Two soft pads, which felt
slightly
moist, clamped them-
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Orwell - 1984
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
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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.
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.
