when the look on his face showed what he was thinking. And at
that exact moment his eyes met O'Brien's.
O'Brien was pushing his glasses up his nose. But Winston
knew - yes he knew - that O'Brien was thinking the same thing
as he was. 'I am w i th you,' O'Brien seemed to say to him. 'I hate
all this too.' And then the moment of intelligence was gone and
O'Brien's face looked like everybody else's.
•
Winston wrote the date in his diary: April 4th 1984. Then he
stopped. He did not know definitely that this was 1984. He was
thirty-nine, he believed - he had been born in 1944 or 1945. But
nobody could be sure of dates, not really.
Who am I writing this diary for?' he asked himself suddenly.
For the future, for the unborn. But if the future was like the
present, it would not listen to him. And if it was different, his
situation would be meaningless.
The telescreen was playing marching music. What had he
intended to say? Winston stared at the page, then began to write:
Freedom is the freedom to say that two and two make four. If you have
that, everything else follows . . . He stopped. Should he go on? If he
wrote more or did not write more, the result would be the same.
The Thought Police would get him. Even before he wrote
anything, his crime was clear. Thoughtcrime, they called it.
It was always at night - the rough hand on your shoulder, the
lights in your face. People just disappeared, always during the
night. And then your name disappeared, your existence was
denied and then forgotten. You were, in Newspeak, vaporized.
Suddenly he wanted to scream. He started writing, fast:
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
when the look on his face showed what he was thinking. And at
that exact moment his eyes met O'Brien's.
O'Brien was pushing his glasses up his nose. But Winston
knew - yes he knew - that O'Brien was thinking the same thing
as he was. 'I am w i th you,' O'Brien seemed to say to him. 'I hate
all this too.' And then the moment of intelligence was gone and
O'Brien's face looked like everybody else's.
•
Winston wrote the date in his diary: April 4th 1984. Then he
stopped. He did not know definitely that this was 1984. He was
thirty-nine, he believed - he had been born in 1944 or 1945. But
nobody could be sure of dates, not really.
Who am I writing this diary for?' he asked himself suddenly.
For the future, for the unborn. But if the future was like the
present, it would not listen to him. And if it was different, his
situation would be meaningless.
The telescreen was playing marching music. What had he
intended to say? Winston stared at the page, then began to write:
Freedom is the freedom to say that two and two make four. If you have
that, everything else follows . . . He stopped. Should he go on? If he
wrote more or did not write more, the result would be the same.
The Thought Police would get him. Even before he wrote
anything, his crime was clear. Thoughtcrime, they called it.
It was always at night - the rough hand on your shoulder, the
lights in your face. People just disappeared, always during the
night. And then your name disappeared, your existence was
denied and then forgotten. You were, in Newspeak, vaporized.
Suddenly he wanted to scream. He started writing, fast:
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
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