No More Learning

com 87



years old at least. But I went ahead and did it just the same.

He pressed his ringers against his eyelids again. He had
written it down at last, but it made no difference. The thera-
py had not worked. The urge to shout filthy words at the top
of his voice was as strong as ever.



1984



Chapter 7



' If there is hope,' wrote Winston, 'it lies in the proles. '

If there was hope, it MUST lie in the proles, because
only there in those swarming disregarded masses, 85 per
cent of the population of Oceania, could the force to de-
stroy the Party ever be generated. The Party could not be
overthrown from within. Its enemies, if it had any enemies,
had no way of coming together or even of identifying one
another. Even if the legendary Brotherhood existed, as just
possibly it might, it was inconceivable that its members
could ever assemble in larger numbers than twos and threes.
Rebellion meant a look in the eyes, an inflexion of the voice,
at the most, an occasional whispered word. But the proles,
if only they could somehow become conscious of their own
strength, would have no need to conspire. They needed only
to rise up and shake themselves like a horse shaking off flies.
If they chose they could blow the Party to pieces tomorrow
morning. Surely sooner or later it must occur to them to do

it? And yet !

He remembered how once he had been walking down
a crowded street when a tremendous shout of hundreds of
voices women's voices — had burst from a side-street a little
way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger and de-
spair, a deep, loud 'Oh-o-o-o-oh! ' that went humming on
like the reverberation of a bell. His heart had leapt. It's start-



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ed! he had thought. A riot! The proles are breaking loose
at last! When he had reached the spot it was to see a mob
of two or three hundred women crowding round the stalls
of a street market, with faces as tragic as though they had
been the doomed passengers on a sinking ship. But at this
moment the general despair broke down into a multitude
of individual quarrels. It appeared that one of the stalls
had been selling tin saucepans. They were wretched, flimsy
things, but cooking-pots of any kind were always difficult
to get. Now the supply had unexpectedly given out. The
successful women, bumped and jostled by the rest, were
trying to make off with their saucepans while dozens of
others clamoured round the stall, accusing the stall-keeper
of favouritism and of having more saucepans somewhere
in reserve. There was a fresh outburst of yells. Two bloat-
ed women, one of them with her hair coming down, had
got hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear it
out of one another's hands. For a moment they were both
tugging, and then the handle came off. Winston watched
them disgustedly. And yet, just for a moment, what almost
frightening power had sounded in that cry from only a few
hundred throats! Why was it that they could never shout
like that about anything that mattered?
He wrote:

Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until
after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.

That, he reflected, might almost have been a transcrip-

90 1984



tion from one of the Party textbooks. The Party claimed, of
course, to have liberated the proles from bondage. Before
the Revolution they had been hideously oppressed by the
capitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had
been forced to work in the coal mines (women still did work
in the coal mines, as a matter of fact), children had been
sold into the factories at the age of six. But simultaneous-
ly, true to the Principles of doublethink, the Party taught
that the proles were natural inferiors who must be kept in
subjection, like animals, by the application of a few simple
rules. In reality very little was known about the proles. It
was not necessary to know much. So long as they contin-
ued to work and breed, their other activities were without
importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned loose
upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of
life that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral
pattern. They were born, they grew up in the gutters, they
went to work at twelve, they passed through a brief blos-
soming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married at
twenty, they were middle-aged at thirty, they died, for the
most part, at sixty. Heavy physical work, the care of home
and children, petty quarrels with neighbours, films, foot-
ball, beer, and above all, gambling, filled up the horizon
of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult.
A few agents of the Thought Police moved always among
them, spreading false rumours and marking down and
eliminating the few individuals who were judged capable of
becoming dangerous; but no attempt was made to indoctri-
nate them with the ideology of the Party. It was not desirable



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that the proles should have strong political feelings. All that
was required of them was a primitive patriotism which
could be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make
them accept longer working-hours or shorter rations. And
even when they became discontented, as they sometimes
did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without
general ideas, they could only focus it on petty specific
grievances. The larger evils invariably escaped their notice.
The great majority of proles did not even have telescreens in
their homes. Even the civil police interfered with them very
little. There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a
whole world-within-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes,
drug-peddlers, and racketeers of every description; but
since it all happened among the proles themselves, it was
of no importance. In all questions of morals they were al-
lowed to follow their ancestral code. The sexual puritanism
of the Party was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity went
unpunished, divorce was permitted. For that matter, even
religious worship would have been permitted if the proles
had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. They were
beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: 'Proles and
animals are free. '

Winston reached down and cautiously scratched his
varicose ulcer. It had begun itching again. The thing you
invariably came back to was the impossibility of knowing
what life before the Revolution had really been like. He took
out of the drawer a copy of a children's history textbook
which he had borrowed from Mrs Parsons, and began copy-
ing a passage into the diary:



1984



In the old days (it ran), before the glorious Revolution,
London was not the beautiful city that we know today. It
was a dark, dirty, miserable place where hardly anybody
had enough to eat and where hundreds and thousands of
poor people had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to
sleep under. Children no older than you had to work twelve
hours a day for cruel masters who flogged them with whips
if they worked too slowly and fed them on nothing but stale
breadcrusts and water. But in among all this terrible poverty
there were just a few great big beautiful houses that were
lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to
look after them. These rich men were called capitalists. They
were fat, ugly men with wicked faces, like the one in the
picture on the opposite page. You can see that he is dressed in
a long black coat which was called a frock coat, and a queer,
shiny hat shaped like a stovepipe, which was called a top hat.
This was the uniform of the capitalists, and no one else was
allowed to wear it. The capitalists owned everything in the
world, and everyone else was their slave. They owned all the
land, all the houses, all the factories, and all the money. If
anyone disobeyed them they could throw them into prison, or
they could take his job away and starve him to death. When
any ordinary person spoke to a capitalist he had to cringe and
bow to him, and take off his cap and address him as 'Sir'. The
chief of all the capitalists was called the King, and

But he knew the rest of the catalogue. There would be
mention of the bishops in their lawn sleeves, the judges in
their ermine robes, the pillory, the stocks, the treadmill, the

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cat-o'-nine tails, the Lord Mayor's Banquet, and the prac-
tice of kissing the Pope's toe. There was also something
called the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, which would probably
not be mentioned in a textbook for children. It was the law
by which every capitalist had the right to sleep with any
woman working in one of his factories.

How could you tell how much of it was lies? It MIGHT
be true that the average human being was better off now
than he had been before the Revolution. The only evidence
to the contrary was the mute protest in your own bones, the
instinctive feeling that the conditions you lived in were in-
tolerable and that at some other time they must have been
different. It struck him that the truly characteristic thing
about modern life was not its cruelty and insecurity, but
simply its bareness, its dinginess, its listlessness. Life, if you
looked about you, bore no resemblance not only to the lies
that streamed out of the telescreens, but even to the ideals
that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it, even
for a Party member, were neutral and non-political, a mat-
ter of slogging through dreary jobs, fighting for a place on
the Tube, darning a worn-out sock, cadging a saccharine
tablet, saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the Par-
ty was something huge, terrible, and glittering — a world of
steel and concrete, of monstrous machines and terrifying
weapons — a nation of warriors and fanatics, marching for-
ward in perfect unity, all thinking the same thoughts and
shouting the same slogans, perpetually working, fighting,
triumphing, persecuting — three hundred million people all
with the same face. The reality was decaying, dingy cities



1984



where underfed people shuffled to and fro in leaky shoes,
in patched-up nineteenth-century houses that smelt always
of cabbage and bad lavatories. He seemed to see a vision of
London, vast and ruinous, city of a million dustbins, and
mixed up with it was a picture of Mrs Parsons, a woman
with lined face and wispy hair, fiddling helplessly with a
blocked waste-pipe.

He reached down and scratched his ankle again. Day
and night the telescreens bruised your ears with statistics
proving that people today had more food, more clothes,
better houses, better recreations — that they lived longer,
worked shorter hours, were bigger, healthier, stronger, hap-
pier, more intelligent, better educated, than the people of
fifty years ago. Not a word of it could ever be proved or dis-
proved. The Party claimed, for example, that today 40 per
cent of adult proles were literate: before the Revolution, it
was said, the number had only been 15 per cent. The Party
claimed that the infant mortality rate was now only 160 per
thousand, whereas before the Revolution it had been 300 —
and so it went on. It was like a single equation with two
unknowns. It might very well be that literally every word in
the history books, even the things that one accepted with-
out question, was pure fantasy. For all he knew there might
never have been any such law as the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS,
or any such creature as a capitalist, or any such garment as
a top hat.

Everything faded into mist. The past was erased, the era-
sure was forgotten, the lie became truth. Just once in his
life he had possessed— AFTER the event: that was what



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counted — concrete, unmistakable evidence of an act of fal-
sification. He had held it between his fingers for as long as
thirty seconds. In 1973, it must have been — at any rate, it
was at about the time when he and Katharine had parted.
But the really relevant date was seven or eight years earlier.
The story really began in the middle sixties, the period of
the great purges in which the original leaders of the Revolu-
tion were wiped out once and for all. By 1970 none of them
was left, except Big Brother himself. All the rest had by that
time been exposed as traitors and counter-revolutionar-
ies. Goldstein had fled and was hiding no one knew where,
and of the others, a few had simply disappeared, while the
majority had been executed after spectacular public trials
at which they made confession of their crimes. Among the
last survivors were three men named Jones, Aaronson, and
Rutherford. It must have been in 1965 that these three had
been arrested. As often happened, they had vanished for a
year or more, so that one did not know whether they were
alive or dead, and then had suddenly been brought forth
to incriminate themselves in the usual way. They had con-
fessed to intelligence with the enemy (at that date, too, the
enemy was Eurasia), embezzlement of public funds, the
murder of various trusted Party members, intrigues against
the leadership of Big Brother which had started long before
the Revolution happened, and acts of sabotage causing the
death of hundreds of thousands of people. After confess-
ing to these things they had been pardoned, reinstated in
the Party, and given posts which were in fact sinecures but
which sounded important. All three had written long, ab-

96 1984



ject articles in "The Times', analysing the reasons for their
defection and promising to make amends.

Some time after their release Winston had actually seen
all three of them in the Chestnut Tree Cafe. He remembered
the sort of terrified fascination with which he had watched
them out of the corner of his eye. They were men far old-
er than himself, relics of the ancient world, almost the last
great figures left over from the heroic days of the Party. The
glamour of the underground struggle and the civil war still
faintly clung to them. He had the feeling, though already at
that time facts and dates were growing blurry, that he had
known their names years earlier than he had known that of
Big Brother. But also they were outlaws, enemies, untouch-
ables, doomed with absolute certainty to extinction within
a year or two. No one who had once fallen into the hands
of the Thought Police ever escaped in the end. They were
corpses waiting to be sent back to the grave.

There was no one at any of the tables nearest to them. It
was not wise even to be seen in the neighbourhood of such
people. They were sitting in silence before glasses of the gin
flavoured with cloves which was the speciality of the cafe.
Of the three, it was Rutherford whose appearance had most
impressed Winston. Rutherford had once been a famous
caricaturist, whose brutal cartoons had helped to inflame
popular opinion before and during the Revolution. Even
now, at long intervals, his cartoons were appearing in The
Times. They were simply an imitation of his earlier manner,
and curiously lifeless and unconvincing. Always they were
a rehashing of the ancient themes — slum tenements, starv-

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ing children, street battles, capitalists in top hats — even on
the barricades the capitalists still seemed to cling to their
top hats an endless, hopeless effort to get back into the past.
He was a monstrous man, with a mane of greasy grey hair,
his face pouched and seamed, with thick negroid lips. At
one time he must have been immensely strong; now his
great body was sagging, sloping, bulging, falling away in
every direction. He seemed to be breaking up before one's
eyes, like a mountain crumbling.

It was the lonely hour of fifteen. Winston could not
now remember how he had come to be in the cafe at such
a time. The place was almost empty. A tinny music was
trickling from the telescreens. The three men sat in their
corner almost motionless, never speaking. Uncommanded,
the waiter brought fresh glasses of gin. There was a chess-
board on the table beside them, with the pieces set out but
no game started. And then, for perhaps half a minute in all,
something happened to the telescreens. The tune that they
were playing changed, and the tone of the music changed
too. There came into it — but it was something hard to de-
scribe. It was a peculiar, cracked, braying, jeering note: in
his mind Winston called it a yellow note. And then a voice
from the telescreen was singing:

Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree.



1984



The three men never stirred. But when Winston glanced
again at Rutherford's ruinous face, he saw that his eyes
were full of tears. And for the first time he noticed, with a
kind of inward shudder, and yet not knowing AT WHAT
he shuddered, that both Aaronson and Rutherford had bro-
ken noses.

A little later all three were re- arrested. It appeared that
they had engaged in fresh conspiracies from the very mo-
ment of their release. At their second trial they confessed to
all their old crimes over again, with a whole string of new
ones. They were executed, and their fate was recorded in
the Party histories, a warning to posterity. About five years
after this, in 1973, Winston was unrolling a wad of docu-
ments which had just flopped out of the pneumatic tube on
to his desk when he came on a fragment of paper which
had evidently been slipped in among the others and then
forgotten. The instant he had flattened it out he saw its sig-
nificance. It was a half-page torn out of 'The Times' of about
ten years earlier — the top half of the page, so that it included
the date — and it contained a photograph of the delegates at
some Party function in New York. Prominent in the middle
of the group were Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. There
was no mistaking them, in any case their names were in the
caption at the bottom.

The point was that at both trials all three men had con-
fessed that on that date they had been on Eurasian soil. They
had flown from a secret airfield in Canada to a rendezvous
somewhere in Siberia, and had conferred with members of
the Eurasian General Staff, to whom they had betrayed im-

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portant military secrets. The date had stuck in Winston's
memory because it chanced to be midsummer day; but the
whole story must be on record in countless other places as
well. There was only one possible conclusion: the confes-
sions were lies.

Of course, this was not in itself a discovery. Even at that
time Winston had not imagined that the people who were
wiped out in the purges had actually committed the crimes
that they were accused of. But this was concrete evidence;
it was a fragment of the abolished past, like a fossil bone
which turns up in the wrong stratum and destroys a geo-
logical theory. It was enough to blow the Party to atoms, if
in some way it could have been published to the world and
its significance made known.

He had gone straight on working. As soon as he saw what
the photograph was, and what it meant, he had covered it
up with another sheet of paper. Luckily, when he unrolled
it, it had been upside-down from the point of view of the
telescreen.

He took his scribbling pad on his knee and pushed back
his chair so as to get as far away from the telescreen as pos-
sible. To keep your face expressionless was not difficult, and
even your breathing could be controlled, with an effort:
but you could not control the beating of your heart, and
the telescreen was quite delicate enough to pick it up. He
let what he judged to be ten minutes go by, tormented all
the while by the fear that some accident — a sudden draught
blowing across his desk, for instance — would betray him.
Then, without uncovering it again, he dropped the photo-



1984



graph into the memory hole, along with some other waste
papers. Within another minute, perhaps, it would have
crumbled into ashes.

That was ten — eleven years ago. Today, probably, he
would have kept that photograph. It was curious that the
fact of having held it in his fingers seemed to him to make
a difference even now, when the photograph itself, as well
as the event it recorded, was only memory. Was the Party's
hold upon the past less strong, he wondered, because a piece
of evidence which existed no longer HAD ONCE existed?

But today, supposing that it could be somehow resur-
rected from its ashes, the photograph might not even be
evidence. Already, at the time when he made his discov-
ery, Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia, and it must
have been to the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men
had betrayed their country. Since then there had been oth-
er changes — two, three, he could not remember how many.
Very likely the confessions had been rewritten and rewritten
until the original facts and dates no longer had the small-
est significance. The past not only changed, but changed
continuously. What most afflicted him with the sense of
nightmare was that he had never clearly understood why
the huge imposture was undertaken. The immediate advan-
tages of falsifying the past were obvious, but the ultimate
motive was mysterious. He took up his pen again and
wrote:

/ understand HOW: I do not understand WHY.



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He wondered, as he had many times wondered before,
whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was
simply a minority of one. At one time it had been a sign of
madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; today,
to believe that the past is inalterable. He might be ALONE
in holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the
thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him: the
horror was that he might also be wrong.

He picked up the children's history book and looked at
the portrait of Big Brother which formed its frontispiece.
The hypnotic eyes gazed into his own.
It was as though
some huge force were pressing down upon you — something
that penetrated inside your skull, battering against your
brain, frightening you out of your beliefs, persuading you,
almost, to deny the evidence of your senses. In the end the
Party would announce that two and two made five, and you
would have to believe it. It was inevitable that they should
make that claim sooner or later: the logic of their position
demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the
very existence of external reality, was tacitly denied by their
philosophy. The heresy of heresies was common sense. And
what was terrifying was not that they would kill you for
thinking otherwise, but that they might be right. For, after
all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that
the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchange-
able? If both the past and the external world exist only in
the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable what then?

But no! His courage seemed suddenly to stiffen of its
own accord. The face of O'Brien, not called up by any obvi-



1984



ous association, had floated into his mind. He knew, with
more certainty than before, that O'Brien was on his side.
He was writing the diary for O'Brien — TO O'Brien: it was
like an interminable letter which no one would ever read,
but which was addressed to a particular person and took its
colour from that fact.

The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and
ears. It was their final, most essential command. His heart
sank as he thought of the enormous power arrayed against
him, the ease with which any Party intellectual would over-
throw him in debate, the subtle arguments which he would
not be able to understand, much less answer. And yet he
was in the right! They were wrong and he was right. The
obvious, the silly, and the true had got to be defended. Tru-
isms are true, hold on to that! The solid world exists, its laws
do not change. Stones are hard, water is wet, objects unsup-
ported fall towards the earth's centre. With the feeling that
he was speaking to O'Brien, and also that he was setting
forth an important axiom, he wrote:

Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If
that is granted, all else follows.



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Chapter 8



From somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of
roasting coffee — real coffee, not Victory Coffee — came
floating out into the street. Winston paused involuntarily.
For perhaps two seconds he was back in the half-forgotten
world of his childhood. Then a door banged, seeming to cut
off the smell as abruptly as though it had been a sound.

He had walked several kilometres over pavements, and
his varicose ulcer was throbbing. This was the second time
in three weeks that he had missed an evening at the Com-
munity Centre: a rash act, since you could be certain that
the number of your attendances at the Centre was care-
fully checked. In principle a Party member had no spare
time, and was never alone except in bed. It was assumed
that when he was not working, eating, or sleeping he would
be taking part in some kind of communal recreation: to do
anything that suggested a taste for solitude, even to go for a
walk by yourself, was always slightly dangerous. There was
a word for it in Newspeak: OWNLIFE, it was called, mean-
ing individualism and eccentricity. But this evening as he
came out of the Ministry the balminess of the April air had
tempted him. The sky was a warmer blue than he had seen it
that year, and suddenly the long, noisy evening at the Cen-
tre, the boring, exhausting games, the lectures, the creaking
camaraderie oiled by gin, had seemed intolerable. On im-



1984



pulse he had turned away from the bus-stop and wandered
off into the labyrinth of London, first south, then east, then
north again, losing himself among unknown streets and
hardly bothering in which direction he was going.

'If there is hope,' he had written in the diary, 'it lies in
the proles. ' The words kept coming back to him, statement
of a mystical truth and a palpable absurdity. He was some-
where in the vague, brown-coloured slums to the north and
east of what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He was
walking up a cobbled street of little two-storey houses with
battered doorways which gave straight on the pavement
and which were somehow curiously suggestive of ratholes.
There were puddles of filthy water here and there among the
cobbles. In and out of the dark doorways, and down narrow
alley- ways that branched off on either side, people swarmed
in astonishing numbers — girls in full bloom, with crude-
ly lipsticked mouths, and youths who chased the girls, and
swollen waddling women who showed you what the girls
would be like in ten years' time, and old bent creatures shuf-
fling along on splayed feet, and ragged barefooted children
who played in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells
from their mothers. Perhaps a quarter of the windows in
the street were broken and boarded up. Most of the people
paid no attention to Winston; a few eyed him with a sort of
guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red
forearms folded across their aprons were talking outside a
doorway. Winston caught scraps of conversation as he ap-
proached.

"Yes,' I says to 'er, 'that's all very well,' I says. 'But if you'd



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of been in my place you'd of done the same as what I done.
It's easy to criticize,' I says, 'but you ain't got the same prob-
lems as what I got. "

'Ah,' said the other, 'that's jest it. That's jest where it is. '

The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women stud-
ied him in hostile silence as he went past. But it was not
hostility, exactly; merely a kind of wariness, a momentary
stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar animal. The
blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in
a street like this. Indeed, it was unwise to be seen in such
places, unless you had definite business there. The patrols
might stop you if you happened to run into them. 'May I see
your papers, comrade? What are you doing here? What time
did you leave work? Is this your usual way home? ' — and so
on and so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking
home by an unusual route: but it was enough to draw atten-
tion to you if the Thought Police heard about it.

Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There
were yells of warning from all sides. People were shooting
into the doorways like rabbits. A young woman leapt out
of a doorway a little ahead of Winston, grabbed up a tiny
child playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it, and
leapt back again, all in one movement. At the same instant a
man in a concertina-like black suit, who had emerged from
a side alley, ran towards Winston, pointing excitedly to the
sky.

'Steamer! ' he yelled. 'Look out, guv'nor! Bang over'ead!
Lay down quick! '

'Steamer' was a nickname which, for some reason, the



1984



proles applied to rocket bombs. Winston promptly flung
himself on his face. The proles were nearly always right
when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed
to possess some kind of instinct which told them several
seconds in advance when a rocket was coming, although
the rockets supposedly travelled faster than sound. Win-
ston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar
that seemed to make the pavement heave; a shower of light
objects pattered on to his back. When he stood up he found
that he was covered with fragments of glass from the near-
est window.

He walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of
houses 200 metres up the street. A black plume of smoke
hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of plaster dust in which
a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There was a
little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him, and
in the middle of it he could see a bright red streak. When he
got up to it he saw that it was a human hand severed at the
wrist. Apart from the bloody stump, the hand was so com-
pletely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast.

He kicked the thing into the gutter, and then, to avoid
the crowd, turned down a side-street to the right. With-
in three or four minutes he was out of the area which the
bomb had affected, and the sordid swarming life of the
streets was going on as though nothing had happened. It
was nearly twenty hours, and the drinking-shops which the
proles frequented (pubs', they called them) were choked
with customers. From their grimy swing doors, endlessly
opening and shutting, there came forth a smell of urine,



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sawdust, and sour beer. In an angle formed by a projecting
house-front three men were standing very close togeth-
er, the middle one of them holding a folded- up newspaper
which the other two were studying over his shoulder. Even
before he was near enough to make out the expression on
their faces, Winston could see absorption in every line of
their bodies. It was obviously some serious piece of news
that they were reading. He was a few paces away from them
when suddenly the group broke up and two of the men were
in violent altercation. For a moment they seemed almost on
the point of blows.

'Can't you bleeding well listen to what I say? I tell you
no number ending in seven ain't won for over fourteen
months! '

'Yes, it 'as, then! '

'No, it 'as not! Back 'ome I got the 'ole lot of 'em for over
two years wrote down on a piece of paper. I takes 'em down
reg'lar as the clock. An' I tell you, no number ending in
seven '

'Yes, a seven 'AS won! I could pretty near tell you the
bleeding number. Four oh seven, it ended in. It were in Feb-
ruary — second week in February'

'February your grandmother! I got it all down in black
and white. An' I tell you, no number '

'Oh, pack it in! ' said the third man.

They were talking about the Lottery. Winston looked
back when he had gone thirty metres. They were still ar-
guing, with vivid, passionate faces. The Lottery, with its
weekly pay-out of enormous prizes, was the one public event



1984



to which the proles paid serious attention. It was probable
that there were some millions of proles for whom the Lot-
tery was the principal if not the only reason for remaining
alive. It was their delight, their folly, their anodyne, their
intellectual stimulant. Where the Lottery was concerned,
even people who could barely read and write seemed capa-
ble of intricate calculations and staggering feats of memory.
There was a whole tribe of men who made a living simply by
selling systems, forecasts, and lucky amulets. Winston had
nothing to do with the running of the Lottery, which was
managed by the Ministry of Plenty, but he was aware (in-
deed everyone in the party was aware) that the prizes were
largely imaginary. Only small sums were actually paid out,
the winners of the big prizes being non-existent persons. In
the absence of any real intercommunication between one
part of Oceania and another, this was not difficult to ar-
range.

But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling
on to that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable:
it was when you looked at the human beings passing you on
the pavement that it became an act of faith. The street into
which he had turned ran downhill. He had a feeling that he
had been in this neighbourhood before, and that there was
a main thoroughfare not far away. From somewhere ahead
there came a din of shouting voices. The street took a sharp
turn and then ended in a flight of steps which led down into
a sunken alley where a few stall-keepers were selling tired-
looking vegetables. At this moment Winston remembered
where he was. The alley led out into the main street, and



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down the next turning, not five minutes away, was the junk-
shop where he had bought the blank book which was now
his diary. And in a small stationer's shop not far away he
had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink.

He paused for a moment at the top of the steps. On the
opposite side of the alley there was a dingy little pub whose
windows appeared to be frosted over but in reality were
merely coated with dust. A very old man, bent but active,
with white moustaches that bristled forward like those of a
prawn, pushed open the swing door and went in. As Win-
ston stood watching, it occurred to him that the old man,
who must be eighty at the least, had already been middle-
aged when the Revolution happened. He and a few others
like him were the last links that now existed with the van-
ished world of capitalism. In the Party itself there were not
many people left whose ideas had been formed before the
Revolution. The older generation had mostly been wiped out
in the great purges of the fifties and sixties, and the few who
survived had long ago been terrified into complete intellec-
tual surrender. If there was any one still alive who could
give you a truthful account of conditions in the early part
of the century, it could only be a prole. Suddenly the pas-
sage from the history book that he had copied into his diary
came back into Winston's mind, and a lunatic impulse took
hold of him. He would go into the pub, he would scrape ac-
quaintance with that old man and question him. He would
say to him: 'Tell me about your life when you were a boy.
What was it like in those days? Were things better than they
are now, or were they worse? '



1984



Hurriedly, lest he should have time to become frightened,
he descended the steps and crossed the narrow street. It
was madness of course. As usual, there was no definite rule
against talking to proles and frequenting their pubs, but it
was far too unusual an action to pass unnoticed. If the pa-
trols appeared he might plead an attack of faintness, but it
was not likely that they would believe him. He pushed open
the door, and a hideous cheesy smell of sour beer hit him in
the face. As he entered the din of voices dropped to about
half its volume. Behind his back he could feel everyone eye-
ing his blue overalls. A game of darts which was going on at
the other end of the room interrupted itself for perhaps as
much as thirty seconds. The old man whom he had followed
was standing at the bar, having some kind of altercation
with the barman, a large, stout, hook-nosed young man
with enormous forearms. A knot of others, standing round
with glasses in their hands, were watching the scene.

'I arst you civil enough, didn't I? ' said the old man,
straightening his shoulders pugnaciously. 'You telling me
you ain't got a pint mug in the 'ole bleeding boozer? '

And what in hell's name IS a pint? ' said the barman, lean-
ing forward with the tips of his fingers on the counter.

"Ark at 'im! Calls 'isself a barman and don't know what
a pint is! Why, a pint's the 'alf of a quart, and there's four
quarts to the gallon. Ave to teach you the A, B, C next. '

'Never heard of 'em,' said the barman shortly. 'Litre and
half litre — that's all we serve. There's the glasses on the shelf
in front of you. '

'I likes a pint,' persisted the old man. 'You could 'a drawed

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me off a pint easy enough. We didn't 'ave these bleeding li-
tres when I was a young man. '

'When you were a young man we were all living in the
treetops,' said the barman, with a glance at the other cus-
tomers.

There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused
by Winston's entry seemed to disappear. The old man's whit-
estubbled face had flushed pink. He turned away, muttering
to himself, and bumped into Winston. Winston caught him
gently by the arm.

'May I offer you a drink? ' he said.

'You're a gent,' said the other, straightening his shoul-
ders again. He appeared not to have noticed Winston's blue
overalls. 'Pint! ' he added aggressively to the barman. 'Pint
of wallop. '

The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer
into thick glasses which he had rinsed in a bucket under
the counter. Beer was the only drink you could get in prole
pubs. The proles were supposed not to drink gin, though in
practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The game of
darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar
had begun talking about lottery tickets. Winston's presence
was forgotten for a moment. There was a deal table under
the window where he and the old man could talk without
fear of being overheard. It was horribly dangerous, but at
any rate there was no telescreen in the room, a point he had
made sure of as soon as he came in.

"E could 'a drawed me off a pint,' grumbled the old man
as he settled down behind a glass. 'A 'alf litre ain't enough. It



1984



don't satisfy. And a 'ole litre's too much. It starts my bladder
running. Let alone the price. '

'You must have seen great changes since you were a young
man,' said Winston tentatively.

The old man's pale blue eyes moved from the darts board
to the bar, and from the bar to the door of the Gents, as
though it were in the bar-room that he expected the chang-
es to have occurred.