Orwell George

The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked
up his pen half-heartedly, wondering whether he could find
something more to write in the diary. Suddenly he began
thinking of O`Brien again.
Years ago -- how long was it? Seven years it must be -- he
had dreamed that he was walking through a pitch-dark room. And
someone sitting to one side of him had said as he passed: `We
shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.` It was
said very quietly, almost casually -- a statement, not a
command. He had walked on without pausing. What was curious was
that at the time, in the dream, the words had not made much
impression on him. It was only later and by degrees that they
had seemed to take on significance. He could not now remember
whether it was before or after having the dream that he had
seen O`Brien for the first time, nor could he remember when he
had first identified the voice as O`Brien`s. But at any rate
the identification existed. It was O`Brien who had spoken to
him out of the dark.
Winston had never been able to feel sure -- even after
this morning`s flash of the eyes it was still impossible to be
sure whether O`Brien was a friend or an enemy. Nor did it even
seem to matter greatly. There was a link of understanding
between them, more important than affection or partisanship.
`We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,` he had
said. Winston did not know what it meant, only that in some way
or another it would come true.
The voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call,
clear and beautiful, floated into the stagnant air. The voice
continued raspingly:
`Attention! Your attention, please ! A newsflash has this
moment arrived from the Malabar front. Our forces in South
India have won a glorious victory. I am authorized to say that
the action we are now reporting may well bring the war within
measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash -`
Bad news coming, thought Winston. And sure enough,
following on a gory description of the annihilation of a
Eurasian army, with stupendous figures of killed and prisoners,
came the announcement that, as from next week, the chocolate
ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty.
Winston belched again. The gin was wearing off, leaving a
deflated feeling. The telescreen -- perhaps to celebrate the
victory, perhaps to drown the memory of the lost chocolate --
crashed into `Oceania, `tis for thee`. You were supposed to
stand to attention. However, in his present position he was
invisible.
`Oceania, `tis for thee` gave way to lighter music.
Winston walked over to the window, keeping his back to the
telescreen. The day was still cold and clear. Somewhere far
away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull, reverberating roar.
About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London at
present.
Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and
fro, and the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished.
Ingsoc. The sacred principles of Ingsoc. Newspeak, doublethink,
the mutability of the past. He felt as though he were wandering
in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world
where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was
dead, the future was unimaginable. What certainty had he that a
single human creature now living was on his side? And what way
of knowing that the dominion of the Party would not endure
for ever? Like an answer, the three slogans on the white
face of the Ministry of Truth came back to him:

WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There,
too, in tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed,
and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Brother. Even
from the coin the eyes pursued you. On coins, on stamps, on the
covers of books, on banners, on posters, and on the wrappings
of a cigarette Packet -- everywhere. Always the eyes watching
you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake, working or
eating, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or in bed -- no
escape. Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres
inside your skull.
The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of the
Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on them,
looked grim as the loopholes of a fortress. His heart quailed
before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too strong, it
could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs would not batter
it down. He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary.
For the future, for the past -- for an age that might be
imaginary. And in front of him there lay not death but
annihilation. The diary would be reduced to ashes and himself
to vapour. Only the Thought Police would read what he had
written, before they wiped it out of existence and out of
memory. How could you make appeal to the future when not a
trace of you, not even an anonymous word scribbled on a piece
of paper, could physically survive?
The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten
minutes. He had to be back at work by fourteen-thirty.
Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new
heart into him. He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that
nobody would ever hear. But so long as he uttered it, in some
obscure way the continuity was not broken. It was not by making
yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the
human heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and
wrote:

Orwell George - 1984