Orwell George

screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying. It was merely
a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are
uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually
but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken. Then the
face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead the three
slogans of the Party stood out in bold capitals:

WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for several
seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had made on
everyone`s eyeballs was too vivid to wear off immediately. The
little sandyhaired woman had flung herself forward over the
back of the chair in front of her. With a tremulous murmur that
sounded like `My Saviour!` she extended her arms towards the
screen. Then she buried her face in her hands. It was apparent
that she was uttering a prayer.
At this moment the entire group of people broke into a
deep, slow, rhythmical chant of `B-B! . . . B-B!` -- over and
over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first
`B` and the second-a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously
savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp
of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms. For perhaps as
much as thirty seconds they kept it up. It was a refrain that
was often heard in moments of overwhelming emotion. Partly it
was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother,
but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate
drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston`s
entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could
not help sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human
chanting of `B- B! . . . B-B !` always filled him with horror.
Of course he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do
otherwise. To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to
do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction.
But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the
expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him. And
it was exactly at this moment that the significant thing
happened -- if, indeed, it did happen.
Momentarily he caught O`Brien`s eye. O`Brien had stood up.
He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of
resettling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture.
But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes met, and
for as long as it took to happen Winston knew-yes, he
knew !-that O`Brien was thinking the same thing as
himself. An unmistakable message had passed. It was as though
their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing from
one into the other through their eyes. `I am with you,` O`Brien
seemed to be saying to him. `I know precisely what you are
feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your
disgust. But don`t worry, I am on your side!` And then the
flash of intelligence was gone, and O`Brien`s face was as
inscrutable as everybody else`s.
That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had
happened. Such incidents never had any sequel. All that they
did was to keep alive in him the belief, or hope, that others
besides himself were the enemies of the Party. Perhaps the
rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true after all --
perhaps the Brotherhood really existed ! It was impossible, in
spite of the endless arrests and confessions and executions, to
be sure that the Brotherhood was not simply a myth. Some days
he believed in it, some days not. There was no evidence, only
fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches
of overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory walls --
once, even, when two strangers met, a small movement of the
hand which had looked as though it might be a signal of
recognition. It was all guesswork: very likely he had imagined
everything. He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at
O`Brien again. The idea of following up their momentary contact
hardly crossed his mind. It would have been inconceivably
dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it. For a
second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance,
and that was the end of the story. But even that was a
memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to
live.
Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a
belch. The gin was rising from his stomach.
His eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that while
he sat helplessly musing he had also been writing, as though by
automatic action. And it was no longer the same cramped,
awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid voluptuously
over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

over and over again, filling half a page.
He could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was
absurd, since the writing of those particular words was not
more dangerous than the initial act of opening the diary, but
for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled pages and
abandon the enterprise altogether.
He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was
useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he
refrained from writing it, made no difference. Whether he went
on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no

Orwell George - 1984