaviour, boy!"
106
„l'm not joking! Absolutely not!", screamed Frank. „l know
that it is dangerous, but I don't fear death. Thus, who wants
to follow me? Let us kill this motherfucker!"
„Enough, Kohlhaas!", yelled Wilden.
„Who are you, young man, that you have such a big mouth?
You are hardly a few days here and you already play the big
gorilla!", insulted him a young woman from the other corner
of the room.
..That's right! You are that crazy guy from the holo cell. And
there, your brain has been damaged!", shouted someone in
Frank's direction.
„We don't need your show, boy!", it came from the side.
„Now, shut up! This is just embarrassing!", railed Alf and
nudged Frank.
„l am Frank Kohlhaas! I say it now, in front of all of you,
although I don't know the most of you very well. I will go to
Paris to kill this fucking Wechsler, if you give me the
weapons and the equipment. Maybe I die! So what? I just
give a shit on that!
I swear, by my honour and my name, the good name of my
father and my sister, who were murdered by people like this
bastard Wechsler. If I change my opinion tomorrow, then I
beg you, to shoot me, because then I have no right to life
anymore!", screamed Kohlhaas.
Baumer sighed and held his head. Others looked
disbelievingly at Frank. Nevertheless, some of the villagers
seemed to be fascinated by the young fanatic. Julia Wilden
belonged to the latter group, as Kohlhaas hoped.
„The guy is crazy!", Frank heard someone say.
Wilden tried to interrupt Frank's lecture: ..Well, I would like
to tell you a little more about the political situation. Frank,
just shut up now!"
But the young man had not finished yet: „l have to say
something to you glorious rebels! And you shall listen to my
107
words: I WILL KILL LEON-JACK WECHSLER! Or the cops
will kill me! I mean it. If necessary, I will go all alone. It
would only be nice, if one of you brave warriors could give
me a map of Paris. If I should have changed my opinion
tomorrow, then you have to kill me! I ask you again: Who
comes with me?"
A loud mutter went through the barn. Alf looked
embarrassingly at the ground and tried to explain his
neighbor that Frank could also be "normal".
It took some minutes for Wilden to restore silence.
Meanwhile, the young man had gone back to his corner
again and seemed to have calmed down.
„Mannomann!", hummed Baumer. ..Everyone here reputes
you as a total crank now. Killing Leon-Jack Wechsler? Such
an imbecility!"
Alf s friend didn't answer and just looked at him with cold
eyes, then he grinned grimly. For the rest of the meeting,
which lasted not much longer anymore, Frank behaved
calmly, giving a black look to everyone, who seemed to
doubt about his fanatical resoluteness.
The two Frenchmen, Baptiste and Hugo, who obviously
belonged to a patriotic group from Northern France, briefly
explained, what they had planned for the day of the festival.
They were sure that the masses in the capital of former
France would be dissatisfied and rebellious enough, to go
on the barricades. Some Islamic groups from Paris had also
agreed to a temporary pact with the organization of the two
Frenchmen, although both sides actually were sworn
enemies. But on this particular day, they would fight against
a common opponent, the World Government, and so they
had put their differences aside this time. However, they just
postponed their fight for the supremacy in former France. It
was not improbable that the new governor of ..Central
Europe" was awaited by the hate and the displeasure of big
108
parts of the population, but whether they would dare it, to
carry their discontent on the streets, was another question.
Leon-Jack Wechsler and the whole World Government were
internally hated by many people, but the powerful had an
enormous might, which the masses feared with good
reason.
The police force and the monitoring functioned. The GCF
troops, which mostly consisted of mercenaries from
overseas, who had no closer relationship to France or
Europe and therefore shot at the native population without
hesitation, if they received the order to do this, were
numerous. Furthermore, they had deadly weapons,
particularly to strike down large crowds.
Soldiers of French origin mostly served in countries far
away and not in their homeland. So they also had no
connection to the people they had to control. Like that were
the rules of the New World Order.
GCF soldiers of German origin preferentially served in this
time as occupying forces in the Near East or in Africa, while
old Germany was occupied by GCF soldiers from Africa,
Asia and other regions. And so it was everywhere.
When the meeting came to an end and the visitors left the
large barn, Frank was examined by many of them. Alfred
Baumer was still confused. His fellow seemed to stand
close to insanity. Julia Wilden finally came to him and
tapped the young Kohlhaas on the shoulder.
„Hey, Frank!", she said quietly. The rebel turned around and
stared at her.
„What the hell was that? You know that your idea is just
madness! What is wrong with you, Frank?", she asked
quizzically.
„rm all right, Fraulein!", answered Frank harshly.
„However, you will not really try this?", she returned.
„Of course I will try it! Do you think, Tm a twaddler?"
109
„None of us would come only hundred meters in the vicinity
of Wechsler", remarked the woman.
„This will be my problem - and not yours! You can organize
a city map of Paris for me, this would be a great help,
Julia!", answered Kohlhaas and regarded Wilden's daughter
with a vacant expression.
„l know, you think that many of the other villagers don't take
you to be a real rebel - and it is also partly correct - but
such a suicide operation is just senseless", said Julia, trying
to change his mind.
„lf you say so. It is my life and my concern. I don't force you
to come with me. Hand out your leaftlets or spray some
philosophical slogans on the walls. I will do, what I think is
right!", said Frank. „The others may think, what they want. I
don't care about these idiots. They want to be rebels? I can
only laugh! Well, the release operation of Alf and me was
not bad, but we have to do more things like that. Those
fucking guys, who destroy our lives, just think that they are
invulnerable! But they can also bleed and die like all other
people too. It's time to hold them accountable for all this
shit! It's time to make them pay for all their crimes, Julia!
And I will show those fucking pigs, that they can also be
switched off. I will go to your father tomorrow and then I will
ask him, to give me the necessary equipment for my
operation!".
„But...", whispered Julia.
„l have to go now!", said Frank and left the young woman
alone.
The following days were full of disputes with Alf and Wilden,
who meant that the Frank had made a fool of himself.
Nevertheless, he didn't listen to them and became
obsessed by the thought, to kill the governor of ..Central
Europe", in order to point the way for others. And some of
110
his proposals were not stupid at all, although they appeared
crazy and daring.
„You want to enter Paris as a visitor with your falsified
Scanchip. Okay, that could be possible", said Wilden.
„Border controls had already been abolished, since the
times of the European Union, and today, in a time of free
trade, they would be even inconceivable, from the economic
point of view. The close monitoring of the masses is much
more effective."
Yes, I know!", answered Frank impatiently. „How can I get
through this security zone to shoot Wechsler? Should I take
a sniper rifle to kill this guy?", asked Kohlhaas.
„This will be difficult, because in the periphery of at least
one kilometer, security forces will be everywhere, also on
the high buildings and of course inside the zone", replied the
village boss.
„When will the police establish this secured area?", asked
Frank.
„Maybe two or three days before the event. But I don't
believe that you could hide there somewhere, boy!",
returned Wilden.
J will find a way. If they kill me or not, is not important for
me anymore. I only have to get in that zone - this would be
enough", murmured Kohlhaas.
"Well, you could support us with other operations in a much
better way, Frank. Have you ever thought about that?
Operations, that will not end in suicide", Wilden tried to
explain.
„Perhaps! But I have already said it in front of all the men at
the meeting, and now there is no more truning back. But
how?", said Kohlhaas thoughtfully.
„As you may think fit... ", groaned the village boss.
Ill
„lf there is no way to reach this scumbag at the surface,
then I must look for an alternative...?", pondered Kohlhaas.
„But I have just no knowledge about this damn city."
„What do you mean?", Wilden was baffled.
"If I wanted to make such a job in Berlin, my hometown, I
would come through any tunnels, old underground pits or
something like that", said Frank.
„You would find a lot of tunnels in Paris. This city is more
undermined than each anthill, there are probably
innumerable underground entrances, particularly in the
inner part of the city", admitted Wilden.
„Who can give me more informations about this? These two
Frenchmen are nevertheless still here for a few days,
right?", mumbled Frank.
„Well, I hardly believe that they know every tunnel under
Paris. In addition, they are from the north of the country. But
there are construction plans of tunnels and sewers in the
data bases of the administration or on the Internet. You
should ask HOK!
Each official document must also be published in English.
This is a regulation. Thus, you don't even need to be able to
understand French. Just ask HOK! Nevertheless, it's a
completely crazy idea! Either you will get lost in these holes
or they will shoot you. But you will never reach Wechsler!",
prophesied Wilden.
But he just underestimated Frank's imaginativeness and
obstinacy. Only a few hours later, after he had reconsidered
and noted, which weapons and articles of equipment had to
be used for the assassination, Kohlhaas ran to HOK and
forced him to look for some plans of the underground of
Paris.
While Frank passionately told HOK his plans, the computer
expert just groaned, because the young hotspur had
disturbed him during an important work. But then he did
112
Kohlhaas the favour and entered the world of data bases
and electronic construction plans. HOK fortunately was a
researcher nature and after approximately half an hour, he
was also fascinated by his new task.
It lasted a while, until he had found so informations. Paris
was really more hollowed out than all the other cities in
Europe. Meanwhile, about 16 million people lived in the
metropolis and the city drowned in its own dirt and stench.
Since 1850, when most of the tunnels and the
comprehensive metro system had been built, the old capital
of France stood on a network of mile-long corridors.
Already in 2010, the underground system could not be
extended anymore, because the workers had already found
old tunnels and holes everywhere .
After the world economic crisis in 2012/13 and during the
following years, many metro lines had been closed in
consequence of substantial budget cuts. After 2018, it had
become worse, what still annoyed the people of Paris down
to the present day.
Today many old underground tunnels were unused and led
into nowhere. The tunnel system was so enormous, that
even official construction plans could not completely show
the numerous tunnels below the city. Nevertheless, HOK
found some interesting data bases and struggled through
mountains of new informations. The hours passed and the
thick man was soon completely absent-minded again.
„Until tomorrow, I will search for some nice tunnels and
corridors for you, which will lead you that close to
Wechslefs speech desk, that you can tickle his feet.
If the plans are still relevant at all, I can't say, Frank. And I
can't give you a warranty. Much has changed in the last
years. Many old, abandoned tunnels and so on...", he said
casually.
113
Kohlhaas waited for results and already imagined details of
his assassination attempt in his mind.
„Have fun with all these plans, my friend. I will go now.
Thank you!", answered Frank and left HOK's house with a
happy smile.
After approximately one week, HOK and Frank had
prepared a detailed plan, which should lead the rebel
through a tunnel system of almost three kilometers.
The avenue of Paris, which had been called „Avenue de
Champs Elysees" in former times, had been renamed in
„Avenue of Humanity" in 2018, and the triumpal arch, one of
the old landmarks of the city, had been torn down in 2019.
Just as the Eifel tower, which had been dismantled one year
later. In place of the "Arc de Triomphe", the new rulers had
built a modern art building called "Temple of Tolerance", a
giant dark pyramide.
Moreover, the "Avenue of Humanity" had intensively been
converted, whereby many of the old historical houses had
been replaced by concrete buildings of an "unity-look".
After initial protests, the citizens of Paris had become
accustomed to them. They simply had other problems than
worrying about the preservation of old landmarks or houses.
And there were still further plans to separate the city more
thoroughly from its old face, because modern slaves did not
need an own identity or senses of home.
The parade of the GCF occupation troops should take place
on 01.03.2029, at the „Avenue of Humanity", just as other
events to entertain the crowd. A part of the long, old street
would be a fenced off, accessible for nobody. About thirty
meters in front of the thing, called „Temple of Tolerance",
the speaker's plattform, where Leon-Jack Wechsler would
open the ceremonies, should be erected.
The masses, that would fill the streets around the security
zone, should see the politician only on big video screens,
114
which would be set up to hundreds along the "Avenue of
Humanity" and in the whole city.
What was allowed, to be admired from the proximity, were
the GCF soldiers and the policemen, who would
demonstrate strength, marching down the boulevard.
The governor of the administrative sector ..Central Europe"
would bring the "great message of humanity" of the New
World Order, and the parade of the security forces and the
military would show the people, that it was healthier to
believe that message - in case of doubt.
It was a tremendous insanity to go to the dirty metropolis to
kill this polititian. Nevertheless, Frank Kohlhaas bred it in his
mind. He had nothing to lose. It could nothing happen worse
than dying.
115
Procrastination is the Thief of Time!
..Procrastination is the thief of time!"
..Procrastination is the thief of time!"
..Procrastination is the thief of time! "
Frank still fed his illusion and repeated this slogan like a
prayer. In the following days he was just concerned about
the fact that he would become scared. But retreat was not
allowed anymore, he had to remain hard and Kohlhaas did
also not allow his resoluteness, to get any cracks.
„l_eon-Jack Wechsler must die... die... die!", he recited
himself again and again.
Meanwhile, Alf got out of his way most of the time.
Nevertheless, he was fascinated by the idea of creeping
through tunnels get into the security zone. And sometimes
he even thought about following his crazy buddy to Paris.
To kill the governor and to cause riots in one of the most
important cities of the continent, was a great chance and
could have sweeping political consequences.
Furthermore, the possibility of participating in a "big thing"
was offered to him. In this point, he had to agree with Frank.
However, he also had nothing to lose and what kind of rebel
would he be, if he bitched out now?
The days passed and Alfred could hardly sleep. Should he
really join the operation? But how? Creeping through
tunnels, then emerging and shooting at Wechsler?
That would be their certain death, even if it functioned. They
just wouldn't survive this. Escaping from the security zone
would simply be impossible, Alf was sure. He had to talk to
Frank, because the plan was still not perfect.
116
The first week of the new month had almost passed and hail
came from the dark sky outside. Frank and Alfred sat in the
kitchen and had a hard day behind them. Kohlhaas had
mused for days and was still not completely content. He had
asked HOK for more construction plans of sewers and other
tunnels below Paris, but he had come to no solution.
Alfred ended the silence. „You have said, we can come to
you, if we want to join the operation, right? Okay, I have
thought about it and came to the decision, not to let you do
this crazy job alone, Frank."
„Aha, this sounds good to me. You really want to help me?",
returned Frank with a smile.
Alfred looked back and said: „More or less, but I need some
more informations about all this. The idea with the sewers
and tunnels seems to be not bad at all and HOK has
already given some plans to you. Did you meanwhile study
them sufficiently?"
„Yes, I did!"
"Anyway, that's not enough!", answered Alf.
„Thus, your plan is to come somehow into the proximity of
that "Temple of Tolerance", through these sewers or
tunnels, right? And then you want to shoot at Wechsler?",
asked Baumerwith surprise.
„About that!", said Frank.
"But you should know, that the entrances to the sewers in
the direct proximity of the event, will all be weld shut by the
police. I think, two or three days before the spectacle",
returned Alf.
Frank recognized that his friend had found a weak point of
his plan: „You are probably right. I already have seen this on
television, in some reports. This could be! Shit!"
„You have to modify your plan. In addition, I don't have the
desire to join a suicide operation. And it would be nothing
else, if we suddenly come out of a hole and shoot at the
117
governor, who is surrounded by countless cops," said
Baumer thoughtfully.
„Maybe you Ye right...", answered Frank and moaned. „Then
make a proposal, Baumer!"
„Hmmm...perhaps..."
Alfred took a slip, on which he had written something. He
hesitated for some seconds and sifted the small note for the
most important details of his plan.
Finally he said: „We go into a channel, a tunnel or
something like that, in the distance of two or three
kilometers - in an insignificant side street, by night.
I have to study HOK's documents. However, we need
something else than an usual handgun, which we couldn't
use at all in the worst case, if the security forces really had
locked all the gully covers around the "Temple of Tolerance"
before the event."
"Get ready with you speech!", said Kohlhaas.
J talk about an explosive charge, that we place under
Wechslefs ass and blow him up in front of the eyes of the
world public. I thought of NDC-23. The stuff is easy to carry
and highly concentrated. Twenty kilograms are sufficient, to
destroy a part of the canal system, the square in front of this
so called "Temple of Tolerance" and of course this fucking
governor!
We could transport it in backpacks into the tunnel system
and bring it to explode below the speaker's platform. Of
course, we will use a time fuse so that we can escape
before the big burst!", explained Alfred and seemed to be
enthusiastic.
„Damn! A great idea!", said Frank and banged on the table.
John or one the others can organize the explosive for us.
Above all, the Russians sell a lot of NDC-23 on the black
market, mostly remnants of the dissolved army of the former
GUS", added Baumer. Frank just smiled and said nothing.
118
..Moreover, we must assume that some tunnel entrances
remain blocked for us, either because workers of the public
utilities are still working there, or because of the security
forces, that had locked them", explained Alf.
Frank scratched his head and cogitated. Alfred's plan
pleased him.
„We need some blowtorchs to open locks or grids, if
necessary", remarked Baumer. „We have a few in the
village here. It is no problem to take them."
..Brilliant!", said Frank enthusiastically.
Alf continued: „And there is one more thing. If they scan the
tunnel system with infrared in the morning before the event,
we should have some cooling covers to cloak ourselves.
John can obtain them. Nevertheless, the whole operation is
really dangerous. We must consider everything!"
..Well, we should go to Wilden, and tell him about our plan.
Perhaps he has some more good ideas", praised Frank his
friend.
Soon after, the village boss evaluated the plan, which had
been introduced to him by both men this time. Julia Wilden,
who stood next to her father, also seemed to be impressed.
Frank smiled at her and enjoyed her admiration.
Still much more had to be done, and next, the men went to
John Thorphy. The Irishman felt disturbed and openly
expressed his displeasure, when the two rebels tried to
send him out to buy the equipment for them. But finally,
Wilden gave him the order to organize the explosive and the
other things.
Where John Thorphy had found the NDC-23, he did not tell.
But it lastet only three days until he returned with over
twenty kilograms of the highly explosive material and gave it
to the two men with a big smile.
..Procastrination is the thief of time!", thought Frank, as he
regarded the plasticine-like mass, packed up in blue bags.
119
His deadly idea slowly took shape, and in his mind he
already saw the hated politician torn to pieces on the
asphalt in front of the "Temple of Tolerance".
His dark, delusional resoluteness couldn't even be
destroyed by sleep disturbances, panic attacks or
nightmares anymore. He was eager to bring death to this
man and also to each other person, who would dare to
stand in his way. Frank just ignored the fright, that was
lurking in the night, and looked forward to the great day of
retribution.
Nothing should ever avert his revenge on this cruel world,
as Frank covenanted. Sometimes he went down in the dark
cellar, where Alf stored the explosive. All the rooms here
were cluttered with rotten boards and old crates. There was
not even a light switch. And while his friend slept, the young
rebel crept secretly down the stone stairs and bent over the
blue bags, which were sealed with adhesive tape, stroking
them with a dearful smile like a mother her newborn child.
Until middle of February, Frank and Alf spent their time with
the intensive study of construction plans. HOK visited them
several times, in order to give them still more current and
detailed recordings.
They planned, on recommendation of the computer
scientist, to enter the underground labyrinth at the "Avenue
of Saint-Ouen", nearly two kilometers away from the
security zone.
Here were endless dark tunnels and some of them lead
directly to the square in front of the "Temple of Tolerance".
Nevertheless, the trip to the underworld of Paris was
insanity. Apart from the fact, that they could not build on the
documents of the authorities of the city, there was also the
possibility to get lost in the dark corridors. Some tunnels had
been closed many years ago, or were just collapsed.
120
Moreover, even the older employees of the city
administration did not know all the paths through the earth
anymore. Further, Frank and Alf didn't want to make the
acquaintance of the notorious catacombs of Paris. Those
dark places were a necropolis, as there was no second in
Europe.
Here rested the bones of over five million people, who were
brought into the darkness below the city, because of lack of
space on the cemeteries in the early modern times,.
Therefore, the former French capital stood on a gigantic
grave field. Alf often talked about these chambers of the
dead below the city, which were redundant with bones up to
the ceiling. Frank, who always said that he was not afraid to
die, became a bit scared, when he thought about these
spooky places.
„May the dead of Paris forgive us, that we enter their realm.
Their brothers in the netherworld, who look complaining
down at this earth, because their life was so early
terminated by the new rulers, will thank us, if we revenge
them!", philosophized Kohlhaas.
However, there was a lot to organize now, far away from all
ghost stories about catacombs and dark holes in the
underground of Paris. Meanwhile, time pressed.
Frank and Alfred should be brought to Compiegne, in the
northeast of Paris, by an airplane, in order to penetrate the
city from there, behaving like harmless tourists. All the
planes in Ivas were registered and had completely
inconspicuous owners. Therefore, this approach seemed to
be clever.
Then, the two assassins wanted to drive from Compiegne to
Paris with a hire car. Their Scanchips were falsified and
soon they would see, if HOK's abilities had been good
enough. At least, the journey to Paris should start one week
121
before the 01.03.2029, so that enough time remained, to
explore some tunnels in the nights before the event.
The shabby hotel, in which Frank and Alfred should wait for
the great day, had already been chosen by HOK. He had
booked a room for them on the Internet, and had also
contacted the hire car company in Compiegne.
All had to be planned to the smallest detail, because there
was no time to waste and uncertainties could become a
deadly disaster.
The takeoff of the small transport aircraft, which officially
belonged to Mr. Artur Burzius, a Russian insurance buyer,
should start from Ivas on 19.02.2029 at 9.00 o'clock. Then,
the two resistance fighters would enter the lion's den. Still
two days remained. Time was ticking away and Frank had
to admit, despite all frights of the holo cell and the strokes of
fate he had overcome, that he was scared. Scared to death.
Afraid to die soon.
He tried to hide his nervousness, but his whipping with the
foot, when he sat at the kitchen table, and his talking while
he was dozing, betrayed him.
However, his friend felt the same. Alfred mostly ran through
the village in these days, speaking at each possible
opportunity with Wilden, who tried to encourage him.
Sometimes, he sat in the brightly illuminated kitchen during
the whole night, with a cup of tea and a cigarette, just
looking out the window. Baumer did not sleep very much
and waited eargerly for the start of the operation.
Julia is at the door, Frank!", called Alf from the side room,
while his roommate tried to concentrate on a political
brochure. Dusk was already falling outside. The journey to
the west was set for 9.00 o'clock tomorrow. During this day,
many villagers had come to the two men, to wish them all
the best for the operation. Several women had brought
122
cakes and food. Even HOK had visited them again - with
some more construction plans in his hands.
Steffen de Vries, the Belgian, who lived with his family in
Ivas since four years and had to fly the two rebels to
Compiegne, had also been there for several hours.
Meanwhile, de Vries was also more than nervous.
Tm coming!", answered Frank and left his bedroom.
Baumer had already led Julia in and went with her into the
kitchen. She was pleased to see Frank and shook his hand.
„l just wanted to wish you good luck!", she said and seemed
to be concerned and gloomy.
„Thanks! We will need it!", answered Alfred and took a deep
breath.
„Thanks, Julia! It's just nice to see you!", returned Frank.
..However, still a last beautiful sight, before we will enter the
spooky underground."
Now, the pretty woman smiled shyly and didn't find the right
word for a short moment.
J wanted to...", she stammered. „lf it will be too
dangerous. ..however.. .and you have no chance to reach
Wechsler, you can always stop the operation!"
Julia stared with her sad eyes at the table surface. Frank
turned to the window and said: „We will see! When we are
in Paris, there will be no more turning back!"
„l meant... ", she added.
„Don't worry! We will be successful, and if not, the
catacombs are near and we will meet a lot of dead buddies",
joked Alf with a cynical undertone.
Julia Wilden obviously found this not very funny and shook
her head. „Don't say such stupid things!", she spoke quietly
and seemed to be close to tears. Kohlhaas enjoyed it, to
see her in such a condition, if he was honest. Now the
beautiful Fraulein, who was always a bit precocious,
showed some feelings.
123
But Frank still played the hard rebel: „We will return for sure,
Julia! We will kill this asshole without mercy!"
Then she said goodbye with tears in her eyes and shook
Baumefs hand. Frank was even hugged by her. He was
pleased that she treated him in such a way, and briefly, he
was nearly inspired. But he checked himself and tried to
think about something else, ignoring the pretty, young
woman.
„She likes you, Franky!", teased him Alf, after Julia had left
the house.
"No idea!", answered his friend with a shake of the head.
"She is really nice!", added Baumer with a broad grin.
Frank turned away from him, went to the window and stared
at the squalid garden behind the house. It was dark and
rainy outside.
The two rebels were still awake for several hours. Now they
were untwisted and nervous. This last night in Ivas, before
the highly dangerous job in Paris, was terrible for Frank. He
had weird dreams again, which afflicted him in the short
phase of his sleep during the morning hours. He could
remember just a few things on the next morning, when the
Fleming, his pilot, awaked him with loud banging and calling
at the front door:
Frank walked through a strange dreamworld once more. It
completely resembled the holo cell, in which he had
suffered for eight long months. White, sharp neon light cut
into his eyes and he trudged through the bright fog of light
without a real goal.
After a while, he recognized that it was his holo cell, but it
appeared much bigger as he could remember. The walls
could not be seen anymore and only the toilet and the hated
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plank bed with its light-gray pleather stood in the middle of
the white light.
„Frank!", he heard the deep voice of an adult of man from a
distance. „Fraaank!"
He followed the call and soon faced a terrible sight. In front
of him was an enormous spider net, full of thick, black
spiders. Some hatefully stared at him with their glinty eyes,
and their slimy mandibles twitched. Some of the creatures
hissed, when he appeared in front of their net, others were
busy with eating their prey.
The enormous spider net, which seemed to broaden into the
white illuminated sky, was full of screaming humans, who
were clinging to thick and slimy threads.
The young man came closer and saw now, who was in the
claws of the ugly spider monsters. It were babies. It was
Nico. They all were little Nicos. Nevertheless, their voices
did not sound like the voices of babies, they were deeper.
Voices of men, who were already adult.
„Frank! Look at us!", yelled one of the babies, in whose flesh
one of the spiders had bored its mandibles. „Look at us!
Look at us!"
The beasts munched and refreshed themselves with the
warm blood of the little humans, while the babies called: „As
you can see, Frank, the holo cell has grown! Can you see
it? Can you see, how outstanding perfected it is? This cell
does not know walls or borders anymore, because it covers
the whole world. It has been improved greatly, hasn't it?"
And the spiders continued to eat their victims. Soon they
had turned away from Frank again, crept over the gigantic
net and sucked and ate and devoured.
Just look at us, Frank!", chorused the babies. Then it was
again black in the head of the dreamer and he forgot, how
the dream continued...
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Frank and Alf packed their bags and Steffen de Vries
helped them. Already in this phase of the operation,
mistakes had to be avoided and at first, the list of equipment
was checked off.
Flashlights, explosive, pistols, close combat weapons for
the case of emergency, meal rations, gumboots, army
boots, construction plans of sewers and so on. The list was
long and it lasted over one hour until the three rebels had
finished their work. Before they went to the transport
aircraft, Mr. Wilden suddenly came to them.
„l wish you all the best, my heros!", he called. „Have you
already heard the news today?"
Wilden smiled and was gasping for breath, while Frank, Alf
and the Belgian turned around: „No, we had other
problems!"
Japan!", said the gray-haired man. Japan has left the
World Union! They want their old state back!"
"Aha... ", answered Frank without any interest.
J wanted to tell you that, before you fly away! There were
big demonstrations in Tokyo and in many other cities of the
country, one week ago. Governor Kaito Ikeda, the servant of
the World Government, and his advisor Ron Baldwin, have
resigned and have been expelled from the island. The new
president of Japan is Haruto Matsumoto, the leader of the
reform movement. Japan has moreover stopped all
payments and tributes to the World Government.
Furthermore, all the foreign diplomats and supervisors have
been expelled from the country too. No country has dared a
thing like that since 2018!", explained Wilden with
unconcealed enthusiasm.
Japan is at the end of the world and we are here", returned
Steffen de Vries.
„However, this is nevertheless a sign! The system is
crumbling, my friends. Perhaps, other states will follow
126
Japan!", said the village boss, somehow disappointed that
the three men had not fully understood the meaning of
Matsumoto's rebellion.
Then he added: „lf you read between the lines, beyond the
lies and the agitation of the international media, you could
believe, that even China and Korea are close to a revolt!"
The three rebels, who were waiting for the flight to a deadly
mission, just nodded and said goodbye to Wilden.
Finally the village boss shouted: „You see, nevertheless,
there is still hope! Our fight is not in vain! Good luck!"
At half past ten in the morning, the small airplane rose into
the air. Kohlhaas and Baumer looked wistfully back at the
place of their provisional peace, the village Ivas. Then they
disappeared on the horizon.
Below themselves, they saw the landscape becoming
smaller and soon the plane flew so high, that they could see
the clouds. The hidden and open war, which raged below
them on the ground, seemed to be forgotten for a moment.
But it would not be vanished, when they would come down
to earth again.
They were silent for a while, also the Flemish rebel Steffen
de Vries, Alf and Frank only knew volatilely. The Belgian
lived with his two daughters, his son, his wife and his dog in
the proximity of the village center, in a barely renovated
house.
It was just beautiful, here in the sky, much more pleasant
than on the rotten earth below them. The nervousness in
their minds briefly died down and Frank remembered the
words of Mr. Wilden.
„Japan!", he thought. „This land is far away and has nothing
to do with us. Nevertheless...?"
Perhaps it was a sign of hope, also for the rest of mankind,
that one day the slave chains could be broken again. But it
was so grim. The enemy had become more than superior in
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this age. The mass media danced his dance of fraud and lie
without exception, and they flew each day new attacks on
the brains of the people, like on cities, which were already
destroyed and still had to be devasteted.
The power of finance, the whole monetary system, was in
the claws of the enemy since a long time. And with this
weapon, he had crushed the world piece by piece.
The military had been bought by him and he sent out his
dull mercenaries, who seemed to have no more own will,
against everyone, who tried to resist him.
What would be in the future? The hangman's noose around
the neck of mankind tigthened with every passing year more
and more. Something had to be done, there was no doubt.
„Japan!", said Baumer with a lack of understanding.
„Wilden, the great analyst of world politics. I don't know,
what I shall think about that."
„ln any case, better than nothing!", it came out of the cockpit
with Flemish accent.
..We'll see what happens now!", answered Frank.
„l will tell you what will happen next!", growled Alf. "Now, the
Lodge Brothers will demoralize these stubborn Japanese.
Slowly but surely. As they always do, if states dare to act
independently.
It will begin with a worldwide press agitation, which will
slander the Japanese to the bone. Then the economic
boycott will come and in the end another war - or the
Japanese will submit to the World Goverment again. That is
an old and proven tactic."
„But it could really be, that other countries will support
Japan", returned Kohlhaas with a tang of confidence.
„No, this is an illusion in my eyes!", answered Alf. ..This new
president, this Matsumoto, should be a born samurai, in
order to endure, what expects him and his people now. He
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should have nerves like steel cables and should always
sleep with one eye open."
..Let's hope that he has the spirit of his brave ancestors",
said Frank.
Anyhow, Japan's act of restoring its independence, was an
incomprehensible boldness from the point of view of the
World Government. The country had gone through hard
times since the great crisis in 2013. Its export trade and the
industry had collapsed and the national indebtedness had
been so gigantic, that the highly technicalised country had
almost broken down like a house of cards. The Japanese,
who had successfully copied the European technology for a
long time, had lost their commercial relevance in a few
weeks.
Japan's economy, the cornerstone of its new national pride
after the Second World War, had declined. After 2018, it
had still become worse and the island had turned into a
bubbling cauldron full of discontent. While a great part of the
nationalistic and traditional Japanese population had
postulated the return to the "old way", the care for their
culture and the preference of Japanese interests, the
puppet government of Kaito Ikeda, who had been assigned
by the World Government, had done the opposite. So the
tensions had risen with time.
Steffen de Vries switched on the digitized radio and a song
of the Cyberpop Hipcore star Evan Steele resounded out of
the cockpit, which soon got on Frank's and Alf's nerves.
Then the news followed.
First came a message about the World President, who had
opened an „One-World-Kindergarten" in Washington, telling
the listeners, that inattentiveness or rebellious behavior,
particularly among little boys, had to be fought with new
drugs. Early childhood disturbances had to be wiped out by
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the use of more pharmaceutical products and it was a holy
assignment for all great humanists, to liberate the children
of the world from these "diseases".
The chief of the kindergarten was asked about this and
seemed to be enthusiastic about the new medicines. Then a
representative of a big pharmaceutical company gave an
interview and announced that they intensively worked on a
new drug programs for infants.
The next topic was Japan and the newscaster said: „This
morning, the World Government discussed further
measures at their crisis meeting in New York, to handle with
the fascist Japanese state.
The World President and other prominent representatives of
politics and economics, came to the decision, that the global
community has to consider drastic measures, because of
the increasing threat to all peaceable people. Matsumoto's
Japan, where political dissidents are persecuted and
murdered, has nuclear weapons and seems to be willing, to
use them against the free world, as secret GSA reports
prove.
The governor of the administrative sector ..Eastern Asia",
Mr. Kim Bo-Hung, and his advisor Mr. David Frost,
announced a hard course against Japan during the
conference.
„We can not permit, that fascist polititians like Haruto
Matsumoto become new cancerous ulcers in our peaceful
and free world!", stressed the World President literally.
GCF commander Edward McOwen said that a possible
security zone has to be established around Japan and
arranged the sending of warships of the GCF Pacific fleet to
Eastern Asia. He exhorted all administrative districts and
sub-sectors of the world community to watchfulness, in
order to make fanatics and dictators like Matsumoto
innocuous, before they become too powerful. The plan of
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Japan, to become independent from world economy, and
also the intend to abolish the interest system, the World
President castigated as a ..perverse act of a mad gone
dictatorship".
..What did I say?", muttered Baumer and smiled sufferingly.
„Now it starts!"
„We can only wish the Japanese good luck for the future. I
hope, they have a thick skin. Now we have our own fight!",
replied Frank.
The airplane flew over Poland and came nearer to the
sector ..Central Europe", while time passed. Meanwhile, the
three men were seized by a growing nervosity.
They talked quietly with each other, as if they would fear to
be intercepted by an enormous ear in the sky. And actually
the curious ears and eyes around them became more
numerous. The countless radar and alarm systems,
supervising the airspace, let Frank think of the spider net in
his nightmare. ..Central Europe" was near.
But nothing happened. Nobody noticed the inadvertent
guests, who penetrated the completely supervised area. If
someone had really scanned the flier, he had only found an
insignificant name in the registration card index of the
machine. The big eye looked past them, although they were
directly in front of its pupil. The hours passed and Frank,
Alfred and Steffen breathed again, when they crossed the
old border of France and no radiogram of the air traffic
control was sent. Compiegne was close now and the
airplane started its final descent.
Finally, they reached the ground without incidents, but a
feeling of biggest uncertainty tormented them, when they
stepped out of the airplane. It was like in former times, when
the Europeans could still afford vacation travels to the
southern countries. If they had left the cold north and had
131
finally come out of the plane in the south, they had often
been confronted with an unusual wall of stifling heat. Today
it was different, because the wall, which waited for Frank
and Alf here in the center of France, was not made of heat,
it consisted of distrust.
In his meticulous fashion, HOK had selected a small village,
where there rebels should land. Far away from the attention
of the natives.
The Belgian had opted a large field near the village to land.
Frank and Alf said goodbye and took their backpacks. Then
de Vries took off again as fast as he could.
For safety reasons he flew directly back to Ivas, because he
didn't want to stay just one minute longer in such an
extremely monitored zone. If he would have parked his
plane somewhere in this rural area for seven days, the
danger to be controlled by a police patrol would still have
been small, but his nerves were raw.
He had been relieved, when he had left the sector "Central
Europe" with his Family in 2019 - never to be seen again.
Perhaps, de Vries was a little too paranoid, and he also had
a perfectly falsified Scanchip, but only the thought of being
caught by the police filled him with panic. The Fleming had
already been arrested in 2011, because of smuggling arms,
and his name was still listed in all official databanks. Steffen
and his family had suffered a lot in "Central Europe" and
when he finally came back to Ivas, he was more than happy
about this.
Meanwhile, Frank and Alf stood on a field close to a small
village near Compiegne - with full backpacks. Their hearts
were pounding like mad. Now they were on their own,
standing in the middle of enemy country. Therefore, it was
important to behave inconspicuous.
„We look like ramblers from the forest", muttered Alf.
132
..Let's go to the village and then we will drive to Compiegne
by bus. We still have to make it to Paris today!", explained
Frank and felt uneasy.
They walked along a dusty road, which led from the landing
zone directly to the small village, always looking around.
The load was heavy, everyone had to carry about 25
kilograms, and they just hoped that no policeman would find
them strange.
However, the two rebels had some ordinary clothes. Frank
wore some blue jeans and a dark green polo. Furthermore,
a light gray baseball cap, which was pulled deeply into his
face, covering his head.
Baumer also wore blue jeans, a brown turtleneck pullover
and a reddish baseball cap with the symbol of the the
"Cleveland dead Indians". Under the trouser legs of the two
men, black army boots could be seen, because firm
footwear was essential on this mission.
Their warm jackets had been stowed in the backpacks.
They also had sunglasses in their bags, but the weather
was sulky today, and so sunglasses would have looked not
very inconspicuous.
On the way to the village, they didn't see many people. Just
an old man, who passed and briefly examined them. Apart
from this, there was not a soul to be seen. However, the
village didn't pulsate of life. Everything looked poorly and
only a few inhabitants were on the street. Just a little boy on
the opposite roadside, who shouted something in French,
gave them a bit attention. But Frank and Alf didn't mind him.
They went to a bus stop and drove with line 38 to
Compiegne.
..Just cut and run!", they thought to themselves. The bus
driver had warily looked at them, when he had debited the
amount for the trip from their Scanchips, Frank was sure.
Alfred, however, protested that this hadn't been noticeable
133
to him. Both were silent and tried to ignore the other
passengers. They just sat in the last row of seats of the bus
and were glad about everyone, who did not turn around to
them. The bus driver talked with an older woman during the
trip, and she probably told him her whole life story with wild
gestures. „Oui!" and „Non!" it resounded through the shabby
bus. Then the vehicle arrived at Compiegne.
„Give me the DC-stick!", said Frank, after they had stepped
off the bus.
Anyhow they had already taken this small hurdle without
any problems. Alfred ransacked his black backpack and
pulled out a small data medium. On the DC-stick were the
construction plans of the canalization of Paris and other
files, also a map of Compiegne.
„We are here, in the center. The rental car company is not
far away. We can walk!", said Frank and nervously looked at
Alf.
Now they were surrounded by a lot of people. It was not like
in the small village they came from. The two assassins were
close to a shopping mile and masses of passersby were all
over the place. But they didn't regard them, if at all only as
tourists, and gave them no closer looks. Both men heard a
tangle of languages beyond their ears, mainly French.
Some children, probably Arabs, ran over the street and
were screamed. At first sight, Compiegne was an ugly, gray
and dirty city. At second sight, it was still more disgusting!
The shopping mile was full of beggars and homeless
people, who hung around in the corners, wrapped in covers
and drunk. An old man roared loudly with a babbling voice
and threw his bottle of cheap liquor on the asphalt.
Somewhere, someone tried to play on a guitar and sang flat
to get some Globes. It was just odious here. But where was
it still pleasant in this age? Anyhow, Kohlhaas and Baumer
134
hit the road immediately to reach the rental car company in
time. It was already after 17.00 o'clock and they had to
hurry up.
Frank noticed that the people around him walked with a
stoop, as if they would have an interest to look like midgets.
Their faces reflected poverty, many looked ill and pale. The
two Germans were regarded by nobody and silently walked
down the street. Shortly afterwards, they passed some
abandoned shops. Probably there had been a flourishing
retail trade in former times, but this was long ago.
Meanwhile, the shopwindows of the dirty houses in the
center of Compiegne looked dead and dusty. The downfall
of a once beautiful city was obvious.
What had remained, were the cheap supermarkets of
„Globe Food" and „3X6 Market", which supplied Europe and
North America with their bad food.
Here, the homeless people clustered. They gestured,
shouted, brought new liquor out of the supermarket and also
vomited, when they were drunk enough. From the other end
of the long shopping street, which had already lost its gloss,
suddenly came a loud scream. A young man had stabbed
one of the derelicts, people ran around and started to yell.
Frank and Alfred walked faster, if a police car emerged.
A little later, they had reached the rental car company,
which lay in a halfdark backyard. A sturdy man with a beard
waited for them behind a desk and lolled on his chair. The
two rebels entered his office. Now it became thrilling,
because Frank had to use his falsified Scanchip for the first
time.
„We want a car. We want to go to Paris!", said Alfred.
The Frenchman, who probably had a lot of contact with
tourists, looked up and fetched some papers.
135
„Oui! You want to go to Paris? Okay!", he answered and
smiled.
„Eh... Yes!", added Frank. „Which car do you want? A
normally car, a combi, a van?", enumerated the renter.
„Normal car!", answered Alf.
„Which type?", asked the man.
„Tell that asshole that it is all the same to me. I want to
leave this place as fast as I can!", hissed Kohlhaas quietly.
Alf nodded.
„lt doesn't matter. Any normal car!", said Baumer.
„Okay! Where are you from?", nerved the Frenchman.
„Austria...from Austria!", stammered Frank. His heart
pounded and his hands felt sweaty.
„Ah! Aus Osterreich!", joked the man and tried to talk
German.
„Ja!", answered Alfred.
The renter stood up from his chair and waved the two rebels
nearer.
„Come on!", he called. „Here! This car you can have."
The friendly man showed Frank and Alf a black and no
longer new "Lion".
„ls der gut?", he asked, grinned and was pleased that he
had made it, to speak German.
„Yes! We take this car!", answered Frank, whose back
began to hurt, because of his heavy load.
„Okay, we go to the office. Than pay with Scanchip!", said
the renter and walked off.
"Now we will see...", whispered Alf.
„How long do you want to lease the car?", asked the man
from the next room and typed something.
„Till the second of march!", said Alf.
"Okay!", it came back.
The Frenchman took the two Scanchips and pulled them
over a reader.
136
„A car is 40 Globes a day, my friends!", he explained.
„Okay!", breathed Frank and looked at Alf with fear in his
eyes.
The reader hummed quietly and for the two men the world
seemed to stop turning for some seconds. The tension let
their hearts pump faster and the adrenalin shot through their
veins.
Then the Frenchman looked up and smiled friendly: „Thank
you, Mr. Eberharter and Mr. Willner. Take your car. Have
much fun in Paris! Haben Sie vielen Spaft in Paris, mein
Herren! Ha, ha!"
The two rebels took a deep breath, walked fastly to their
car, threw the heavy bags into the trunk and disappeared.
The trip to Paris was more pleasant than in former times.
There were no more traffic jams of considerable size,
because the number of cars had increasingly been reduced
in the last years.
The breakdown of the automobile industry had begun in the
year 2009 and in 2029, cars were luxury articles for the
ordinary people. Who could hardly ensure, that there was
enough food on his plate, had no more Globes to fund a car.
Government officials and other higher earners, who still
could afford a car, were an exception. Moreover, the prices
for gasoline had drastically risen, particularly since 2018.
Meanwhile, a car devoured big sums of money.
Alternative energies, which could have replaced the
gasoline, were still suppressed by the oil industry and the oil
lords had still all the power, to exterminate any rivals in this
sector. In 2019, a worldwide wave of liquidations by the
GSA had hit many scientists and entrepreneurs, who
wanted to offer free energies. So the traffic jams slowly
vanished, and that was a real advantage on this day,
because the two rebels could nearly "enjoy" their trip to
137
Paris. However, the motorways and streets were in a
catastrophic condition. The administrative district ..Central
Europe" used its income for more important things than to
repair streets, for example, an improved monitoring or an
extended armament.
It lasted for a while, until the two men had found the hotel,
which HOK had chosen for them. The streets of Paris
appeared endlessly and darkly, and if one didn't know this
labyrinth of lanes, it was easy to go astray.
The hotel was called ..Sunflower" and was in the east of
Paris. At 20,30 o'clock, the exhausted men finally arrived
and parked their car behind the buidling. In the hotel, a
pretty Frenchwoman with light brown hair and a girlish face
was waiting for them.
She was very friendly, but somehow busy and reticent.
However, this was no problem, because unnecessary talk
with other people had to be strictly avoided. Frank and Alf
just told her, that they were tourists from Austria.
The Scanchips functioned perfectly again. This was the way
it should be. Then, the two men brought their heavy and
explosive luggage to room 16 on the 2nd floor. Frank and
Alf didn't see many other guests on this evening. Only an
older woman, who greeted them in French. That was all.
They closed the door behind themselves and fell on their
beds, which were covered with a brown duvet. Soon this
day had come to an end and the two rebels were just glad
about this.
Now they were in Paris, but the real trip to hell was still
waiting for them. Nevertheless, Frank and Alf banished this
fact from their minds at this evening.
138
Aux Champs-Elysees
Aux Champs-Elysees
Aux Champs-Elysees
Au soleil, sous la pluie
A midi ou a minuit
II y a tout ce que vous voulez
Aux Champs-Elysees...
(French version, 1969)
Oh Champs-Elysees
Oh Champs-Elysees
Sonne scheint, Regen rinnt
Ganz egal, wir beide sind
So froh, wenn wir uns wiederseh'n
Oh Champs-Elysees...
(German cover version, 1969)
Oh Champs-Elysees
Oh Champs-Elysees
Sonne scheint, Regen rinnt
Wechsler, du wirst mich nicht sehfn
und bald vor deinem Schopfer stehf n !
Oh Champs-Elysees...
(Modified version by Frank Kohlhaas, 2029)
139
Although they were in the middle of a strongly monitored
city in ..Central Europe", and the enemy could lie in wait at
each corner, Frank and Alf slept quite well. At first, Frank
remembered this old French song, which was occasionally
played on the radio. He changed the text of the German
version in a way that it was suitable to the situation.
Kohlhaas chuckled quietly, till the sleep had overpowered
him.
The beginning of the next day could not be avoided and
there were only eight days till the "Festival of the new
World", which should come over the old "Avenue de
Champs-Elysees".
There was still enough time to get an idea of the situation,
and to explore the dark sewer tunnels, which they had
selected as their way to the security zone. This procedure
was also very necessary, because there was no room in
their plan for unexpected incidents, collapsed tunnels or
blocked ways.
Frank and Alf spent the first day in Paris in their hotel room
and avoided to leave the building. Only once, Alf bought
something to eat in a nearby supermarket and told his friend
about the dirty streets he had walked down. Apart from that,
they spent their time with watching TV. The news, which
were mostly agitation against Japan, brought them several
outbreaks of rage. For the next day, more exactly for the
next night, both men had planned something really bold. At
two o'clock in the morning, the two rebels sneaked out of
their hotel room and passed the abandoned reception.
In the darkness of the next street corner, Frank hastily took
his DC-Stick and opened the city map of Paris, which HOK
had completed with additional informations. Like two
shades, they crept around the houses and moved silently
from one dark place to the next. It was raining and Alf
suggested to postpone the operation to the following day,
140
but Frank did not want to waste anymore time and remained
stubborn. „The Rue Lagille, it is not far away from here!",
whispered Kohlhaas and showed his friend the map.
„We are just crazy, man!", answered Baumer.
„Of course!" Frank grinned. „And now, let's hurry up!"
They went to a dark corner again and studied some
construction plans. Meanwhile, the heavy rain had stopped
and just dabbled quietly one the roofs of the houses around
them. The streets were empty, only a few probably Algerian
teenagers, who occasionally roared through the night or
kicked against garbage cans and bus stop signs, could be
seen in the distance. However, the two rebels were not
noticeable to them. It was after three o'clock, when they
finally reached their goal.
..Let's look for an entrance here", whispered Frank.
„Shit, what am I doing here?", sighed his friend and fetched
a small crowbar, which he kept hidden under his jacket.
..Come on now!", hissed Kohlhaas.
A car drove past them and an old woman, standing at a
brightly illuminated window, gazed at the dark and wet
street. Frank and Alf had noticed her and decided to creep
inconspicuously away.
..Look! She can see us! We have to go!", growled Frank and
Alf followed him.
..Let's go to the next street, there are only some houses on
one side. And there is an abandoned factory building,
according to the plan", whispered the young man with the
DC-Stick in his hand.
Shortly afterwards, they reached a nearly perfect dark back
alley. Now they felt unobserved. Anyhow, they could not see
anybody, although they looked around several times and
examined the environment with sharp eyes. A minute later
they stood in front of a gully cover of iron. It was clearly
141
visible shown on one of HOK's maps of the city of Paris.
They paused for a short moment.
„This must be gully cover 344-GL-77003, if the map is
correct", said Frank with a little enthusiastic face. „Down
there? Now? Damn! "
„No turning back, Kohlhaas!", answered Alf and already
screwed up his nose.
They lifted the manhole cover without problems and pushed
it to the side. In front of them, an unfathomable black hole
opened itself now. Only the outlines of some rusty rungs,
leading into the darkness, could be recognized.
„Fuck!", said Frank.
Baumers nodded approvingly, then he held his flashlight
downward. Dirt, rotten leaves and rust expected the two
assassins down below. Moreover, a pungent stench.
"Oh my God!", said Kohlhaas and took his rubber gloves
and the breathing mask. "Do you have the blowtorch, Alf?"
"Yes, sure! What are you waiting for?", muttered Baumer.
Frank carefully climbed down the rusty ladder, while Alf was
shining for him. After a few minutes, he had reached the
ground.
„Baaah!", it resounded out of the dark hole.
His partner could imagine, what Frank meant. Then
Kohlhaas shone for Alf, who crawled down into the
unknown, little inviting environment of the underground of
Paris. Baumer pulled the gully cover over the manhole, so
that only a small gap remained. Down here, it was as
disgusting as expected, and the channel did not make the
impression, as if someone had ever cleaned it in the last
twenty years. Wet heaps of dirt were piled up beside the
rivlet, down to the feet of the two men. Some rats scurried
away. Alf shone at them with his flashlight and the animals
quickly disappeared somewhere in a stinking hole.
142
„l_ook at this, gentlemen of the World Government are also
here!", joked Frank and pointed at the rats.
Alf chuckled. „Here will be a lot of them. If you see a
completely fat and bloated rat, then you can address it with
„Mr. World President"!"
Frank grinned and returned: „To compare these poor
animals with the Lodge Brothers, is an insult for every rat!"
The gossip took a bit of the uncertainty of the two rebels,
who stood now in the middle of an ugly sewer tunnel. Frank
looked at his map again and then they walked about
hundred meters straightforward.
They had to watch out for their heads, because the tunnel
was not as tall as a man and surely already very old. Soon
after, both men came to a bigger canal and heard a car
above themselves. They were under a street. The little river
of wastewater was a bit broader here, just like the roundish
tunnel. Now they had to come to a decision.
„lf the map is correct, we must go to the left", said Frank
after a short look at the DC-Stick.
„lt will hopefully be correct, otherwise we are fucked up",
grumbled Baumer.
„There is always a gully cover somewhere, that can bring us
back to the surface", said Frank and walked forward, waving
with his flashlight. Meanwhile, Alfred sprayed a red cross on
the wall, in order to use it later as an orientation.
The broader sewer tunnel still extended for about two
hundred meters, then they came to a grid, clogged with dirt
and leaves, which was completely rusted. There was no
getting through. At least, not without a blowtorch, which
Alfred fortunately had. It just took a quarter of an hour, then
he had destroyed the rusty lattice.
„What a work!", gasped Alf, when the dammed up water
poured away between his legs with loud splashing.
143
The tunnel with the old grid still extended for two hundred
further meters, then it ended in a larger room, where the rills
of wastewater flowed together. Gray-green walls gazed at
the two intruders and Frank was sure, that these old
buildings already existed since many decades, maybe since
centuries.
Rusty wastewater pipes came from the ceiling of the room
and on the wall was a sign with something in French on it. It
was completely rusted too.
At least, they could stand tall here. The way forked again in
several directions. Frank looked at some files and was sure
that they had to go into the opposite tunnel, Alfred trusted
him and sprayed another red cross on the wall.
„One of these sewer corridors had not been on our map, but
this must be the right one! Above it, is the "Rue de
Rothschild", as I think", explained Kohlhaas.
Shortly afterwards, they walked through a narrow passage
with some big holes in the walls. Spiders and rats welcomed
them in this dark tunnel and it was smelling rancidly, despite
the breathing masks.
Frank and Alf had to crouch again and watched their heads.
Meanwhile, they had walked this tunnel for about fifty
meters, when they discovered a small source of light above
themselves. Probably it was the light of one of the street
lamps, which came through a little hole of a gully cover.
They continued to creep through the stinking passage, then
they stopped. A black water lode with a very narrow
sidewalk on the side was in front of them, it was
approximately one meter deep. In the distance of ten
meters, rusty and damaged iron pipes led upward. Alfred
marked the way and followed his friend along the stream.
The water was not really deep, but it smelled foul and
appeared somehow threatening. Frank thought that a
terrible kraken would grab them with its tentacles to pull
144
them down into a bottomless black sea. It was just spooky
down here and the stench crept out of every corner right
into their noses.
„lf I have counted my steps correctly, we have walked about
600 or 700 meters yet", said Baumer.
His friend looked at the digital map and nodded. At the end
of the tunnel, they reached a relatively big room, which
looked like a reservoir. Stairs led upward and a large pool
with brackish water was in front of them.
Frank illuminated the basin, then he said to Alfred: ..HOK's
informations have mostly been correct so far. This reservoir
or whatever it is, has been marked with a red spot on the
map. You should spray a sign on the wall here!"
After they had crossed the next tunnel, they had penetrated
the underground labyrinth for more than one kilometer.
Then they reached an area, which reminded them of a small
hall. It must have been a part of the world-famous
canalization of Paris, which had been built in the year 1850
and during the following period. With a tang of admiration,
the two men stopped for a moment and looked around.
Then they continued their journey.
„This must be pumps over there, right?" Alfred pointed at
several enormous pipes with big handwheels on the side,
that led into a deep water reservoir. However, they also
were totally rusted, although they seemed to be still in use.
J think so!", answered Frank. „This hall is probably in the
east of the "Avenue of Humanity". I think the street is less
than two kilometers far from here. This place is noticeable
enough, we don't need to mark it."
Alfred put the spray can with the red color back into his
backpack and followed his friend. They went up some
concrete stairs with a handrail on the side. Then they
entered big room, that nearly looked like an underground
hall and was carried by stone columns. Soon after, Frank
145
and Alf went to the right and walked through a narrow, long
passage.
..HOK's informations have been right yet", said Kohlhaas.
„The construction plans of the canalization of the inner city
seem to be still exact."
„Well, the World Government has just taken over this
ancient and singular sewerage. They would never build
something for the people!", remarked Alf.
„This sewer network has been built by hardworking men and
not by dirty parasites!", hissed Frank and waved his friend
nearer.
„Look! There is a locked door. It obstructs the way, which
we have to take", said Frank and pointed at a dark corner of
the hall. Alfred fetched his blowtorch, but didn't destroy the
door more than necessary, in order to arouse no suspicion.
The tunnel beyond the locked door seemed to be endless,
and after a while the two men discovered a hole in the wall.
But there was no sewer corridor anywhere.
„What is that? It looks, as if somebody had broken some
stones out of the wall there, to dig a way", said Frank and
illuminated the strange hole with his flashlight. „Over there!
Look, there is another tunnel! Can you see it?"
Behind the hole seemed to be a large shaft. In the last
years, many homeless people had revamped the
underworld of Paris at their own discretion and had
extended the endless tunnel system. They had found a sad
home here, in a time, when there was no more room for
them at the surface. Kohlhaas looked at his DC-stick and
read some files. It lasted nearly half an hour. In the
meantime, Alfred sauntered boredly and nervously through
the darkness.
„This could be an abandoned metro shaft!", explained
Frank.
146
„ln the inner city of Paris, the sewer corridors, tunnels and
passages are sometimes hardly ten meters away from each
other. I will take a closer look!"
Alfred already saw the back of his friend, who jumped into
the little cavity and soon shone with the flashlight in his
direction. Kohlhaas called him out of the dark tunnel and
seemed to be excited.
„Come on!", he whispered. J can see tracks. You see, I was
right!"
Baumer also crept through the hole and the two men
followed the tracks. Perhaps they could find an abbreviation,
if this metro shaft was really the marked path on HOICs
map.
It lasted a while, because the abandoned tunnel extended
over several hundred meters. Suddenly they heard a gasp
somewhere in the darkness. They twinced and turned
around, looking in all directions. The vein in Frank's temple
began to pound and also Alfred nervously brandished his
flashlight.
The gasp could be heard again and the two rebels searched
for the source of noise. Finally they saw a man, who lay in a
dark corner. Probably a derelict, old and ugly, with a reddish
beard, a shabby trench coat and some brandy bottles in
front of him. The underground inhabitant blinked dazedly,
when Baumer hit him with the blaze of his flashlight.
„Ca va?", slurred the old man.
"What?", stammered Frank nervously.
"Ca va?", repeated the drunk. "Ca va?"
"All right, grandpa! We will go now!", said Alf and turned
around.
"Ca va?"
„Shut the fuck up, man!", hissed Frank toward the tramp and
pulled his gun.
147
"Frank, what do you...?", asked Baumer. „Put that gun
away!"
„lf he tells someone that we have been down here or
remembers our faces...", growled Frank excitedly and
brandished his weapon.
„This guy is just drunk. Leave him alone! Or do you want to
kill him?", grumbled Alf at his friend.
"Ca va?", burped the tramp again.
"Shut up, you dirty old jerk! Don't make such a noise!
Otherwise I will give you some „Ca va"!", screamed Frank
and kicked the man in the side.
The tramp whined quietly and whispered something in
French. Kohlhaas pressed the pistol against his nose. "Just
shut up, man! Or you won't survive this!"
At this moment, Alfred pulled the furious young man
energetically back and shoved him away.
„What is wrong with you, Frank? Are you mad? That old guy
will say nothing. Hundreds of homeless people hang around
here and nobody is interested in the babble of an old tramp!
Let's go back through the tunnels! It's time to disappear!"
Frank slowly calmed down and put his gun away. He had
nearly shot or stabbed this old man. Alfred gave him
another stroke in the side and looked at him with lack of
comprehension.
„lt's enough for now!", he said. ..Otherwise, I will become
angry! We disappear from here! Come on!"
Frank just followed his friend and was silent. At once, the
whole thing was embarrassing to him and Alfred
reprimanded him again, with sharp words, to control his
rage next time. „He was nevertheless nothing but a drunk
grandpa, man!", he grumbled.
„Okay, I may have overreacted...", answered Frank and
looked away.
148
When they went back and crept again through the dark
sewer system, Frank had to admit himself, that he had been
close to kill this bum. That he was a safety risk, could
perhaps be an argument, but only a superficial, because it
was more than improbable that anybody would be
interested in the twaddle of a drunk tramp from the
underground of Paris.
Nevertheless, he had almost killed this man, simply cut his
throat, to let him rot in the darkness of the old metro shaft.
Yes, it had almost happened, if Alfred had not stopped him.
Frank thought about himself...
Frank and Alf did not continue to explore the abandoned
tunnel, in which the drunk man had lain. They crept again
back through the hole and Kohlhaas took his DC-stick out of
the backpack. Meanwhile, the two men were tired and Paris
seemed to wake up above them. The honking of cars and
the rumble slowly became louder.
„lt probably goes on here. After the next two passages there
is another room with reservoirs - or whatever!", explained
Frank and went into the next tunnel.
Alfred sprayed a red cross on the wall beside the hole,
which led into the metro shaft and followed his easily
excitable rebel friend.
They still walked through stinking, but this time bigger sewer
corridors, that had small and smelly rivers inside. Baumer
looked at Frank's back and was still annoyed. Meanwhile,
they had advanced still deeper into the underground. Finally
they found a second underground hall, which was also hold
by stone columns. The wastewater was collected here in
large basins and was moreover rerouted in several
directions. The basins were covered with large grids of iron
and there was a footpath with some stairs, that was secured
with a banister rail. Here one could probably come to a
149
control room. Several water pumps and pipes were all
around them. On the walls, they recognized lamps and thick
cables. Also some crates had been piled up there. This
large and long room seemed to be used very often, because
it was directly below the inner city. But around this time it
was empty. The two men crept further forward.
The old brick walls and the stone archs had something
formidable. Now they recognized some iron stairs, which led
up the wall and ended in a dark hole. At the end of the hall,
there was a rusted steel door with a lamp above it.
„Look at this enormous room! It had already been built in the
good old times. Really impressing!", whispered Alfred.
"Yes, a very big hall below the earth. Like the old „Moria" in
that film. Just smaller...", said Frank.
„Moria?", asked Baumer and was puzzled. „What do you
mean with that?"
„Well, there is an old fantasy film. My father had once
brought me a video tape, when I was still a little boy. It was
called „The Lord of the Rings". In that movie, the heroes had
to pass an underground labyrinth too - and it was called
„Moria". An giant underground city, built by the dwarves in
the ancient times of Middle-earth...", described Kohlhaas. „l
really loved that film!"
„You are a dwarf too, ha, ha!", answered Alf and smiled.
„Where are we here?"
A look at the map seemed to be necessary now. Probably
the steel door at the end of the vault led into a bigger area,
from where the men could reach the "Avenue of Humanity".
J hope that there will be no workers of the public utilities",
whispered Alfred. It was already after five o'clock in the
morning. „We must hurry up!"
"Maybe the workers are more often here, than in the areas
behind us", answered Frank quietly.
150
The steel door was secured with a digital code lock. Apart
from that, the door looked old and was strongly rusted. The
dark green paint on its surface had already peeled. Alfred
started working immediately. He used his blowtorch, but the
door was very solid.
Baumer had to destroy a big part of the lock and needed
nearly half an hour to open it. Meanwhile, Frank looked
nervously around and hoped that nobody would disturb
them.
Finally, the steel door opened with a quiet crunch and the
two assassins came into another room, which was equipped
with some shelves and an electronic control desk. The old
desk reminded them of the seventies of the last century,
because of its design. It was a true relict of technology.
Soon after, they left the area over some stone stairs and
sneaked over a way with deep water reservoirs at the sides.
Finally they disappeared again in one of the sewer tunnels,
because Frank believed, that he had found this passage on
HOK's map. Alf marked the way and they continued with
their search.
„The "Avenue of Humanity" is no longer far!", called
Kohlhaas and disappeared into another dark hole.
They walked about hundred meters straightforward and
turned then to the left into a further sewer corridor. Again, it
was one of the bigger tunnels, because a small river rushed
beside them here. Now they saw numerous cables, rusty
lamps, old pipes and also a faded sign with some warnings.
A little later, both men stood in front of the next grid, which
blocked their way. Alfred's blowtorch cut through the rusty
metal and he threw a glowing piece of the grid into the
water. After further hundred meters, a rat swarm, which had
probably held a meeting here, fled from the blaze of their
flashlights in all directions. Then the old brick ceilings
151
became higher and they reached a hall with an enormous
water pump and a large basin in its center.
While the two rebels felt safe in the narrow and dark sewer
corridors, which led through the underground of Paris, they
had the impression of being observed in the larger rooms
and halls.
Here they could have encountered another derelict or a
worker of the public utilities. But it was still very early in the
morning and nobody, except for the two rebels, seemed to
be here. From a distance, they suddenly heard the
thundering of an arriving metro. That was a good sign.
„Charles de Gaulle!", whispered Frank and leaned against a
large, gray column. „lt must be the underground station
Charles de Gaulle. It is close to the "Temple of Tolerance".
We have almost reached our goal!"
The two men looked at the map again, then they climbed
down an iron ladder and disappeared into a larger tunnel,
which led them towards the source of noise. The way
through this passage was long, monotonous and stinky. It
seemed to lead many hundred meters into nothing. Frank
reassured Alf that it was no longer far.
Only one last sewer corridor had to be passed now. Then
they would be directly below the square, that had once been
decorated by the Arc de Triomphe. Again, they heard the
noise of a metro, speeding through the earth. The two
rebels had crept through the guts of Paris with success.
Frank and Alf were proud.
Beside them, a rusty ladder led upward to a dirty gully
cover, where armies of black spiders were waiting for them,
as a closer look proved. A little later it was done. The
"Temple of Tolerance" was directly above their heads. Cars
were humming and honking on the heavily travelled street,
and they heard some people shout. Paris awoke.
152
Now it was time to disappear. Frank jumped up the ladder
like a cat, climbed upward and lifted the gully cover to look
over the square. Frank smiled grimly. They had finally made
their way through the canalization - it was possible!
From the corner of his eye Kohlhaas could recognize an
outside wall of the ugly concrete monument, that looked like
a huge pyramid.
"We have arrived! Great!", said Frank joyfully and climbed
down the ladder again.
"Over there! Look! About thirty meters away from me!"
Alfred pointed at the darkness of the sewer corridor next to
him. "We will place the bomb there and send Wechsler to
hell! The explosion will be strong enough to tear up a big
part of the square in front of the monument!"
"Yes! We will fucking do that!", muttered Frank with a
poisonous smile.
"And now we have to move our asses out of this
canalization!", he added and both men headed back. With
growing internal confidence and contentment, the two rebels
slunk off.
Occasionally, Frank had to study some construction plans
again, but mostly his sense of direction was right. The red
crosses, Alfred had sprayed on the walls, were a good
additional help. Perfectly tired, stinky and filthy, they finally
crept out of the sewer tunnel next to the abandoned factory
hall in the early morning hours. Soon they would spend
many hours in the canalization again.
On their way back to the hotel, at dawn, no one noticed
them. Indeed their clothes were dirty, but this was not
unusual in Paris. There were a lot of filthy guys in the
streets of this metropolis. A warm hotel room was waiting for
them and it was silent on the unlit floor. They just closed the
door behind them and looked forward to a hot shower.
Frank and Alf had no longer had this luxury since years, and
153
both enjoyed the water, washing all the dirt and the stench
away from their bodies. Then they quickly fell asleep. Soon
the great day would come. The day of bloody revenge. And
Frank looked forward to his payback...
154
The Lull before the Storm
Frank and Alfred left the small hotel ..Sunflower" in the
following days always alternating, in order to buy some food
in the nearby supermarkets. They never ate in the small
dining room of the hotel together with the other guests and
avoided every contact to them. Only in their hotel room, they
took their meals, which were usually produced by the
"Globe Food" grocery chain.
The television was on, all day long, and overwhelmed them
with dull entertainment and repetitions of old movies,
interrupted by the hourly news. In this context, it was
interesting to see, how the World Government dealt with the
renegade state of Japan. At an interval of a few hours, the
newest reports came over the air.
Japanese were interviewed, who allegedly had left the
country, ..before Matsumotos firing squads could execute
them", because they had fought for ..world peace" and
"freedom". Ron Baldwin, the not very trustworthy looking
advisor of puppet governor Ikeda, who had also been blown
off the country, appeared in nearly each newscast.
He whined and stressed his ..great sorrows about the new
Japan", that he had learned to love soo much, since he had
come to the island in 2020, as a manager of the Greenbaum
Brothers Bank
He tried to look dismayed and affected to convince even the
ignorant viewers. Nevertheless, it was his job to lie in front
of the telecameras and he seemed to be eager to play his
role.
Eight great warships had been sent to the eastern seas of
Japan by the GCF high command, in order to observe the
situation. Furthermore, the World President had demanded
155
an ultimatum to the island people. They had to return to the
World Union until the end of the month.
"Otherwise, unpleasant consequences for the Matsumoto
regime could follow!", he threatened on television.
The media concealed that the new president of Japan had
come to power by the will of his people. He had been voted
by over eighty percent of the Japanese population.
Meanwhile, the Japanese had abolished any further
elections, and Matsumoto called democracy a "giant play of
mass manipulation".
Moreover, the new president controlled himself and let all
representatives and ambassadors of the World Government
leave the country. And Matsumoto did not lay a finger on
them.
However, during the rebellion it had come to spontaneous
lynchings by the furious people. Some Japanese had just
taken revenge on those persons, who had exploited them
for many years and had destroyed their country. The most
"global parasites", as many Japanese called them, had
been killed in Tokyo and Osaka.
But the "fascist Matsumoto" was responsible for all this, in
the eyes of the international media. Therefore, they
unleashed a furious hate campaign against the rebellious
Asians. Soon after, it changed to an irate and hysterical
choir of slander and lies. A military intervention, however,
was "currently not planned", according to the words of the
World President. The newscasters tried to calm the viewers,
but the whole thing smelled like war.
„We will see!", thought Frank.
„Now in your KCN-Shop! Call 070023456 and get him!
Sergeant Powers, your supersoldier! He fights them all,
yeah!", resounded a pithy voice out of the television. A hand
was waving with an action figure - Sergeant Powers.
156
..Terrorists, fascists, evil people! Sergeant Powers finishes
them all! Get your Sergeant now and annihilate the evil
forces! Only 19.95 Globes, here in your KCN-Shop or in
every toyshop, yeah!", it came out of the tube.
Then the voice kindly told the kids, that they could borrow
some money at the "KCN Bank for Children", if their parents
would not have the Globes for Sergeant Powers. But only
for children, who were already six years old.
„Oh, shit!", sighed Alf. ..Turn it off!"
„ln a few minutes, I want to watch "The Little Whisperer" on
KCN. I always wanted to have a look at this brainwash
show for children."
..Please not...", answered Baumer disgustedly.
Shortly afterwards, KCN (Kid Control Network), the biggest
telestation for children worldwide, started its famous show,
called "The Little Whisperer".
Some years ago, KCN had started the series. Meanwhile, it
had mutated to a blockbuster, which was also watched by
the adult population and had extremely high viewing figures.
Nevertheless, the actual target audience of the telecast was
the younger generation. Since some time, the absurd show
could be watched in innumerable languages and on all
continents.
Frank and thereafter also Alf, who could not successfully
hide himself from the acoustic irradiation of the television,
stared eagerly, and at the same time distastefully, at the
screen: Now it was time for „The Little Whisperer"!
A slimy presenter with flashing white teeth and an also
flashing white suit, opened the show and the audience of
little children cheered loudly.
„Hey, kids! Tm Funny Paul! Who of are you?", he called
ecstatically.
"We are the kids!", roared the children and raved with great
enthusiasm.
157
Every show of "The Little Whisperer" started in that manner.
This was the German version, which could also be received
here in Paris, together with approximately 700 other TV
shows from all over the world. The camera swivelled around
and showed alternating children of different nationalities.
The „One-World" - on television it was cute at first sight.
Then, all candidates of today's show were presented: The
little Tina from Bitterfeld, Tommy from Hamburg, Robin from
Bremen, Gulay from Bochum, Kim Song from somewhere
else...
Anyhow, the children screamed full of joy and Alf moaned:
„Turn it off! Please!"
But Frank remained hard. At least, he just wanted to watch
one show of the series, the two policemen had talked about,
when they had transported him to "Big Eye" at that time.
After a while, the presenter called for the little Tina, a sweet
blondie with braids and a cunning smile.
"You know, Tina, officer Bark and I must always pay
attention that people say no bad things about our World
President. Therefore, we also need the many children here
to help us. You have told us last week, that your papa has
said something very bad about our uncle World President.
And you want to win your pony today, right?", said the
presenter and grinned .
"Yes, please, Funny Paul!", begged the little Tina and cast
up her nice blue eyes.
„lf you have caught your daddy, making a very bad
statement, then officer Bark and I are more than proud of
you, because you have really helped us", whispered Funny
Paul and turned to the audience. „Now, Tina will tell all
these very bad words to our friend! And who is our friend?"
„The big Eeeeaaarrr!", screamed the children and stamped
their applause.
158
A big ear of plastic was brought on the stage and the small
Tina uncertainly looked at it.
„Okay, Tina! The big ear is your friend, you can tell
everything!", said the presenter to the little girl.
J... I will do...", said Tina and smiled bashfully. J will tell
everything!".
Then she whispered to the big plastic ear: „Daddy has said,
the uncle World President is...ehmm...a swine and the
World President... ehmmm... should be shot!"
She still told this and that, and apparently she had even
written a lot of things on a small slip. The moderator
encouraged her, to tell everything at all. It would remain
their secret, and except for the audience and millions of
other viewers, nobody else would ever hear it. Everything
the little Tina said, was shown at the bottom of the screen.
„Oh!", shouted Funny Paul. „Your daddy really said all this?"
„Hmmm..., answered the child.
„Then your dad is not healthy. He is ill. I believe, we have to
help him, but we will ask him first. Now, we will ask Tina's
daddy!", called Funny Paul and waved his hands.
„Jaaaaaaa!", cheered the audience. Suddenly the cameras
switched live to a room, in which Mr. Notmeier, Tina's
father, sat behind a table.
He apparently was not very happy and smiled fearfully at
the telecameras. Then Funny Paul interviewed him to the
remarks, his daughter wanted to have heard and her father
tried to make some excuses. But he behaved more than
bumbling and finally started to stammer.
Shortly afterwards, some other candidates had a turn:
Tommy, Kim Song and a few more. They told the big plastic
ear all the "bad words" and politically incorrect remarks they
had heard from their parents, neighbors or relatives. Then
came the final.
159
„Who has been the best „Bad-Word-Detective" of today's
show?", shouted Funny Paul through the hall.
The children were allowed to vote and made Tina to the
best „Bad-Word-Detective" of this day.
„Tina! Tina! Tina! Tina!", it resounded out of the tube. The
little girl finally won a pony and fell down on her knees,
bursting with joy. Her was casually told by Funny Paul, that
her dad had to go to a "hotel" for a long time. The doctors
would do everything to help him, assured the presenter.
But the joy about her new pony was much too big, and Tina
probably heard this sentence only with half an ear. Then a
man in a dog costume and a police uniform came down
some stairs, went on the stage and welcomed his cheering
audience.
It was officer Bark, who was hunting „bad words" all day
long, in order to make the world a better place, as Funny
Paul mentioned. He brandished his police club, his
oversized hands of foam and his big handcuffs. The children
yelled.
At the end of the show, he sang the "One-World-Song" with
them. Funny Paul smiled at the telecameras and in the
background, the little Tina was leaping for joy about her new
pony like a bouncy ball. It all ended with some commercials
for kids. Frank and Alf were disturbed.
In the night from 26. on 27. February, Frank and Alfred
alternately kept guard at the window of their hotel room and
checked the equipment. At three o'clock in the morning,
they were finally ready to go. The rebels strapped their
backpacks on, left the hotel room and sneaked over the
dark corridor to the lower floor like two shadows. They
parked the hire car some blocks away in a small side lane
behind an old tenement. Both men would never return to the
hotel after the bombing, and planned to drive from Paris to
160
Compiegne as fast as possible. Their steps on the asphalt
were quiet, while the "Sunflower" slowly became a dark and
small spot behind them. This night was unusually cold, but
fortunately it was not raining. Now they moved with still
more caution than in the night, when they had explored the
canalization. This time, even little mistakes could endanger
everything.
If a police patrol had asked them about the content of their
backpacks, the two rebels would have had more than just a
problem. Apart from that, they had guns and knifes in their
pockets. And even the stupidest cop would not believe
them, that the were nothing but harmless tourists on a
sightseeing tour.
Again they crept from one dark corner to the next, crossing
a lot of empty streets. Their faces were partly hidden behind
broad baseball caps, under which four wary eyes examined
the vicinity, everywhere suspecting enemies or curious
observers. They were like two predators, always ready to
catch their booty.
Some cars drove past them. At the end to the "Rue de
York", when they lurked in the shadow of an empty shop,
they suddenly saw a police car, bending around the corner.
Frank and Alf were shocked, nevertheless, they tried to
saunter inconspicuously about and acted, as if they did not
heed the police car.
The sound of an humming engine became louder and the
tension rose to the extreme. If just a single policeman would
have asked them for their particulars or wanted to look into
their backpacks, then Frank and Alf would have had no
other chance than killing him. And in case of emergency,
also every other witness in sight.
No one had guns and NDC-23 by the kilo, who just wanted
to visit Paris. The police car approached and seemed to
drive more slowly now, but it didn't stop and no cop stepped
161
out. Probably, the driver only wanted to take a brief look at
these two strange guys. But this city was full of people like
this. It was luck for the two bombers, but probably also luck
for the policeman, because they had not hesitated to use
their weapons, if necessary.
„Lucky you!", whispered Frank quietly.
„Come on!", said Alf. „We are just good citizens."
„With some NDC-23 in our backpacks...", Kohlhaas giggled
and seemed to be relieved. Except for some tramps, the
streets of Paris were empty in this part of the city. After a
further short walk through the dark lanes, they had finally
reached the gully cover in front of the abandoned factory,
which Alfred had duly closed again, after they had returned
from the canalization. They entered the underworld again.
But this time it was no more disgusting but otherwise
harmless scouting expedition. This time, it was deadly
serious.
At the very thought of staying in this stinky vault until
noontime of 01.03.2029, and even to sleep down here, the
two men shuddered.
What would be, if they suddenly stood in front of some new
grids, which had been repaired in the last days? Or even in
front of some policemen? No, there was no more room for
surprises. They had to keep their eyes open to react on
changes. Now it was the same way again, and rats and
spiders appeared as a greeting committee in the dark
tunnels once more. When they had reached the first larger
room, they examined their equipment, in order to be
prepared for all possible incidents.
Frank absently looked at his knife with the serrated blade,
which John Throphy had organized for him on one of his
trips to Belarus. Then he put it back into the pocket. The red
crosses which Alf had sprayed on some walls, were still
162
there and the two men were glad about this. Also the
destroyed grids had fortunately not been repaired, after their
first walk through the canalization. Frank and Alf decided
not to stay in the direct proximity of the event overnight. If
policemen would scan the passages before the
celebrations, then within this range. They finally chose the
closed metro tunnel, that they could reach through the dug
hole in the wall. The air was much better here and from
somewhere seemed to come a refreshing breeze.
Nevertheless, it was cold, scary and dark there.
„What will be if people walk around here again?",
whispered Frank.
„One of us must stay awake and keep guard, while the other
one sleeps", answered Alf. „l will begin if you want!"
They searched the pit for some fire wood and found all
kinds of flammable waste after a few minutes. Probably it
were the inheritances of some tramps. Shortly afterwards,
they kindled a small campfire, a tiny place of warmth and
light in that endless, yawning pit. Kohlhaas accepted Alf s
offer, tucked himself up and slept on the uncomfortable
ground beside the rails, after he had put a few dry boards
and an old plastic foil there. However, this night was terrible,
all alone in the darkness of this old tunnel. Frank started to
freeze.
Two hours later, his friend woke him up and asked him to
take over the next night watch. Tired and nervous, Frank
straightened up and sat down at the glowing fire. It lasted
only some minutes, then Alf was sleeping and began to
snore.
That was the only sound in this eerie vault and Kohlhaas
was happy to hear it after a while. The darkness stared at
him from a distance and sometimes he believed to hear a
silent coughing or weeping somewhere, but in this night, the
metro tunnel was empty.
163
It was at 6.00 o'clock in the morning. Frank and Alfred had
a pitiful breakfast and started with their reconnaissance.
They slunk quietly and slowly forward and still did not see
anybody at this early time. No grids or barricades had been
repaired by any workers or had been placed by the police.
At least, not on the first day in that hole. On 27.02.2029, the
two men played card games or spent their time with various
conversations at the campfire in the closed metro tunnel.
Later they explored some new passages and finally
returned to their hiding place. They preferred the old metro
tunnel to the canalization. Not only because of the better air
and the campfire. Apart from the bigger halls with the water
reservoirs, the narrow canals were no places, where they
wanted to stay longer than necessary. The hours seemed to
be endless, down below in the underground of Paris. Again,
a long and uncomfortable night was waiting for them and
Frank decided to be on guard at first, while Alfred tried to
sleep.
Kohlhaas was also very tired and nibbled boredly on some
chips from the supermarket. Meanwhile, the darkness
around him made the young man more nervous than ever
before, and so he decided to look for some more wood for
the campfire. Soon he had discovered another pile of
broads near the tracks. After a while he cowered at the
campfire again - but suddenly he startled up.
Something had shown its head in a dark corner beyond the
pile of firewood. It had been a ghostly, pale child, pressing
its finger to the lips, as if it wanted to remind Frank to be
silent.
„Pssst!", he thought to have heard. Then the darkness
returned again.
He felt the adrenaline burning in his veins. Kohlhaas hastily
fetched his flashlight to examine the place of the spooky
appearance, but there were only stones and garbage.
164
Nothing was to be seen of a child. He thought about waking
up his friend to tell him about the ghost, but he did not do it.
There was nothing. Nothing at all.
After two hours, Frank was damn glad about the fact, that
he could hand over the night watch to Alfred now. Then he
immediately fell asleep. When it was his turn again, in the
early morning, he initially illuminated the strange place with
his flashlight. But there were no ghosts at all, only garbage.
Franks nerves were raw and he started to search more
thoroughly. But it must have been an illusion. Shortly
afterwards, the young man left the spooky place and hoped
that the panic would die down again.
The fire flickered and fought against its extinction for a
while. Finally Kohlhaas had to return to the eerie corner to
bring some more firewood. He was still scared and looked
around, waiting for the coming of the ghostly child. But it did
not come and left Frank alone in the cold darkness.
On the next day, at half past eight, Alfred heard voices.
„Calm!", he hissed and touched Frank lightly. „Hey! Don't
you hear that?"
Kohlhaas startled and sharpened his ears. Baumer was
right. Now he heard the voices too. Someone was shouting
in the distance, and the calls resounded in the tunnels. They
had to be vigilant now.
J take a look!", said Alfred quietly.
„Damn! Be careful!", answered Frank and slapped on
Baumefs shoulder.
Alf jumped up and crawled through the hole in the wall into
the sewer corridor. He ran to a bifurcation and went into the
next passage. In his corner of his eye, he could see one of
the red crosses, he had sprayed on the wall before. The
voices became louder. They probably came from the larger
hall with the control room. After some minutes, Alf had
165
advanced far enough into the tangle of sewers corridors and
had reached the room with the water basins. Again, he
heard someone call in French. He turned off his flashlight
and disappeared in the darkness. Then he sneaked towards
to the source of noise. Someone had put on the lights in the
hall and the old, high vault was weakly illuminated now.
Baumer dared not to go further and huddled in a corner of
the corridor, which led to the hall. The voices still became a
little louder and came out of the small room beside the hall,
which could be reached over the stairs.
Finally a man came out of the chamber and called his
colleague. These men were workers of the public utilities of
Paris, and made their daily inspection round here. Alf hoped
that they would not come too often.
After he had observed them for a while, and one the
workers had examined a water basin, the two men walked
away and disappeared into a sewer corridor.
Alf heard them talk loudly. Then their voices faded away in
the distance. The rebel turned around and sneaked again
towards the closed metro tunnel.
„l just hope, they haven't noticed that we have opened
those grids and that steel door", he said quietly to himself.
But the workers had made a calm impression. This was
obviously just an usual inspection round, that they made
repeatedly, and with not much eagerness. And even if they
would repair something, Frank and Alfred could still destroy
it in the next night again. Kohlhaas was waiting at the small
campfire and was relieved, when he saw Alfred creeping
through the hole in the wall.
„Damn! Where have you been? Thank God, it was your
flashlight. All right! I have already pulled my gun!", said
Kohlhaas.
166
„lt were just some workers", explained Alf and sat down
beside his friend. ..Let's see, who will come down here
tomorrow!"
„Do you know, that they have found a full-grown alligator in
the canalization of Paris some years ago?", interrupted him
Frank and smiled grimly, looking at his comrade.
„l still prefer alligators to cops, Franky!", answered Alf.
This time, the night, that could only be differentiated from
the day by a look at the clock, was almost relaxing for the
two rebels. It was a bit like in the good old schooldays,
before a classwork, after a long time of learning. They knew
that the big showdown was inevitable now.
Tomorrow was the day of their final paper. Maybe a little
more bloody and dangerous as a class test. Frank and
Alfred kept guard once more and no ghosts or shades
appeared.
At 6.30 o'clock, Alfred's DC-stick beeped and woke the two
men. The campfire was still glowing, otherwise the cold
darkness had crept into each corner of the metro shaft
again.
They slowly got up and ate a few toasts for breakfast. The
slices of bread tasted like nothing, this cheap and lousy
grub from ..Globe Food". But it could still be used as a
possible last meal.
„We must go to our target area now. If some cops come
down here today, then in the morning hours. We must keep
everything in sight", explained Baumer and examined the
equipment on completeness.
He checked the time fuse of the bomb several times. Then
he hid the explosive under a pile of debris to avoid that any
derelicts find it. Meanwhile, Frank Kohlhaas looked at his
DC-stick. He wanted to make no mistakes, although they
had already gone the way twice. Like canal rats, which had
meanwhile become accustomed to their wet and dark home,
167
they silently crept through the sewer corridors and were
particularly careful in the bigger halls, which hardly offered
any cover.
They groped in the dark of the tunnels, mostly with just one
flashlight in use, in order to cause no all too big light cones.
Shortly afterwards, they came to the larger vault with the
water pumps, that reminded Frank of „Moria" from the old
film. Now they saw that the steel door was still open.
Kohlhaas beheld the lamp. It looked like the blinde eye of a
Cyclops, staring at him. Nobody seemed to have been here
or nobody had recognized the destruction of the door. Both
men breathed again.
After a walk through several sewer corridors, they had
already come close to their goal. Now they squatted in a
dark corner and waited. The "Temple of Tolerance" and the
metro station „Charles de Gaulle" were near. They heard a
metro rumbling in the distance. Cars could not be heard
today, because the "Avenue of Humanity" had already been
closed off since a few hours. Suddenly human voices came
nearer and the two men looked at each other. What was
that?
At this very second, a cone of light shot directly above their
heads. Frank's and Alfred's hearts dived. But the ray
fortunately found no target, except for rusty pipes and the
dark throat of a sewer corridor.
A policeman of the GP, the "Global Police", approached and
scoured the environment for something.
„There is nothing here!", he shouted at one of his
colleagues, obviously also no Frenchman. The other man
answered in a strange sounding jargon.
„Okay!", it resounded out of another sewer tunnel in the
proximity of the "Temple of Tolerance".
„This job is fucked up!", said the cop near Frank.
168
Obviously he had no greater desire to crawl through dark
and stinky sewers.
„Check the tunnels in your area!", shouted the second GP
officer in the distance.
The policeman pointed his cone of light at the opposite
tunnel. Meanwhile, the two men were scared to death and
crouched in the brackish water, that flowed beneath them.
The policeman was only about fifty meters away from them
and mumbled something into his radio.
..Let's disappear from this hole!", hissed Frank quietly.
„But carefully...", whispered Alf and tried to turn around
noiselessly, while the cop babbled with the other one.
Frank and Alfred prepared for a quiet retreat to another
sewer corridor. They carefully crept away, but Frank
suddenly slid on the wet ground and slipped into the dirty
trickle. A quiet „Plop!" resounded out of the sewer, which
still increased the noise.
Now the two men were gripped by fear and tried to escape
from the danger zone as fast as possible. The head of the
policeman turned around and his flashlight with him. A light
cone immediately jumped towards the tunnel like a furious
lion, but there was nobody anymore.
Frank and Alf were already on the run to the next reservoir
room and the cop only heard quiet steps and the lapping of
water. A ray of light bored itself into the dark tunnel and
illuminated its forepart.
„ls there somebody?", shouted the policeman into the black
hole. „Hey, give me a sign!", he added.
Then he went back to another place. His radio croaked and
he tried to give an answer in English.
"I thought, I have heard something. But I think it was only a
rat!", he said.
169
In the meantime, Kohlhaas and Baumer had reached
another sewer corridor and the cop made no move to follow
them through the ugly passage.
"Don't know! Shit!", Frank heard him curse quietly.
He finally walked to another area of the sewer system. Both
assassins breathed again. Totally unprepared, they had
been surprised by that man. This cop had almost seen
them. Both still waited for another hour in the protection of
the smelly darkness, until no more voices could be heard in
the distance. On the way back to the closed metro tunnel
they did not encounter any other policemen. Nevertheless,
their nerves were still raw.
These GP's, who had been recruited in many different
countries, just like the GCF occupation troops, obviously
had no bigger references to the French culture. However,
their interest to explore the famous historic sewer system of
Paris was limited.
They just did their job and examined the direct area below
the square in front of the "Temple of Tolerance", that was
all. Policemen, who solely made "their job", just arrived at
the right moment in the eyes of Frank and Alfred.
When they came back to the metro tunnel, everything was
still at its place. Also the NDC-23 - which should have its
great performance in about two to three hours.
170
Bomb-happy...
While Frank and Alf were waiting for the attack in their
hiding place, and the minutes passed in a state of
nervousness and tension, Paris resembled an anthill at the
surface. The opening speech of Leon-Jack Wechsler,
governor of the administrative sector ..Central Europe",
should start at 13.00 o'clock. The streets of the metropolis
were already now, around 11,00 o'clock, perfectly
overcrowded.
Huge masses of people, roughly about two millions,
clustered towards the "Avenue of Humanity" and it came to
the first clashes between the visitors of the event and the
police in the early morning hours.
In the gray of dawn, bloody riots had broken out with
numerous casualties and many deads. In many parts of the
metropolis the violence still ruled the streets, particularly in
the Arabic ghettos.
Over 40 GP-Policemen and hundreds of Arabs had already
been killed. Last night, French patriots had fixed some
enormous transparencies with slogans like ..France is the
country of the Frenchmen!" or ..Freedom for France! Down
with the World Government!" at several big buildings in the
inner city.
Some activists had been caught by the police, three young
Frenchmen had even been shot. In the north of Paris, young
Arabs had tried to penetrate into some suburbs, which were
inhabited by Frenchmen. Here they had burned cars or had
broken into houses. Finally they had encountered some
armed Frenchmen and the police. Over 200 people had
been killed in that street fight. An illegal demonstration of
the "Islamic Federation" in the opposite part of the former
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