Before that '
O'Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand.
O'Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand.
Orwell - 1984
com
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
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 303
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.
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
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 303
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.
