Winston
Smith, his chin nuzzled into his
breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly
through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not
quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter-
ing along with him.
breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly
through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not
quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter-
ing along with him.
Orwell - 1984
1984
By George Orwell
Part One
1984
Chapter i
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were strik-
ing thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his
breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly
through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not
quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter-
ing along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At
one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display,
had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enor-
mous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of
about forty- five, with a heavy black moustache and rugged-
ly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was
no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was sel-
dom working, and at present the electric current was cut
off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive
in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up,
and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer
above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on
the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster
with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of
those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow
you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING
YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of fig-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 3
ures which had something to do with the production of
pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like
a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the
right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice
sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguish-
able. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be
dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off complete-
ly. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure,
the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue
overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was
very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by
coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the win-
ter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world
looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were
whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the
sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed
to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were
plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed
down from every commanding corner. There was one on
the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS
WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes
looked deep into Winston's own. Down at street level an-
other poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind,
alternately covering and uncovering the single word IN-
GSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down
between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle,
and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the po-
lice patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did
1984
not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was
still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment
of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and
transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made,
above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by
it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vi-
sion which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen
as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing
whether you were being watched at any given moment. How
often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on
any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable
that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate
they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You
had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in
the assumption that every sound you made was overheard,
and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was
safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing.
A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work,
towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This,
he thought with a sort of vague distaste — this was London,
chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous
of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some
childhood memory that should tell him whether London
had always been quite like this. Were there always these vis-
tas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored
up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with card-
board and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 5
garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed
sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the wil-
low-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places
where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had
sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chick-
en-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember:
nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-
lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly
unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak [New-
speak was the official language of Oceania. For an account
of its structure and etymology see Appendix. ] — was star-
tlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an
enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white con-
crete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the
air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read,
picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three
slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three
thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding
ramifications below. Scattered about London there were
just three other buildings of similar appearance and size.
So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architec-
ture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see
1984
all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of
the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus
of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which
concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and
the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself
with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and
order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible
for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue,
Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been
inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it.
It was a place impossible to enter except on official business,
and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-
wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun
nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were
roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed
with jointed truncheons.
Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features
into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advis-
able to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the
room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this
time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and
he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except
a hunk of dark- coloured bread which had got to be saved
for tomorrow's breakfast. He took down from the shelf a
bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked
VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese
rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved
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himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medi-
cine.
Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out
of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in
swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back
of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however,
the burning in his belly died down and the world began to
look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled
packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously
held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the
floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back
to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood
to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took
out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized
blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.
For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in
an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal,
in the end wall, where it could command the whole room,
it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side
of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now
sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably
been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove,
and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside
the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could
be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present
position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual ge-
ography of the room that had suggested to him the thing
that he was now about to do.
But it had also been suggested by the book that he had
1984
just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful
book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was
of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least for-
ty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was
much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of
a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town
(just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been
stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess
it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary
shops ('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the
rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things,
such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible
to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance
up and down the street and then had slipped inside and
bought the book for two dollars fifty At the time he was not
conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had
carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing
written in it, it was a compromising possession.
The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary.
This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no
longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain
that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-
five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into
the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen
was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures,
and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty,
simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper
deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being
scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to
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writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usu-
al to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of
course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the
pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A trem-
or had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the
decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote:
April 4th, 1984.
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had de-
scended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any
certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that
date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine,
and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but
it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within
a year or two.
For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he
writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind
hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page,
and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak
word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of
what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you
communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossi-
ble. Either the future would resemble the present, in which
case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from
it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The
telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It
was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the pow-
1984
er of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it
was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past
he had been making ready for this moment, and it had nev-
er crossed his mind that anything would be needed except
courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to
do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless mono-
logue that had been running inside his head, literally for
years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had
dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching
unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it
always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He
was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page
in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the
blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the
gin-
Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imper-
fectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but
childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shed-
ding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:
April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One
very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed
somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused
by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with
a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along
in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the
helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea
round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though
the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 11
when he sank, then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a
helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman
might have been a Jewess sitting up in the bow with a little
boy about three years old in her arms, little boy screaming
with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he
was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting
her arms round him and comforting him although she was
blue with fright herself all the time covering him up as much
as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets
off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among
them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood, then
there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up
right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose
must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from
the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the
house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they
didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it
aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned
her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her
nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they
Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffer-
ing from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour
out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that
while he was doing so a totally different memory had clar-
ified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt
equal to writing it down. It was, he now realized, because
of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come
1984
home and begin the diary today.
It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if any-
thing so nebulous could be said to happen.
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records De-
partment, where Winston worked, they were dragging the
chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the cen-
tre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for
the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place
in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew
by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into
the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in
the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that
she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably — since
he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a
spanner — she had some mechanical job on one of the nov-
el-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about
twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift,
athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the
Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round
the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the
shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the
very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was
because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths
and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which
she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all
women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was al-
ways the women, and above all the young ones, who were
the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers
of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unortho-
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doxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of
being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed
in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which
seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled
him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind
that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it
was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a pe-
culiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as
hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.
The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member
of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important
and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature.
A momentary hush passed over the group of people round
the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party
member approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with
a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of
his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of man-
ner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose
which was curiously disarming — in some indefinable way,
curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had
still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eigh-
teenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston
had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many
years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because
he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane
manner and his prize-fighter's physique. Much more it was
because of a secretly held belief— or perhaps not even a be-
lief, merely a hope — that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was
not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly.
1984
And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was
written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate
he had the appearance of being a person that you could
talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get
him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to
verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At
this moment O'Brien glanced at his wrist-watch, saw that it
was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in
the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was
over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple
of places away. A small, sandy-haired woman who worked
in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl
with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.
The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some
monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the
big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set
one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's
neck. The Hate had started.
As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of
the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses
here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired
woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Gold-
stein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago
(how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of
the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big
Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolu-
tionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had
mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of
the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was
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none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He
was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's pu-
rity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries,
acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out
of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and
hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the
sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps
even — so it was occasionally rumoured — in some hiding-
place in Oceania itself.
Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never
see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emo-
tions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of
white hair and a small goatee beard — a clever face, and yet
somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile sil-
liness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair
of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep,
and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was
delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines
of the Party — an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a
child should have been able to see through it, and yet just
plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that
other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken
in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing
the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the imme-
diate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating
freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of as-
sembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that
the revolution had been betrayed — and all this in rapid
polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the ha-
1984
bitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained
Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any
Party member would normally use in real life. And all the
while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which
Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on
the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the
Eurasian army — row after row of solid-looking men with
expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface
of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exact-
ly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots
formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncon-
trollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half
the people in the room. The self-satisfied sheep-like face on
the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army
behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or
even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger au-
tomatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than
either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war
with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the
other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein
was hated and despised by everybody, although every day
and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen,
in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed,
ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rub-
bish that they were — in spite of all this, his influence never
seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting
to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and
saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked
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Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his
breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly
through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not
quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter-
ing along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At
one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display,
had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enor-
mous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of
about forty- five, with a heavy black moustache and rugged-
ly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was
no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was sel-
dom working, and at present the electric current was cut
off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive
in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up,
and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer
above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on
the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster
with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of
those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow
you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING
YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of fig-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 3
ures which had something to do with the production of
pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like
a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the
right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice
sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguish-
able. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be
dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off complete-
ly. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure,
the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue
overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was
very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by
coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the win-
ter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world
looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were
whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the
sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed
to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were
plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed
down from every commanding corner. There was one on
the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS
WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes
looked deep into Winston's own. Down at street level an-
other poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind,
alternately covering and uncovering the single word IN-
GSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down
between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle,
and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the po-
lice patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did
1984
not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was
still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment
of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and
transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made,
above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by
it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vi-
sion which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen
as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing
whether you were being watched at any given moment. How
often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on
any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable
that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate
they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You
had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in
the assumption that every sound you made was overheard,
and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was
safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing.
A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work,
towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This,
he thought with a sort of vague distaste — this was London,
chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous
of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some
childhood memory that should tell him whether London
had always been quite like this. Were there always these vis-
tas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored
up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with card-
board and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 5
garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed
sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the wil-
low-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places
where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had
sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chick-
en-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember:
nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-
lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly
unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak [New-
speak was the official language of Oceania. For an account
of its structure and etymology see Appendix. ] — was star-
tlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an
enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white con-
crete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the
air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read,
picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three
slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three
thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding
ramifications below. Scattered about London there were
just three other buildings of similar appearance and size.
So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architec-
ture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see
1984
all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of
the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus
of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which
concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and
the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself
with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and
order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible
for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue,
Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been
inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it.
It was a place impossible to enter except on official business,
and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-
wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun
nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were
roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed
with jointed truncheons.
Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features
into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advis-
able to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the
room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this
time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and
he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except
a hunk of dark- coloured bread which had got to be saved
for tomorrow's breakfast. He took down from the shelf a
bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked
VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese
rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved
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himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medi-
cine.
Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out
of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in
swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back
of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however,
the burning in his belly died down and the world began to
look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled
packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously
held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the
floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back
to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood
to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took
out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized
blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.
For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in
an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal,
in the end wall, where it could command the whole room,
it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side
of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now
sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably
been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove,
and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside
the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could
be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present
position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual ge-
ography of the room that had suggested to him the thing
that he was now about to do.
But it had also been suggested by the book that he had
1984
just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful
book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was
of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least for-
ty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was
much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of
a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town
(just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been
stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess
it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary
shops ('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the
rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things,
such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible
to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance
up and down the street and then had slipped inside and
bought the book for two dollars fifty At the time he was not
conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had
carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing
written in it, it was a compromising possession.
The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary.
This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no
longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain
that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-
five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into
the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen
was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures,
and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty,
simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper
deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being
scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to
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writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usu-
al to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of
course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the
pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A trem-
or had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the
decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote:
April 4th, 1984.
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had de-
scended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any
certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that
date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine,
and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but
it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within
a year or two.
For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he
writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind
hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page,
and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak
word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of
what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you
communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossi-
ble. Either the future would resemble the present, in which
case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from
it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The
telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It
was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the pow-
1984
er of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it
was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past
he had been making ready for this moment, and it had nev-
er crossed his mind that anything would be needed except
courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to
do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless mono-
logue that had been running inside his head, literally for
years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had
dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching
unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it
always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He
was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page
in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the
blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the
gin-
Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imper-
fectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but
childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shed-
ding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:
April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One
very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed
somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused
by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with
a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along
in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the
helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea
round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though
the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 11
when he sank, then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a
helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman
might have been a Jewess sitting up in the bow with a little
boy about three years old in her arms, little boy screaming
with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he
was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting
her arms round him and comforting him although she was
blue with fright herself all the time covering him up as much
as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets
off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among
them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood, then
there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up
right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose
must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from
the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the
house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they
didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it
aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned
her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her
nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they
Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffer-
ing from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour
out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that
while he was doing so a totally different memory had clar-
ified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt
equal to writing it down. It was, he now realized, because
of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come
1984
home and begin the diary today.
It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if any-
thing so nebulous could be said to happen.
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records De-
partment, where Winston worked, they were dragging the
chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the cen-
tre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for
the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place
in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew
by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into
the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in
the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that
she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably — since
he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a
spanner — she had some mechanical job on one of the nov-
el-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about
twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift,
athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the
Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round
the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the
shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the
very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was
because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths
and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which
she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all
women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was al-
ways the women, and above all the young ones, who were
the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers
of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unortho-
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doxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of
being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed
in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which
seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled
him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind
that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it
was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a pe-
culiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as
hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.
The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member
of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important
and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature.
A momentary hush passed over the group of people round
the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party
member approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with
a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of
his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of man-
ner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose
which was curiously disarming — in some indefinable way,
curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had
still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eigh-
teenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston
had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many
years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because
he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane
manner and his prize-fighter's physique. Much more it was
because of a secretly held belief— or perhaps not even a be-
lief, merely a hope — that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was
not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly.
1984
And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was
written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate
he had the appearance of being a person that you could
talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get
him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to
verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At
this moment O'Brien glanced at his wrist-watch, saw that it
was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in
the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was
over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple
of places away. A small, sandy-haired woman who worked
in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl
with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.
The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some
monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the
big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set
one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's
neck. The Hate had started.
As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of
the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses
here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired
woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Gold-
stein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago
(how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of
the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big
Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolu-
tionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had
mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of
the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was
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none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He
was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's pu-
rity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries,
acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out
of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and
hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the
sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps
even — so it was occasionally rumoured — in some hiding-
place in Oceania itself.
Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never
see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emo-
tions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of
white hair and a small goatee beard — a clever face, and yet
somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile sil-
liness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair
of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep,
and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was
delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines
of the Party — an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a
child should have been able to see through it, and yet just
plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that
other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken
in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing
the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the imme-
diate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating
freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of as-
sembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that
the revolution had been betrayed — and all this in rapid
polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the ha-
1984
bitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained
Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any
Party member would normally use in real life. And all the
while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which
Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on
the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the
Eurasian army — row after row of solid-looking men with
expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface
of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exact-
ly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots
formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncon-
trollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half
the people in the room. The self-satisfied sheep-like face on
the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army
behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or
even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger au-
tomatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than
either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war
with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the
other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein
was hated and despised by everybody, although every day
and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen,
in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed,
ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rub-
bish that they were — in spite of all this, his influence never
seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting
to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and
saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked
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by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast
shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators
dedicated to the overthrow of the State.
By George Orwell
Part One
1984
Chapter i
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were strik-
ing thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his
breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly
through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not
quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter-
ing along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At
one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display,
had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enor-
mous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of
about forty- five, with a heavy black moustache and rugged-
ly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was
no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was sel-
dom working, and at present the electric current was cut
off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive
in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up,
and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer
above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on
the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster
with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of
those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow
you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING
YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of fig-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 3
ures which had something to do with the production of
pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like
a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the
right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice
sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguish-
able. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be
dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off complete-
ly. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure,
the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue
overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was
very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by
coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the win-
ter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world
looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were
whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the
sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed
to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were
plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed
down from every commanding corner. There was one on
the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS
WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes
looked deep into Winston's own. Down at street level an-
other poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind,
alternately covering and uncovering the single word IN-
GSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down
between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle,
and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the po-
lice patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did
1984
not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was
still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment
of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and
transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made,
above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by
it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vi-
sion which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen
as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing
whether you were being watched at any given moment. How
often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on
any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable
that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate
they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You
had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in
the assumption that every sound you made was overheard,
and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was
safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing.
A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work,
towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This,
he thought with a sort of vague distaste — this was London,
chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous
of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some
childhood memory that should tell him whether London
had always been quite like this. Were there always these vis-
tas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored
up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with card-
board and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 5
garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed
sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the wil-
low-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places
where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had
sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chick-
en-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember:
nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-
lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly
unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak [New-
speak was the official language of Oceania. For an account
of its structure and etymology see Appendix. ] — was star-
tlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an
enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white con-
crete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the
air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read,
picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three
slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three
thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding
ramifications below. Scattered about London there were
just three other buildings of similar appearance and size.
So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architec-
ture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see
1984
all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of
the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus
of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which
concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and
the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself
with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and
order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible
for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue,
Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been
inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it.
It was a place impossible to enter except on official business,
and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-
wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun
nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were
roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed
with jointed truncheons.
Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features
into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advis-
able to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the
room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this
time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and
he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except
a hunk of dark- coloured bread which had got to be saved
for tomorrow's breakfast. He took down from the shelf a
bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked
VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese
rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved
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himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medi-
cine.
Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out
of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in
swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back
of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however,
the burning in his belly died down and the world began to
look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled
packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously
held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the
floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back
to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood
to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took
out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized
blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.
For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in
an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal,
in the end wall, where it could command the whole room,
it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side
of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now
sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably
been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove,
and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside
the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could
be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present
position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual ge-
ography of the room that had suggested to him the thing
that he was now about to do.
But it had also been suggested by the book that he had
1984
just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful
book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was
of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least for-
ty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was
much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of
a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town
(just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been
stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess
it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary
shops ('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the
rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things,
such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible
to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance
up and down the street and then had slipped inside and
bought the book for two dollars fifty At the time he was not
conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had
carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing
written in it, it was a compromising possession.
The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary.
This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no
longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain
that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-
five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into
the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen
was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures,
and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty,
simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper
deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being
scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to
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writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usu-
al to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of
course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the
pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A trem-
or had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the
decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote:
April 4th, 1984.
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had de-
scended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any
certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that
date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine,
and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but
it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within
a year or two.
For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he
writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind
hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page,
and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak
word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of
what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you
communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossi-
ble. Either the future would resemble the present, in which
case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from
it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The
telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It
was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the pow-
1984
er of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it
was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past
he had been making ready for this moment, and it had nev-
er crossed his mind that anything would be needed except
courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to
do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless mono-
logue that had been running inside his head, literally for
years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had
dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching
unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it
always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He
was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page
in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the
blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the
gin-
Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imper-
fectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but
childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shed-
ding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:
April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One
very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed
somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused
by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with
a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along
in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the
helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea
round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though
the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 11
when he sank, then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a
helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman
might have been a Jewess sitting up in the bow with a little
boy about three years old in her arms, little boy screaming
with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he
was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting
her arms round him and comforting him although she was
blue with fright herself all the time covering him up as much
as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets
off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among
them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood, then
there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up
right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose
must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from
the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the
house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they
didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it
aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned
her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her
nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they
Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffer-
ing from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour
out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that
while he was doing so a totally different memory had clar-
ified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt
equal to writing it down. It was, he now realized, because
of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come
1984
home and begin the diary today.
It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if any-
thing so nebulous could be said to happen.
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records De-
partment, where Winston worked, they were dragging the
chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the cen-
tre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for
the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place
in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew
by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into
the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in
the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that
she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably — since
he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a
spanner — she had some mechanical job on one of the nov-
el-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about
twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift,
athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the
Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round
the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the
shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the
very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was
because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths
and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which
she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all
women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was al-
ways the women, and above all the young ones, who were
the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers
of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unortho-
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doxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of
being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed
in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which
seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled
him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind
that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it
was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a pe-
culiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as
hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.
The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member
of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important
and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature.
A momentary hush passed over the group of people round
the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party
member approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with
a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of
his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of man-
ner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose
which was curiously disarming — in some indefinable way,
curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had
still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eigh-
teenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston
had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many
years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because
he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane
manner and his prize-fighter's physique. Much more it was
because of a secretly held belief— or perhaps not even a be-
lief, merely a hope — that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was
not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly.
1984
And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was
written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate
he had the appearance of being a person that you could
talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get
him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to
verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At
this moment O'Brien glanced at his wrist-watch, saw that it
was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in
the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was
over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple
of places away. A small, sandy-haired woman who worked
in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl
with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.
The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some
monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the
big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set
one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's
neck. The Hate had started.
As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of
the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses
here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired
woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Gold-
stein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago
(how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of
the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big
Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolu-
tionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had
mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of
the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was
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none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He
was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's pu-
rity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries,
acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out
of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and
hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the
sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps
even — so it was occasionally rumoured — in some hiding-
place in Oceania itself.
Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never
see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emo-
tions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of
white hair and a small goatee beard — a clever face, and yet
somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile sil-
liness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair
of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep,
and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was
delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines
of the Party — an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a
child should have been able to see through it, and yet just
plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that
other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken
in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing
the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the imme-
diate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating
freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of as-
sembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that
the revolution had been betrayed — and all this in rapid
polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the ha-
1984
bitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained
Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any
Party member would normally use in real life. And all the
while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which
Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on
the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the
Eurasian army — row after row of solid-looking men with
expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface
of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exact-
ly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots
formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncon-
trollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half
the people in the room. The self-satisfied sheep-like face on
the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army
behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or
even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger au-
tomatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than
either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war
with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the
other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein
was hated and despised by everybody, although every day
and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen,
in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed,
ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rub-
bish that they were — in spite of all this, his influence never
seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting
to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and
saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked
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Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his
breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly
through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not
quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter-
ing along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At
one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display,
had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enor-
mous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of
about forty- five, with a heavy black moustache and rugged-
ly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was
no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was sel-
dom working, and at present the electric current was cut
off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive
in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up,
and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer
above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on
the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster
with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of
those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow
you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING
YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of fig-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 3
ures which had something to do with the production of
pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like
a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the
right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice
sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguish-
able. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be
dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off complete-
ly. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure,
the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue
overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was
very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by
coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the win-
ter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world
looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were
whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the
sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed
to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were
plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed
down from every commanding corner. There was one on
the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS
WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes
looked deep into Winston's own. Down at street level an-
other poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind,
alternately covering and uncovering the single word IN-
GSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down
between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle,
and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the po-
lice patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did
1984
not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was
still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment
of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and
transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made,
above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by
it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vi-
sion which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen
as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing
whether you were being watched at any given moment. How
often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on
any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable
that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate
they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You
had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in
the assumption that every sound you made was overheard,
and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was
safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing.
A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work,
towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This,
he thought with a sort of vague distaste — this was London,
chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous
of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some
childhood memory that should tell him whether London
had always been quite like this. Were there always these vis-
tas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored
up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with card-
board and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 5
garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed
sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the wil-
low-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places
where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had
sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chick-
en-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember:
nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-
lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly
unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak [New-
speak was the official language of Oceania. For an account
of its structure and etymology see Appendix. ] — was star-
tlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an
enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white con-
crete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the
air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read,
picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three
slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three
thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding
ramifications below. Scattered about London there were
just three other buildings of similar appearance and size.
So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architec-
ture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see
1984
all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of
the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus
of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which
concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and
the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself
with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and
order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible
for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue,
Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been
inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it.
It was a place impossible to enter except on official business,
and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-
wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun
nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were
roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed
with jointed truncheons.
Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features
into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advis-
able to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the
room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this
time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and
he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except
a hunk of dark- coloured bread which had got to be saved
for tomorrow's breakfast. He took down from the shelf a
bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked
VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese
rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved
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himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medi-
cine.
Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out
of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in
swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back
of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however,
the burning in his belly died down and the world began to
look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled
packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously
held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the
floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back
to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood
to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took
out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized
blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.
For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in
an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal,
in the end wall, where it could command the whole room,
it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side
of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now
sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably
been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove,
and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside
the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could
be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present
position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual ge-
ography of the room that had suggested to him the thing
that he was now about to do.
But it had also been suggested by the book that he had
1984
just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful
book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was
of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least for-
ty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was
much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of
a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town
(just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been
stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess
it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary
shops ('dealing on the free market', it was called), but the
rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things,
such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible
to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance
up and down the street and then had slipped inside and
bought the book for two dollars fifty At the time he was not
conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had
carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing
written in it, it was a compromising possession.
The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary.
This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no
longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain
that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-
five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into
the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen
was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures,
and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty,
simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper
deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being
scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to
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writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usu-
al to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of
course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the
pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A trem-
or had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the
decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote:
April 4th, 1984.
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had de-
scended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any
certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that
date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine,
and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but
it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within
a year or two.
For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he
writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind
hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page,
and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak
word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of
what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you
communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossi-
ble. Either the future would resemble the present, in which
case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from
it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The
telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It
was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the pow-
1984
er of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it
was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past
he had been making ready for this moment, and it had nev-
er crossed his mind that anything would be needed except
courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to
do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless mono-
logue that had been running inside his head, literally for
years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had
dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching
unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it
always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He
was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page
in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the
blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the
gin-
Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imper-
fectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but
childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shed-
ding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:
April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One
very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed
somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused
by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with
a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along
in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the
helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea
round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though
the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 11
when he sank, then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a
helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman
might have been a Jewess sitting up in the bow with a little
boy about three years old in her arms, little boy screaming
with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he
was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting
her arms round him and comforting him although she was
blue with fright herself all the time covering him up as much
as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets
off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among
them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood, then
there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up
right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose
must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from
the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the
house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they
didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it
aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned
her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her
nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they
Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffer-
ing from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour
out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that
while he was doing so a totally different memory had clar-
ified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt
equal to writing it down. It was, he now realized, because
of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come
1984
home and begin the diary today.
It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if any-
thing so nebulous could be said to happen.
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records De-
partment, where Winston worked, they were dragging the
chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the cen-
tre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for
the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place
in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew
by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into
the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in
the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that
she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably — since
he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a
spanner — she had some mechanical job on one of the nov-
el-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about
twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift,
athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the
Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round
the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the
shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the
very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was
because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths
and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which
she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all
women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was al-
ways the women, and above all the young ones, who were
the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers
of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unortho-
Free eBooks at Planet eBook. com
doxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of
being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed
in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which
seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled
him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind
that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it
was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a pe-
culiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as
hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.
The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member
of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important
and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature.
A momentary hush passed over the group of people round
the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party
member approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with
a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of
his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of man-
ner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose
which was curiously disarming — in some indefinable way,
curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had
still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eigh-
teenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston
had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many
years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because
he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane
manner and his prize-fighter's physique. Much more it was
because of a secretly held belief— or perhaps not even a be-
lief, merely a hope — that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was
not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly.
1984
And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was
written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate
he had the appearance of being a person that you could
talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get
him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to
verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At
this moment O'Brien glanced at his wrist-watch, saw that it
was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in
the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was
over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple
of places away. A small, sandy-haired woman who worked
in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl
with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.
The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some
monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the
big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set
one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's
neck. The Hate had started.
As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of
the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses
here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired
woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Gold-
stein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago
(how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of
the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big
Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolu-
tionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had
mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of
the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was
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none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He
was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's pu-
rity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries,
acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out
of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and
hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the
sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps
even — so it was occasionally rumoured — in some hiding-
place in Oceania itself.
Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never
see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emo-
tions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of
white hair and a small goatee beard — a clever face, and yet
somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile sil-
liness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair
of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep,
and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was
delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines
of the Party — an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a
child should have been able to see through it, and yet just
plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that
other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken
in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing
the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the imme-
diate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating
freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of as-
sembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that
the revolution had been betrayed — and all this in rapid
polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the ha-
1984
bitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained
Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any
Party member would normally use in real life. And all the
while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which
Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on
the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the
Eurasian army — row after row of solid-looking men with
expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface
of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exact-
ly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots
formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncon-
trollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half
the people in the room. The self-satisfied sheep-like face on
the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army
behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or
even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger au-
tomatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than
either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war
with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the
other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein
was hated and despised by everybody, although every day
and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen,
in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed,
ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rub-
bish that they were — in spite of all this, his influence never
seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting
to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and
saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked
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by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast
shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators
dedicated to the overthrow of the State.
