The hallway smelt4 of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked5 to the wall. It depicted6 simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly7 handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom 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 ulcer8 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 contrived10 that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption11 beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque12 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 distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail13 figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls15 which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine16, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies17 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 streetlevel another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered19 for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted20 away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling21 away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously22. 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 vision 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 scrutinized23.
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 Ministry24 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 populous25 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 vistas26 of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated27 iron, their crazy garden walls sagging28 in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled29 in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble30; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid31 colonies of wooden dwellings32 like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux33 occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible34.
The Ministry of Truth -- Minitrue, in Newspeak -- was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, 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 ramifications35 below. Scattered36 about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf37 the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries38 between which the entire apparatus39 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 penetrating40 through a maze41 of barbed-wire entanglements42, 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 jointed43 truncheons.
Winston turned round abruptly44. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable 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 ricespirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped45 it down like a dose of medicine.
Instantly his face turned scarlet46 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 belly47 died down and the world began to look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled48 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 alcove50 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 geography 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 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 forty 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 strictly52 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 briefcase53. 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 nib54 into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic55 instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured56 one, furtively57 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 writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate58 everything into the speakwrite which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered59 for just a second. A tremor60 had gone through his bowels61. 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 descended62 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 impossible. 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 power 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 never 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 monologue63 that had been running inside his head, literally64 for years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching65 unbearably66. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it always became inflamed67. 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 imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:
April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks68. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean69. 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 porpoise70, 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 when he sank. then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter hovering71 over it. there was a middle-aged72 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 burrow73 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 never --
Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp74. 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 clarified 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 decided75 to come home and begin the diary today.
It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous could be said to happen.
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles77 and grouping them in the centre 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 novel-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled78 face, and swift, athletic79 movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem80 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 hips81. 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 always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted82 adherents83 of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy. 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 peculiar51 uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility84, whenever she was anywhere near him.
The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder49 of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature. A momentary85 hush86 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, brutal87 face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously88 disarming89 -- in some indefinable way, curiously civilized90. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many years. He felt deeply drawn91 to him, and not solely92 because he was intrigued93 by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane94 manner and his prize-fighter's physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief -- or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope -- that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly95. 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 cubicle76 to Winston was between them. The girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.
The next moment a hideous96, grinding speech, as of some monstrous97 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 bristled98 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 hisses99 here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak100 of mingled101 fear and disgust. Goldstein 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-revolutionary activities, had been condemned102 to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied103 from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He was the primal104 traitor105, the earliest defiler106 of the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage107, heresies108, deviations109, sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies110: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even -- so it was occasionally rumoured111 -- in some hiding-place in Oceania itself.
Winston's diaphragm was constricted112. He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. 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 silliness 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 doctrines113 of the Party -- an attack so exaggerated and perverse114 that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible115 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 immediate18 conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically116 that the revolution had been betrayed -- and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody117 of the habitual118 style of the orators119 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 specious120 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 exactly similar. The dull rhythmic121 tramp of the soldiers' boots formed the background to Goldstein's bleating123 voice.
Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations124 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 automatically. He was an object of hatred125 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, ridiculed126, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced127 by him. A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting128 under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators129 dedicated130 to the overthrow131 of the State. The Brotherhood132, its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium133 of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely134 here and there. It was a book without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book. But one knew of such things only through vague rumours135. Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it.
In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy136. People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O'Brien's heavy face was flushed. He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling137 and quivering as though he were standing138 up to the assault of a wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out 'Swine! Swine! Swine!' and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen. It struck Goldstein's nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably. In a lucid139 moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair. The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence140 was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy141 of fear and vindictiveness142, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing143, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston's hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided144 heretic on the screen, sole guardian145 of truth and sanity146 in a world of lies. And yet the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing147 of Big Brother changed into adoration148, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible149, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes150 of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation151, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister152 enchanter, capable by the mere14 power of his voice of wrecking153 the structure of civilization.
It was even possible, at moments, to switch one's hatred this way or that by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one wrenches154 one's head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax155. Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple156 waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious157 scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.
The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had become an actual sheep's bleat122, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep. Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched158 backwards159 in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio'd, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the 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 din9 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 murmur160 that sounded like 'My Saviour161!' 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, rhythmical162 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, murmurous163 sound, somehow curiously savage164, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing165 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 hymn166 to the wisdom and majesty167 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 delirium168, 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 instinctive169 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 precisely170 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 confessions171 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 fleeting172 glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint scribbles173 on lavatory174 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 memorable175 event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a belch176. The gin was rising from his stomach.
His eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that while he sat helplessly musing177 he had also been writing, as though by automatic action. And it was no longer the same cramped178, awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid voluptuously179 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 tempted180 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 difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed -- would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper -- the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed181 for ever. You might dodge182 successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you.
It was always at night -- the arrests invariably happened at night. The sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shaking your shoulder, the lights glaring in your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed. In the vast majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest. People simply disappeared, always during the night. Your name was removed from the registers, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished, annihilated183: vaporized was the usual word.
For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He began writing in a hurried untidy scrawl184:
theyll shoot me i don't care theyll shoot me in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother they always shoot you in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother --
He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down the pen. The next moment he started violently. There was a knocking at the door.
Already! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile185 hope that whoever it was might go away after a single attempt. But no, the knocking was repeated. The worst thing of all would be to delay. His heart was thumping186 like a drum, but his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless. He got up and moved heavily towards the door.
四月间，天气寒冷晴朗，钟敲了十三下。温斯顿史密斯为了要躲寒风，紧缩着脖子，很快地溜进了胜利大厦的玻璃门，不过动作不够迅速，没有能够防止一阵沙土跟着他刮进了门。
门厅里有一股熬白菜和旧地席的气味。门厅的一头，有一张彩色的招贴画钉在墙上，在室内悬挂略为嫌大了一些。
画的是一张很大的面孔，有一米多宽：这是一个大约四十五岁的男人的脸，留着浓密的黑胡子，面部线条粗犷英俊。温斯顿朝楼梯走去。用不着试电梯。即使最顺利的时候，电梯也是很少开的，现在又是白天停电。这是为了筹备举行仇恨周而实行节约。温斯顿的住所在七层楼上，他三十九岁，右脚脖子上患静脉曲张，因此爬得很慢，一路上休息了好几次。每上一层楼，正对着电梯门的墙上就有那幅画着很大脸庞的招贴画凝视着。这是属于这样的一类画，你不论走到哪里，画面中的眼光总是跟着你。下面的文字说明是：老大哥在看着你。
在他住所里面，有个圆润的嗓子在念一系列与生铁产量有关的数字。声音来自一块象毛玻璃一样的椭圆形金属板，这构成右边墙壁的一部分墙面。温斯顿按了一个开关，声音就轻了一些，不过说的话仍听得清楚。这个装置(叫做电幕)可以放低声音，可是没有办法完全关上。他走到窗边。
他的身材瘦小纤弱，蓝色的工作服——那是党内的制服——
更加突出了他身子的单薄。他的头发很淡，脸色天生红润，他的皮肤由于用粗肥皂和钝刀片，再加上刚刚过去的寒冬，显得有点粗糙。
外面，即使通过关上的玻璃窗，看上去也是寒冷的。在下面街心里，阵阵的小卷风把尘土和碎纸吹卷起来，虽然阳光灿烂，天空蔚蓝，可是除了到处贴着的招贴画以外，似乎什么东西都没有颜色。那张留着黑胡子的脸从每一个关键地方向下凝视。在对面那所房子的正面就有一幅，文字说朋是：老大哥在看着你。那双黑色的眼睛目不转睛地看着温斯顿的眼睛。在下面街上有另外一张招贴画，一角给撕破了，在风中不时地吹拍着，一会儿盖上，一会儿又露出唯一的一个词儿“英社”。在远处，一架直升飞机在屋预上面掠过，象一只蓝色的瓶子似的徘徊了一会，又绕个弯儿飞走。这是警察巡逻队，在伺察人们的窗户。不过巡逻队并不可怕，只有思想警察才可怕。
在温斯顿的身后，电幕上的声音仍在喋喋不休地报告生铁产量和第九个三年计划的超额完成情况。电幕能够同时接收和放送。温斯顿发出的任何声音，只要比极低声的细语大一点，它就可以接收到；此外，只要他留在那块金属板的视野之内，除了能听到他的声音之外，也能看到他的行动。当然，没有办法知道，在某一特定的时间里，你的一言一行是否都有人在监视着。思想警察究竟多么经常，或者根据什么安排在接收某个人的线路，那你就只能猜测了。甚至可以想象，他们对每个人都是从头到尾一直在监视着的。反正不论什么时候，只要他们高兴，他们都可以接上你的线路。你只能在这样的假定下生活——从已经成为本能的习惯出发，你早已这样生活了：你发出的每一个声音，都是有人听到的，你作的每一个动作，除非在黑暗中，都是有人仔细观察的。
温斯顿继续背对着电幕。这样比较安全些；不过他也很明白，甚至背部有时也能暴露问题的。一公里以外，他工作的单位真理部高耸在阴沉的市景之上，建筑高大，一片白色。这，他带着有些模糊的厌恶情绪想——这就是伦敦，一号空降场的主要城市，一号空降场是大洋国人口位居第三的省份。他竭力想挤出一些童年时代的记忆来，能够告诉他伦敦是不是一直都是这样的。是不是一直有这些景象：破败的十九世纪房子，墙头用木材撑着，窗户钉上了硬纸板，屋顶上盖着波纹铁皮，倒塌的花园围墙东倒西歪；还有那尘土飞扬、破砖残瓦上野草丛生的空袭地点；还有那炸弹清出了一大块空地，上面忽然出现了许多象鸡笼似的肮脏木房子的地方。可是没有用，他记不起来了；除了一系列没有背景、模糊难辨的、灯光灿烂的画面以外，他的童年已不留下什么记忆了。
真理部——用新话来说叫真部——同视野里的任何其他东西都有令人吃惊的不同。这是一个庞大的金字塔式的建筑，白色的水泥晶晶发亮，一层接着一层上升，一直升到高空三百米。从温斯顿站着的地方，正好可以看到党的三句口号，这是用很漂亮的字体写在白色的墙面上的：
战争即和平
自由即奴役
无知即力量。
据说，真理部在地面上有三千间屋子，和地面下的结构相等。在伦敦别的地方，还有三所其他的建筑，外表和大小与此相同。它们使周围的建筑仿佛小巫见了大巫，因此你从胜利大厦的屋顶上可以同时看到这四所建筑。它们是整个政府机构四部的所在地：真理部负责新闻、娱乐、教育、艺术；和平部负责战争；友爱部维持法律和秩序；富裕部负责经济事务。用新话来说，它们分别称为真部、和部、爱部、富部。
真正教人害怕的部是友爱部．它连一扇窗户也没有。温斯顿从来没有到友爱部去过，也从来没有走近距它半公里之内的地带．这个地方，除非因公，是无法进入的，而且进去也要通过重重铁丝网、铁门、隐蔽的机枪阵地．甚至在环绕它的屏障之外的大街上，也有穿着黑色制服、携带连枷棍的凶神恶煞般的警卫在巡逻。
温斯顿突然转过身来．这时他已经使自已的脸部现出一种安详乐观的表情，在面对电幕的时候，最好是用这种表情。他走过房间，到了小厨房里。在一天的这个时间里离开真理部，他牺牲了在食堂的中饭，他知道厨房里没有别的吃的，只有一块深色的面包，那是得省下来当明天的早饭的。
他从架子上拿下一瓶无色的液体，上面贴着一张简单白色的标签：胜利杜松子酒。它有一种令人难受的油味儿，象中国的黄酒一样。温斯顿倒了快一茶匙，硬着头皮，象吃药似的咕噜一口喝了下去。
他的脸马上绯红起来，眼角里流出了泪水。这玩艺儿象硝酸，而且，喝下去的时候，你有一种感觉，好象后脑勺上挨了一下橡皮棍似的。不过接着他肚子里火烧的感觉减退了，世界看起来开始比较轻松愉快了。他从一匣挤瘪了的胜利牌香烟盒中拿出一支烟来，不小心地竖举着，烟丝马上掉到了地上。他拿出了第二支，这次比较成功。他回到了起居室，坐在电幕左边的一张小桌子前。他从桌子抽屉里拿出一支笔杆、一瓶墨水、一本厚厚的四开本空白簿子，红色的书脊，大理石花纹的封面。
不知什么缘故，起居室里的电幕安的位置与众不同。按正常的办法，它应该安在端墙上，可以看到整个房间，可是如今却安在侧墙上，正对着窗户。在电幕的一边，有一个浅浅的壁龛，温斯顿现在就坐在这里，在修建这所房子的时候，这个壁龛大概是打算放书架的。温斯顿坐在壁龛里，尽量躲得远远的，可以处在电幕的控制范围之外，不过这仅仅就视野而言。当然，他的声音还是可以听到的，但只要他留在目前的地位中，电幕就看不到他。一半是由于这间屋子的与众不同的布局，使他想到要做他目前要做的事。
但这件事也是他刚刚从抽屉中拿出来的那个本子使他想到要做的。这是一本特别精美的本子。光滑洁白的纸张因年代久远而有些发黄，这种纸张至少过去四十年来已久未生产了。不过他可以猜想，这部本子的年代还要久远得多。他是在本市里一个破破烂烂的居民区的一家发霉的小旧货铺中看到它躺在橱窗中的，到底是哪个区，他已经记不得了。他当时一眼就看中，一心要想得到它。照理党员是不许到普通店铺里去的(去了就是“在自由市场上做买卖”)，不过这条规矩并不严格执行，因为有许多东西，例如鞋带、刀片，用任何别的办法是无法弄到的，他回头很快地看了一眼街道两头，就溜进了小铺子，花二元五角钱把本子买了下来。当时他并没有想到买来干什么用。他把它放在皮包里，不安地回了家。即使里面没有写什么东西，有这样一个本子也是容易引起怀疑的。
他要做的事情是开始写日记。写日记并不是不合法的(没有什么事情是不合法的，因为早已不再有什么法律了)，但是如被发现，可以相当有把握地肯定，会受到死刑的惩处，或者至少在强迫劳动营里干苦役二十五年。温斯顿把笔尖愿在笔杆上，用嘴舔了一下，把上面的油去掉。这种沾水笔已成了老古董，甚至签名时也不用了，他偷偷地花了不少力气才买到一支，只是因为他觉得这个精美乳白的本子只配用真正的笔尖书写，不能用墨水铅笔涂划。实际上他已不习惯手书了。除了极简短的字条以外，一般都用听写器口授一切，他目前要做的事，当然是不能用听写器的。他把笔尖沾了墨水，又停了一下，不过只有一刹那。他的肠子里感到一阵战颤。在纸上写标题是个决定性的行动。他用纤小笨拙的字体写道：
1984年4月4日
他身子往后一靠。一阵束手无策的感觉袭击了他。首先是，他一点也没有把握，今年是不是1984年。大致是这个日期，因为他相当有把握地知道，自已的年龄是三十九岁，而且他相信他是在1944年或1945年生的。但是，要把任何日期确定下来，误差不出一两年，在当今的时世里，是永远办不到的。
他突然想到，他是在为谁写日记呀？为将来，为后代。
他的思想在本子上的那个可疑日期上犹豫了一会儿，突然想起了新话中的一个词儿“双重思想”。他头一次领梧到了他要做的事情的艰巨性。你怎么能够同未来联系呢？从其性质来说，这样做就是不可能的。只有两种情况，要是未来同现在一样，在这样的情况下未来就不会听他的，要是未来同现在不一样，他的处境也就没有任何意义了。
他呆呆地坐在那里，看着本子。电幕上现在播放刺耳的军乐了。奇怪的是，他似乎不仅丧失了表达自己的能力，而且甚至忘掉了他原来要想说什么话了。过去几个星期以来，他一直在准备应付这一时刻，他从来没有想到过，除了勇气以外还需要什么。实际写作会是很容易的。他要做的只是把多年来头脑里一直在想的、无休止的、无穷尽的独白付诸笔墨就行了。但是在目前，甚至独白也枯竭了。此外，他的静脉曲张也开始痒了起来，使人难熬。他不敢抓它，因为一抓就要发炎。时间滴嗒地过去。他只感到面前一页空白的纸张，脚脖子上的皮肤发痒，音乐的聒噪，杜松子酒引起的一阵醉意。
突然他开始慌里慌张地写了起来，只是模模糊糊地意识到他写的是些什么。他的纤小而有些孩子气的笔迹在本子上弯弯曲曲地描划着，写着写着，先是省略了大写字母，最后连句号也省略了：
1984年4月4日。昨晚去看电影。全是战争片。一部很好，是关于一艘装满难民的船，在地中海某处遭到空袭。观众看到一个大胖子要想游开去逃脱追他的直升飞机的镜头感到很好玩。你起初看到他象一头海豚一样在水里浮沉，后来通过直升飞机的瞄准器看到他，最后他全身是枪眼，四周的海水都染红了，他突然下沉，好象枪眼里吸进了海水一样。下沉的时候观众笑着叫好。接着你看到一艘装满儿童的救生艇，上空有一架直升飞机在盘旋。
有个中年妇女坐在船首，大概是个犹太女人，怀中抱着一个大约三岁的小男孩。小男孩吓得哇哇大哭，把脑袋躲在她的怀里，好象要钻进她的胸口中去似的，那个妇女用胳膊搂着他，安慰着他，尽管她自己的脸色也吓得发青。她一度用自己的胳膊尽可能地掩护着他，仿佛她以为自己的胳膊能够抵御子弹不伤他的身体似的。接着直升飞机在他们中间投了一颗二十公斤的炸弹，引起可怕的爆炸，救生艇四分五裂，成为碎片。接着出现一个很精采的镜头一个孩子的胳膊举了起来越举越高越举越高一直到了天空中一定有架机头装着摄影机的直升飞机跟着他的胳膊，在党员座中间发出了很多的掌声但是在无产座部分有个妇女突然吵了起来大声说他们不应该在孩子们面前放映这部电影他们在孩子们面前放映这部电影是不对的最后警察把她赶了出去我想她不致于会遇到什么不愉快的结果无产者说些什么没有人会放在心上典型的无产者反应他们决不会——
温斯顿停下了笔，一半是因为他感到手指痉挛。他也不知道是什么东西使他一泻千里地写出这些胡说八道的话来。
但奇怪的事情是，他在写的时候，有一种完全不同的记忆在他的思想中明确起来，使他觉得自已有能力把它写下来。他现在认识到，这是因为有另一件事情才使他突然决定今天要回家开始写日记。
如果说，这样一件模模糊糊的事也可以说是发生的话，这件事今天早上发生在部里。
快到十一点的时候，在温斯顿工作的纪录司，他们把椅子从小办公室拖出来，放在大厅的中央，放在大电幕的前面，准备举行两分钟仇恨。温斯顿刚刚在中间一排的一张椅子上坐下来，有两个他只认识脸孔、却从来没有讲过话的人意外地走了进来。其中有一个是他常常在走廊中遇到的一个姑娘。
他不道她的名字，但是他知道她在小说司工作。由于他有时看到她双手沾油，拿着扳钳，她大概是做机械工的，拾掇那些小说写作机器。她是个年约二十七岁、表情大胆的姑娘，浓浓的黑发，长满雀斑的脸，动作迅速敏捷，象个运动员。她的工作服的腰上重重地围了一条猩红色的狭缎带，这是青年反性同盟的标志，围的不松不紧，正好露出她的腰部的苗条。温斯顿头一眼看到她就不喜欢她。他知道为什么原因。这是因为她竭力在自己身上带着一种曲棍球场、冷水浴、集体远足、总的来说是思想纯洁的味道。几乎所有的女人他都不喜欢，特别是年轻漂亮的。总是女人，尤其是年轻的女人，是党的最盲目的拥护者，生吞活剥口号的人，义务的密探，非正统思想的检查员。但是这个女人使他感到比别的更加危险。有一次他们在走廊里遇到时，她很快地斜视了他一眼，似乎看透了他的心，刹那间他充满了黑色的恐惧。他甚至想到这样的念头：她可能是思想警察的特务。不错，这是很不可能的。但是只要她在近处，他仍有一种特别的不安之感。这种感觉中掺杂着敌意．也掺杂着恐惧。
另外一个人是个叫奥勃良的男人，他是核心党员，担任的职务很重要，高高在上，因此温斯顿对他职务的性质只有一种很模糊的概念。椅子周围的人一看到核心党员的黑色工作服走近时，都不由得肃静下来。奥勃良是个体格魁梧的人，脖子短粗，有着一张粗犷残忍、兴高采烈的脸。尽管他的外表令人望而生畏，他的态度却有一定迷人之处。他有一个小动作奇怪地使人感到可亲，那就是端正一下鼻梁上的眼镜；也很难说清楚，这奇怪地使人感到很文明。如果有人仍旧有那样想法的话，这个姿态可能使人想到一个十八世纪的绅士端出鼻烟匣来待客。温斯顿大概在十多年来看到过奥勃良十多次。他感到对他特别有兴趣，这并不完全是因为他对奥勃良彬彬有礼的态度和拳击师的体格的截然对比感到有兴趣。
更多的是因为他心中暗自认为——也许甚至还不是认为，而仅仅是希望——奥勃良的政治信仰不完全是正统的。他脸上的某种表情使人无法抗拒地得出这一结论。而且，表现在他脸上的，甚至不是不正统，而干脆就是智慧。不过无论如何，他的外表使人感到，如果你能躲过电幕而单独与他在一起的话，他是个可以谈谈的人。温斯顿从来没有做过哪怕是最轻微的努力来证实这种猜想；说真的，根本没有这样做的可能。现在，奥勃良瞥了一眼手表，看到已经快到十一点了，显然决定留在纪录司，等两分钟仇恨结束。他在温斯顿那一排坐了下来，相隔两把椅子。中间坐的是一个淡茶色头发的小女人，她在温斯顿隔壁的小办公室工作。那个黑头发的姑娘坐在他们背后一排。
接着，屋子那头的大电幕上突然发出了一阵难听的摩擦声，仿佛是台大机器没有油了一样。这种噪声使你牙关咬紧、毛发直竖。仇恨开始了。
象平常一样，屏幕上闪现了人民公敌爱麦虞埃尔果尔德施坦因的脸。观众中间到处响起了嘘声。那个淡茶色头发的小女人发出了混杂着恐惧和厌恶的叫声。果尔德施坦因是个叛徒、变节分子，他一度(那是很久以前了，到底多久，没有人记得清楚)是党的领导人物之一，几乎与老大哥本人平起平坐，后来从事反革命活动，被判死刑，却神秘地逃走了，不知下落。两分钟仇恨节目每天不同，但无不以果尔德施坦因为其重要人物。他是头号叛徒，最早污损党的纯洁性的人。后来的一切反党罪行、一切叛国行为、破坏颠覆、异端邪说、离经叛道都是直接起源于他的教唆。反正不知在什么地方，他还活着，策划着阴谋诡计；也许是在海外某个地方，得到外国后台老板的庇护；也许甚至在大洋国国内某个隐蔽的地方藏匿着——有时就有这样的谣传。
温斯顿眼睛的隔膜一阵抽搐。他看到果尔德施坦因的脸时不由得感到说不出的滋味，各种感情都有，使他感到痛苦。
这是一张瘦削的犹太人的脸，一头蓬松的白发，小小的一撮山羊胡须——一张聪明人的脸庞，但是有些天生的可鄙，长长的尖尖的鼻子有一种衰老性的痴呆，鼻尖上架着一副眼镜。这张脸象一头绵羊的脸，它的声音也有一种绵羊的味道。
果尔德施坦因在对党进行他一贯的恶毒攻击，这种攻击夸张其事，不讲道理，即使一个儿童也能一眼看穿，但是听起来却有似乎有些道理，使你觉得要提高警惕，别人要是没有你那么清醒的头脑，可能上当受骗。他在谩骂老大哥，攻击党的专政，要求立即同欧亚国媾和，主张言论自由、新闻自由、集会自由、思想自由，歇斯底里地叫嚷说革命被出卖了——
所有这一切的话都是用大字眼飞快地说的，可以说是对党的演说家一贯讲话作风的一种模仿，甚至还有一些新话的词汇；说真的，比任何党员在实际生活中一般使用的新话词汇还要多。在他说话的当儿，唯恐有人会对果尔德施坦因的花言巧语所涉及的现实有所怀疑，电幕上他的脑袋后面有无穷无尽的欧亚国军队列队经过——一队又一队的结实的士兵蜂拥而过电幕的表面，他们的亚细亚式的脸上没有表情，跟上来的是完全一样的一队士兵。这些士兵们的军靴有节奏的踩踏声衬托着果尔德施坦因的嘶叫声。
仇恨刚进行了三十秒钟，屋子里一半的人中就爆发出控制不住的愤怒的叫喊。电幕上扬扬自得的羊脸，羊脸后面欧亚国可怕的威力，这一切都使人无法忍受；此外，就凭果尔德施坦因的脸，或者哪怕只想到他这个人，就自动的产生恐惧和愤怒。不论同欧亚国相比或东亚国相比，他更经常的是仇恨的对象，因为大洋国如果同这两国中的一国打仗，同另外一国一般总是保持和平的。但是奇怪的是，虽然人人仇恨和蔑视果尔德施坦因，虽然每天，甚至一天有上千次，他的理论在讲台上、电幕上、报纸上、书本上遭到驳斥、抨击、嘲笑，让大家都看到这些理论是多么可怜的胡说八道，尽管这样，他的影响似乎从来没有减弱过。总是有傻瓜上当受骗。思想警察没有一天不揭露出有间谍和破坏分子奉他的指示进行活动。他成了一支庞大的隐蔽的军队的司令，这是一帮阴谋家组成的地下活动网，一心要推翻国家政权。它的名字据说叫兄弟团，谣传还有一本可怕的书，集异端邪说之大成，到处秘密散发，作者就是果尔德施坦因。这本书没有书名。大家提到它时只说那本书。不过这种事情都是从谣传中听到的。任何一个普通党员，只要办得到，都是尽量不提兄弟团或那本书(thebook)的。
仇恨到了第二分钟达到了狂热的程度。大家都跳了起来，大声高喊，要想压倒电幕上传出来的令人难以忍受的羊叫一般的声音。那个淡茶色头发的小女人脸孔通红，嘴巴一张一闭，好象离了水的鱼一样。甚至奥勃良的粗犷的脸也涨红了。他直挺挺地坐在椅上，宽阔的胸膛胀了起来，不断地战栗着，好象受到电流的袭击。温斯顿背后的黑头发姑娘开始大叫“猪猡！猪猡！猪猡！”她突然拣起一本厚厚的新话词典向电幕扔去。它击中了果尔德施坦因的鼻子，又弹了开去，他说话的声音仍旧不为所动地继续着。温斯顿的头脑曾经有过片刻的清醒，他发现自已也同大家一起在喊叫，用鞋后跟使劲地踢着椅子腿。两分钟仇恨所以可怕，不是你必须参加表演，而是要避不参加是不可能的。不出三十秒钟，一切矜持都没有必要了。一种夹杂着恐惧和报复情绪的快意，一种要杀人、虐待、用大铁锤痛打别人脸孔的欲望，似乎象一股电流一般穿过了这一群人，甚至使你违反本意地变成一个恶声叫喊的疯子。然而，你所感到的那种狂热情绪是一种抽象的、无目的的感情，好象喷灯的火焰一般，可以从一个对象转到另一个对象。因此，有一阵子，温斯顿的仇恨并不是针对果尔德施坦因的，而是反过来转向了老大哥、党、思想警察；在这样的时候，他打从心跟里同情电幕上那个孤独的、受到嘲弄的异端分子，谎话世界中真理和理智的唯一卫护者。可是一会儿他又同周围的人站在一起，觉得攻击果尔德施坦因的一切的话都是正确的。在这样的时刻，他心中对老大哥的憎恨变成了崇拜，老大哥的形象越来越高大，似乎是一个所向无故、毫无畏惧的保护者，象块巨石一般耸立于从亚洲蜂拥而来的乌合之众之前，而果尔德施坦因尽管孤立无援，尽管对于是否有他这个人的存在也有怀疑，却似乎是一个阴险狡诈的妖物，光凭他的谈话声音也能够把文明的结构破坏无遗。
有时候，你甚至可以自觉转变自己仇恨的对象。温斯顿突然把仇恨从电幕上的脸孔转到了坐在他背后那个黑发女郎的身上，其变化之迅速就象做恶梦醒来时猛的坐起来一样。一些栩栩如生的、美丽动人的幻觉在他的心中闪过。他想象自己用橡皮棍把她揍死，又把她赤身裸体地绑在一根木桩上，象圣塞巴斯蒂安一样乱箭丧身。在最后高潮中，他污辱了她，割断了她的喉管。而且，他比以前更加明白他为什么恨她。
他恨她是因为她年青漂亮，却没有性感，是因为他要同她睡觉但永远不会达到目的，是因为她窈窕的纤腰似乎在招引你伸出胳膊去搂住她，但是却围着那条令人厌恶的猩红色绸带，那是咄咄逼人的贞节的象征。
仇恨达到了最高潮。果尔德施坦因的声音真的变成了羊叫，而且有一度他的脸也变成了羊脸。接着那头羊脸又化为一个欧亚国的军人，高大吓人，似乎在大踏步前进，他的轻机枪轰鸣，似乎有夺幕而出之势，吓得第一排上真的有些人从坐着的椅子中来不及站起来。但是就在这一刹那间，电幕上这个敌人已化为老大哥的脸，黑头发，黑胡子，充满力量，镇定沉着，脸庞这么大，几乎占满了整个电幕，他的出现使大家放心地深深松了一口气。没有人听见老大哥在说什么。他说的只是几句鼓励的话，那种话一般都是在战斗的喧闹声中说的，无法逐宇逐句听清楚，但是说了却能恢复信心。接着老大的脸又隐去了，电幕上出现了用黑体大写字母写的党的三句口号：
战争即和平自由即奴役无知即力量。
但是老大哥的脸似乎还留在电幕上有好几秒钟，好象它在大家的视网膜上留下的印象太深了，不能马上消失似的。那个淡茶色头发的小女人扑在她前面一排的椅子背上。她哆哆嗦嗦地轻轻喊一声好象“我的救星！”那样的话，向电幕伸出双臂。接着又双手捧面。很明显，她是在做祷告。
这时，全部在场的人缓慢地、有节奏地、深沉地再三高叫“B－B！……B—B！……B—B！”*他们叫得很慢，在第一个B和第二个B之间停顿很久。这种深沉的声音令人奇怪地有一种野蛮的味道，你仿佛听到了赤脚的踩踏和铜鼓的敲打。他们这样大约喊了三十秒钟。这种有节奏的叫喊在感情冲动压倒一切的时候是常常会听到的。这一部分是对老大哥的英明伟大的赞美，但更多的是一种自我催眠，有意识地用有节奏的闹声来麻痹自已的意识。温斯顿心里感到一阵凉。在两分钟的仇恨中，他无法不同大家一起梦呓乱语，但是这种野兽般的“B—B！……B—B！”的叫喊总使他充满了恐惧。当然，他也和大家一起高喊：不那么做是办不到的。掩饰你真实的感情，控制你脸部的表情，大家做什么你就做什么，这是一种本能的反应。但是有那么一两秒钟的时间里，他的眼睛里的神色很可能暴露了他自己。正好是在这一刹那，那件有意义的事情发生了——如果说那件事情真的发生了的话。
(*英语“老大哥”的第一个字母。——译注)
原来在瞬息间他同奥勃良忽然眼光相遇。奥勃良这时已经站了起来。他摘下了眼镜，正要用他一贯的姿态把眼镜放到鼻梁上去。就在这一刹那之间，他们两人的眼光相遇了，在这相遇财刻，温斯顿知道——是啊，他知道(knew)！——奥勃良心里想的同他自己一样。他们两人之间交换了一个无可置疑的信息。好象他们两人的心打了开来，各人的思想通过眼光而流到了对方的心里。“我同你一致，”奥勃良似乎这样对他说。“我完全知道你的想法．你的蔑视、仇恨、厌恶，我全都知道。不过别害怕，我站在你的一边！”但是领悟的神情一闪即逝，奥勃良的肠又象别人的脸一样令人莫测高深了。
情况就是这样，他已经在开始怀疑，是不是真的发生过这样的情况，这辞事情是从来不会有后继的，唯一结果不过是在他的心中保持这样的信念，或者说希望：除了他自己以外也有别人是党的敌人。也许，说什么普遍存在着地下阴谋的谣言是确实的也说不定，也许真的有兄弟团的存在！尽管有不断的逮捕、招供和处决，仍不可能有把握地说，兄弟团不只是个谣言面已。他有时相信，有时不相信。没有任何证据，只是一些过眼即逝的现象，可能有意义也可能没有意义：一鳞半爪偶然听来的谈话，厕所墙上的隐隐约约的涂抹——甚至有一次两个素不相识的人相遇时手中一个小动作使人觉得好象他们是在打暗号。这都是瞎猜：很可能这一切都是他瞎想出来的。他对奥勃良不再看一眼就回到他的小办公室去了。他一点也没有想到要追踪他们刚才这短暂的接触。
即使他知道应该怎么办，这样做的危险也是无法想象的。他们不过是在一秒钟、两秒钟里交换了明白的眼光，事情就到此为止了。但是即使这样，在这样自我隔绝的孤独的生活环境中，这也是一件意义重大的事。
温斯顿挺直腰板，坐了起来。他打了一个嗝。杜松子酒的劲头从他肚子里升了起来。
他的眼光又回到本子上。他发现他在无可奈何地坐着胡思乱想的时候，他也一直在写东西，好象是自发的动作一样。而且笔迹也不是原来的那样歪歪斜斜的笨拙笔迹了。他的笔在光滑的纸面上龙飞凤舞，用整齐的大写字母写着——
打倒老大哥打倒老大哥打倒老大哥打倒老大哥打倒老大哥
一遍又一遍地写满了半页纸。
他禁不住感到一阵恐谎。其实并无必要，因为写这些具体的字并不比开始写日记这一行为更加危险；但是有一阵子他真想把这些涂抹了的纸页撕了下来，就此作罢。
但是他没有这样做，因为他知道这没有用。不论他是写打倒老大哥，还是他没有写，并没有什么不同。不论他是继续写日记，还是他没有继续写，也没有什么不同。思想警察还是会逮到他的。他已经犯了——即使他没有用笔写在纸上，也还是犯了的——包含一切其他罪行的根本大罪。这明做思想罪。思想罪可不是能长期隐匿的。你可能暂时能躲避一阵，甚至躲避几年，但他们迟早一定会逮到你。
总是在夜里——逮捕总是在夜里进行的。突然在睡梦中惊醒，一只粗手捏着你的肩膀，灯光直射你的眼睛，床边围着一圈凶狠的脸孔。在绝大多数情况下不举行审讯，不报道逮捕消息，人就是这么销声匿迹了，而且总是在夜里。你的名字从登记册上除掉了，你做过的一切事情的记录都除掉了，你的一度存在也给否定了，接着被遗忘了。你被取消，消灭了：通常用的字眼是化为乌有(vaporized)。
他忽然象神经病发作一样，开始匆忙地乱涂乱划起来：
他们会枪毙我我不在乎他们会在我后脑勺打一枪我不在乎打倒老大哥他们总是在后脑勺给你一枪我不在乎打倒老大哥——
他在椅子上往后一靠，有点为自已感到难为情，放下了笔。接着他又胡乱地写起来。这时外面传来一下敲门声。
已经来了！他象只耗子似的坐着不动，满心希望不论是谁敲门，敲了一下就会走开。但是没有，门又敲了一下。迟迟不去开门是最糟糕的事情。他的心怦怦的几乎要跳出来，但是他的脸大概是出于长期的习惯却毫无表情。他站了起来，脚步沉重地向门走去。
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收听单词发音
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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ruggedly
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| 险峻地； 粗暴地； （面容）多皱纹地； 粗线条地 | |
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ulcer
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| n.溃疡，腐坏物 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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10
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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11
caption
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| n.说明，字幕，标题；v.加上标题，加上说明 | |
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12
plaque
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| n.饰板，匾，(医)血小板 | |
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13
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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14
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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15
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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16
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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17
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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18
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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19
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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20
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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21
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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22
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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23
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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25
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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26
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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27
corrugated
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|
| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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28
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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29
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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31
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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32
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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33
tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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34
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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35
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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36
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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37
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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38
ministries
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| （政府的）部( ministry的名词复数 )； 神职； 牧师职位； 神职任期 | |
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39
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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40
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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41
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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42
entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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43
jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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44
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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45
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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46
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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47
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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48
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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49
holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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50
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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51
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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52
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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53
briefcase
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| n.手提箱，公事皮包 | |
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54
nib
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| n.钢笔尖；尖头 | |
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55
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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56
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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57
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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58
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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59
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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60
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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61
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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62
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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63
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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64
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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65
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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66
unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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67
inflamed
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|
| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
flicks
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的第三人称单数 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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69
Mediterranean
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|
| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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70
porpoise
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| n.鼠海豚 | |
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71
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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72
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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73
burrow
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|
| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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74
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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75
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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76
cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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77
cubicles
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| n.小卧室，斗室( cubicle的名词复数 ) | |
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78
freckled
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|
| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
athletic
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|
| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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80
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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81
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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82
bigoted
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|
| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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83
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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84
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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85
momentary
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|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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86
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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87
brutal
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|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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88
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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89
disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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90
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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91
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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92
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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93
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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94
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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95
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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96
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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97
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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98
bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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99
hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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100
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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101
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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102
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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103
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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104
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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105
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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106
defiler
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| n.弄脏者，亵渎者 | |
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107
sabotage
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| n.怠工，破坏活动，破坏；v.从事破坏活动，妨害，破坏 | |
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108
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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109
deviations
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| 背离，偏离( deviation的名词复数 )； 离经叛道的行为 | |
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110
conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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111
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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112
constricted
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| adj.抑制的，约束的 | |
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113
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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114
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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115
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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116
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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117
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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118
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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119
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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120
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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121
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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122
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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123
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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124
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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125
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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126
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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128
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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129
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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130
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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131
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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132
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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133
compendium
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| n.简要，概略 | |
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134
clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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135
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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136
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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137
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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138
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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139
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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140
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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141
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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142
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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143
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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144
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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146
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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147
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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148
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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149
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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150
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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151
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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152
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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153
wrecking
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| 破坏 | |
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154
wrenches
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| n.一拧( wrench的名词复数 )；（身体关节的）扭伤；扳手；（尤指离别的）悲痛v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的第三人称单数 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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155
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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156
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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157
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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158
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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160
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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161
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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162
rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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163
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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164
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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165
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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166
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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167
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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168
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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169
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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170
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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171
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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172
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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173
scribbles
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| n.潦草的书写( scribble的名词复数 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下v.潦草的书写( scribble的第三人称单数 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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174
lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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175
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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176
belch
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| v.打嗝，喷出 | |
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177
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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178
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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179
voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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180
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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181
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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182
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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183
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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184
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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185
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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186
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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