He drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly a warm wave of relief flowed through him. A colourless, crushed-looking woman, with wispy1 hair and a lined face, was standing2 outside.
'Oh, comrade,' she began in a dreary3, whining4 sort of voice, 'I thought I heard you come in. Do you think you could come across and have a look at our kitchen sink? It's got blocked up and-'
It was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same floor. ('Mrs' was a word somewhat discountenanced by the Party -- you were supposed to call everyone 'comrade' -- but with some women one used it instinctively5.) She was a woman of about thirty, but looking much older. One had the impression that there was dust in the creases6 of her face. Winston followed her down the passage. These amateur repair jobs were an almost daily irritation7. Victory Mansions8 were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were falling to pieces. The plaster flaked9 constantly from ceilings and walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked whenever there was snow, the heating system was usually running at half steam when it was not closed down altogether from motives10 of economy. Repairs, except what you could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by remote committees which were liable to hold up even the mending of a window-pane for two years.
'Of course it's only because Tom isn't home,' said Mrs Parsons vaguely11.
The Parsons' flat was bigger than Winston's, and dingy12 in a different way. Everything had a battered14, trampled-on look, as though the place had just been visited by some large violent animal. Games impedimenta -- hockey-sticks, boxing-gloves, a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts turned inside out -- lay all over the floor, and on the table there was a litter of dirty dishes and dog-eared exercise-books. On the walls were scarlet15 banners of the Youth League and the Spies, and a full-sized poster of Big Brother. There was the usual boiled-cabbage smell, common to the whole building, but it was shot through by a sharper reek16 of sweat, which-one knew this at the first sniff17, though it was hard to say how was the sweat of some person not present at the moment. In another room someone with a comb and a piece of toilet paper was trying to keep tune18 with the military music which was still issuing from the telescreen.
'It's the children,' said Mrs Parsons, casting a half-apprehensive glance at the door. 'They haven't been out today. And of course-'
She had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the middle. The kitchen sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy19 greenish water which smelt20 worse than ever of cabbage. Winston knelt down and examined the angle-joint of the pipe. He hated using his hands, and he hated bending down, which was always liable to start him coughing. Mrs Parsons looked on helplessly.
'Of course if Tom was home he'd put it right in a moment,' she said. 'He loves anything like that. He's ever so good with his hands, Tom is.'
Parsons was Winston's fellow-employee at the Ministry21 of Truth. He was a fattish but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasms -- one of those completely unquestioning, devoted22 drudges23 on whom, more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party depended. At thirty-five he had just been unwillingly24 evicted25 from the Youth League, and before graduating into the Youth League he had managed to stay on in the Spies for a year beyond the statutory age. At the Ministry he was employed in some subordinate post for which intelligence was not required, but on the other hand he was a leading figure on the Sports Committee and all the other committees engaged in organizing community hikes, spontaneous demonstrations26, savings28 campaigns, and voluntary activities generally. He would inform you with quiet pride, between whiffs of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance at the Community Centre every evening for the past four years. An overpowering smell of sweat, a sort of unconscious testimony29 to the strenuousness30 of his life, followed him about wherever he went, and even remained behind him after he had gone.
'Have you got a spanner? -said Winston, fiddling31 with the nut on the angle-joint.
'A spanner,' said Mrs Parsons, immediately becoming invertebrate32. 'I don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps the children -'
There was a trampling33 of boots and another blast on the comb as the children charged into the living-room. Mrs Parsons brought the spanner. Winston let out the water and disgustedly removed the clot34 of human hair that had blocked up the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could in the cold water from the tap and went back into the other room.
'Up with your hands!' yelled a savage35 voice.
A handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the table and was menacing him with a toy automatic pistol, while his small sister, about two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood. Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirts, and red neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies. Winston raised his hands above his head, but with an uneasy feeling, so vicious was the boy's demeanour, that it was not altogether a game.
'You're a traitor36!' yelled the boy. 'You're a thought-criminal! You're a Eurasian spy! I'll shoot you, I'll vaporize you, I'll send you to the salt mines!'
Suddenly they were both leaping round him, shouting 'Traitor!' and 'Thought-criminal!' the little girl imitating her brother in every movement. It was somehow slightly frightening, like the gambolling37 of tiger cubs38 which will soon grow up into man-eaters. There was a sort of calculating ferocity in the boy's eye, a quite evident desire to hit or kick Winston and a consciousness of being very nearly big enough to do so. It was a good job it was not a real pistol he was holding, Winston thought.
Mrs Parsons' eyes flitted nervously39 from Winston to the children, and back again. In the better light of the living-room he noticed with interest that there actually was dust in the creases of her face.
'They do get so noisy,' she said. 'They're disappointed because they couldn't go to see the hanging, that's what it is. I'm too busy to take them. and Tom won't be back from work in time.'
'Why can't we go and see the hanging?' roared the boy in his huge voice.
'Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!' chanted the little girl, still capering40 round.
Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to be hanged in the Park that evening, Winston remembered. This happened about once a month, and was a popular spectacle. Children always clamoured to be taken to see it. He took his leave of Mrs Parsons and made for the door. But he had not gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his neck an agonizingly painful blow. It was as though a red-hot wire had been jabbed into him. He spun41 round just in time to see Mrs Parsons dragging her son back into the doorway42 while the boy pocketed a catapult.
'Goldstein!' bellowed43 the boy as the door closed on him. But what most struck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the woman's greyish face.
Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen and sat down at the table again, still rubbing his neck. The music from the telescreen had stopped. Instead, a clipped military voice was reading out, with a sort of brutal44 relish45, a description of the armaments of the new Floating Fortress46 which had just been anchored between lceland and the Faroe lslands.
With those children, he thought, that wretched woman must lead a life of terror. Another year, two years, and they would be watching her night and day for symptoms of unorthodoxy. Nearly all children nowadays were horrible. What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as the Spies they were systematically47 turned into ungovernable little savages48, and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the Party. On the contrary, they adored the Party and everything connected with it. The songs, the processions, the banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy49 rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother -- it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned outwards50, against the enemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors51, saboteurs, thought-criminals. It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children. And with good reason, for hardly a week passed in which The Times did not carry a paragraph describing how some eavesdropping52 little sneak53 -- 'child hero' was the phrase generally used -- had overheard some compromising remark and denounced its parents to the Thought Police.
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 casually54 -- 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 partisanship55. '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 trumpet56 call, clear and beautiful, floated into the stagnant57 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 authorized58 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 gory59 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 ration27 would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty.
Winston belched60 again. The gin was wearing off, leaving a deflated61 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 lighter62 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, reverberating63 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 monstrous64 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 dominion65 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 inscribed66, 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 enveloping67 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 skull68.
The sun had shifted round, and the myriad69 windows of the Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on them, looked grim as the loopholes of a fortress. His heart quailed70 before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too strong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs would not batter13 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 anonymous71 word scribbled72 on a piece of paper, could physically73 survive?
The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten minutes. He had to be back at work by fourteen-thirty.
Curiously74, 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 sane75 that you carried on the human heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote:
To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone -- to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone76: From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude77, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink -- greetings!
He was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that it was only now, when he had begun to be able to formulate78 his thoughts, that he had taken the decisive step. The consequences of every act are included in the act itself. He wrote:
Thoughtcrime does not entail79 death: thoughtcrime IS death.
Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible. Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained. It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you. Some nosing zealot in the Ministry (a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired woman or the dark-haired girl from the Fiction Department) might start wondering why he had been writing during the lunch interval80, why he had used an oldfashioned pen, what he had been writing -- and then drop a hint in the appropriate quarter. He went to the bathroom and carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty dark-brown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was therefore well adapted for this purpose.
He put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless to think of hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had been discovered. A hair laid across the page-ends was too obvious. With the tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved.
温斯顿的手刚摸到门把就看到他的日记放在桌上没有合上，上面尽是写着打倒老大哥，宇体之大，从房间另一头还看得很清楚。想不到怎么会这样蠢。但是，即使在慌里慌张之中他也意识到，他不愿在墨迹未干之前就合上本子弄污乳白的纸张。
他咬紧了牙关，打开了门。顿时全身感到一股暖流，心中一块大石头落了地。站在门外的是一个面容苍白憔悴的女人，头发稀疏，满脸皱纹。
“哦，同志，”她开始用一种疲倦的、带点呻吟的嗓子说，“我说我听到了你进门的声音。你是不是能够过来帮我看一看我家厨房里的水池子？它好象堵塞了——”她是派逊斯太太，同一层楼一个邻居的妻子。(“太太”这个称呼，党内是有点不赞成用的，随便谁，你都得叫“同志”，但是对于有些妇女，你会不自觉地叫她们“太太”的。)她年约三十，但外表却要老得多。你有这样的印象，好象她脸上的皱纹里嵌积着尘埃。温斯顿跟着她向过道另一头走去。这种业余修理工作几乎每天都有，使人讨厌。胜利大厦是所老房子，大约在1930年左右修建的，现在快要倒塌了。
天花板上和墙上的灰泥不断地掉下来，每次霜冻，水管总是冻裂，一下雪屋顶就漏，暖气如果不是由于节约而完全关闭，一般也只烧得半死不活。修理工作除非你自己能动手，否则必须得到某个高高在上的委员会的同意，而这种委员会很可能拖上一两年不来理你，哪怕是要修一扇玻璃窗。
“正好托姆不在家，”派逊斯太太含含糊糊说。
派逊斯家比温斯顿的大一些，另有一种阴暗的气氛．什么东西都有一种挤瘪打烂的样子，好象这地方因刚才来过了一头乱跳乱蹦的巨兽一样。地板上到处尽是体育用品——曲棍球棍、拳击手套、破足球、一条有汗迹的短裤向外翻着，桌子上是一堆脏碗碟和折了角的练习本。墙上是青年团和少年侦察队的红旗和一幅巨大的老大哥画像。房间里同整所房子一样，有一股必不可少的熬白菜味儿，但又夹着一股更刺鼻的汗臭味儿，你一闻就知道是这里目前不在的一个人的汗臭，虽然你说不出为什么一闻就知道。在另一间屋子里，有人用一只蜂窝和一张擦屁股纸当作喇叭在吹，配合着电幕上还在发出的军乐的调子。
“那是孩子们，”派逊斯太大有点担心地向那扇房门看一眼。“他们今天没有出去。当然罗——”她有一种话说半句又顿住的习惯。厨房里的水池几乎满得溢了出来，尽是发绿的脏水，比烂白菜味儿还难闻。温斯顿弯下身去检查水管拐弯的接头处。他不愿用手，也不愿弯下身去，因为那样总很容易引起他的咳嗽。派逊斯太太帮不上忙，只在一旁看着。
“当然罗，要是托姆在家，他一下子就能修好的，”她说。
“他喜欢干这种事。他的手十分灵巧，托姆就是这样。”
派逊斯是温斯顿在真理部的同事。他是个身体发胖、头脑愚蠢、但在各方面都很活跃的人，充满低能的热情——是属于那种完全不问一个为什么的忠诚的走卒，党依靠他们维持稳定，甚至超过依靠思想警察。他三十五岁，刚刚恋恋不舍地脱离了青年团，在升到青年团以前，他曾不管超龄多留在少年侦察队一年。他在部里担任一个低级职务，不需什么智力，但在另一方面，他却是体育运动委员会和其他一切组织集体远足、自发示威、节约运动等一般志愿活动的委员会的一个领导成员。他会一边抽着烟斗，一边安详地得意地告诉你，过去四年来他每天晚上都出席邻里活动中心站的活动。他走到哪里，一股扑鼻的汗臭就跟到那里。甚至在他走了以后，这股汗臭还留在那里，这成了他生活紧张的无言证明。
“你有钳子吗？”温斯顿说，摸着接头处的螺帽。
“钳子，”派逊斯太太说，马上拿不定主意起来。“我不知道，也许孩子们——”。
孩子们冲进起居室的时候，有一阵脚步声和用蜂窝吹出的喇叭声。派逊斯太太把钳子送来了。温斯顿放掉了脏水，厌恶地把堵住水管的一团头发取掉。他在自来水龙头下把手洗干净，回到另外一间屋子里。
“举起手来！”一个凶恶的声音叫道。
有个面目英俊、外表凶狠的九岁男孩从桌子后面跳了出来，把一支玩具自动手枪对准着他，旁边一个比他大约小两岁的妹妹也用一根木棍对着他，他们两人都穿着蓝短裤、灰衬衫，带着红领巾，这是少年侦察队的制服。温斯顿把手举过脑袋，心神不安，因为那个男孩的表情凶狠，好象不完全是一场游戏。
“你是叛徒！”那男孩叫嚷道。“你是思想犯！你是欧亚国的特务！我要枪毙你，我要灭绝你，我要送你去开盐矿！”
他们两人突然在他身边跳着，叫着：“叛徒！”“思想犯！”
那个小女孩的每一个动作都跟着她哥哥学。有点令人害怕的是，他们好象两只小虎犊，很快就会长成吃人的猛兽。那个男孩目露凶光，显然有着要打倒和踢倒温斯顿的欲望，而且他也意识到自己体格几乎已经长得够大，可以这么做了。温斯顿想，幸亏他手中的手枪不是真的。
派逊斯太太的眼光不安地从温斯顿转到了孩子们那里，又转了过来。起居室光线较好，他很高兴地发现她脸上的皱纹里真的有尘埃。
“他们真胡闹，”她说。“他们不能去看绞刑很失望，所以才这么闹。我太忙，没空带他们去，托姆下班来不及。”
“我们为什么不能去看绞刑？”那个男孩声若洪钟地问。
“要看绞刑！要看绞刑！”那个小女孩叫道，一边仍在蹦跳着。
温斯顿记了起来，有几个犯了战争罪行的欧亚国俘虏这天晚上要在公园里处绞刑。这种事情一个月发生一次，是大家都爱看的。孩子们总是吵着要带他们去看。他向派逊斯太太告别，朝门口走去，但是他在外面过道上还没有走上六步，就有人用什么东西在他脖子后面痛痛地揍了一下。好象有条烧红的铁丝刺进了他的肉里。他跳起来转过身去，只见派逊斯太太在把她的儿子拖到屋里去，那个男孩正在把弹弓放进兜里去。
关门的时候，那个男孩还在叫“果尔德施坦因！”但是最使温斯顿惊奇的，还是那个女人发灰的脸上的无可奈何的恐惧。
他回到自己屋子里以后，很快地走过电幕，在桌边重新坐下来，一边还摸着脖子。电幕上的音乐停止了。一个干脆利落的军人的嗓子，在津津有味地朗读一篇关于刚刚在冰岛和法罗群岛之间停泊的新式水上堡垒的武器装备的描述。
他心中想，有这样的孩子，那个可怜的女人的日子一定过得够呛。再过一、两年，他们就要日日夜夜地监视着她，看她有没有思想不纯的迹象。如今时世，几乎所有的孩子都够呛。最糟糕的是，通过象少年侦察队这样的组织，把他们有计划地变成了无法驾驭的小野人，但是这却不会在他们中间产生任何反对党的控制的倾向。相反，他们崇拜党和党的一切。唱歌、游行、旗帜、远足、木枪操练、高呼口号、崇拜老大哥——所有这一切对他们来说都是非常好玩的事。
他们的全部凶残本性都发泄出来，用在国家公敌，用在外国人、叛徒、破坏分子、思想犯身上了。三十岁以上的人惧怕自己的孩子几乎是很普遍的事。这也不无理由，因为每星期《泰晤士报》总有一条消息报道有个偷听父母讲话的小密探——一般都称为“小英雄”——偷听到父母的一些见不得人的话，向思想警察作了揭发。
弹弓的痛楚已经消退了。他并不太热心地拿起了笔，不知道还有什么话要写在日记里。突然，他又想起了奥勃良。
几中以前——多少年了？大概有七年了——他曾经做过一个梦，梦见自己在一间漆黑的屋子中走过。他走过的时候，一个坐在旁边的人说：“我们将在没有黑暗的地方相见。”
这话是静静地说的，几乎是随便说的——是说明，不是命令。
他继续往前走，没有停步。奇怪的是，在当时，在梦中，这话对他没有留下很深的印象。只有到了后来这话才逐渐有了意义。他现在已经记不得他第一次见到奥勃良是在做梦之前还是做梦之后；他也记不得他什么时候忽然认出这说话的声音是奥勃良的声音。不过反正他认出来了，在黑暗中同他说话的是奥勃良。
温斯顿一直没有办法确定——即使今夫上午两人目光一闪之后也仍没有办法确定——奥勃良究竟是友是敌。其实这也无关紧要。他们两人之间的相互了解比友情或战谊更加重要。反正他说过，“我们将在没有黑暗的地方相见。”温斯顿不明白这是什么意思，他只知道不管怎么样，这一定会实现。
电幕上的声音停了下来。沉浊的空气中响了一声清脆动听的喇叭。那声音又继续刺耳地说：
“注意！请注意！现在我们收到马拉巴前线的急电。我军在南印度赢得了光辉的胜利。我受权宣布，由于我们现在所报道的胜利，战争结束可能为期不远。急电如下 ——”温斯顿想，坏消息来了。果然，在血淋淋地描述了一番消灭一支欧亚国的军队，报告了大量杀、伤、俘虏的数字以后，宣布从下星期起，巧克力的定量供应从三十克减少到二十克。
温斯顿又打了一个嗝，杜松子酒的效果已经消失了，只留下一种泄气的感觉。电幕也许是为了要庆祝胜利，也许是为了要冲淡巧克力供应减少的记忆，播放了《大洋国啊，这是为了你》。照理应该立正，但是在目前的情况下，别人是瞧不见他的。
《大洋国啊，这是为了你》放完以后是轻音乐。温斯顿走到窗口，背对着电幕。天气仍旧寒冷晴朗。远处什么地方爆炸了一枚火箭弹，炸声沉闷震耳．目前这种火箭弹在伦敦一星期掉下大约二三十枚。
在下面街道上，寒风吹刮着那张撕破的招贴画，“英社”两字时隐时显。英社。英社的神圣原则。新话，双重思想，变化无常的过去。他觉得自己好象在海底森林中流浪一样，迷失在一个恶魔的世界中，而自己就是其中的一个恶魔。他孤身一人。过去已经死亡，未来无法想象。他有什么把握能够知道有一个活人是站在他的一边呢？他有什么办法知道党的统治不会永远维持下去呢？真理部白色墙面上的三句口号引起了他的注意，仿佛是给他的答复一样：
战争即和平自由即奴役无知即力量。
他从口袋里掏出一枚二角五分的钱币来。在这枚钱币上也有清楚的小字铸着这三句口号，另一面是老大哥的头像。
甚至在这钱币上，眼光也盯着你不放。不论在钱币上、邮票上、书籍的封面上、旗帜上、招贴画上、香烟匣上——到处都有。眼光总是盯着你，声音总是在你的耳边响着。不论是睡着还是醒着，在工作还是在吃饭，在室内还是在户外，在澡盆里还是在床上——没有躲避的地方。除了你脑壳里的几个立方厘米以外，没有东西是属于你自己的。
太阳已经偏斜，真理部的无数窗口由于没有阳光照射，看上去象一个堡垒的枪眼一样阴森可怕。在这庞大的金字塔般的形状前面，他的心感到一阵畏缩。太强固了，无法攻打。
一千枚火箭弹也毁不了它。他又开始想，究竟是在为谁写日记。为未来，为过去——为一个可能出于想象幻觉的时代。
而在他的面前等待着的不是死而是消灭。日记会化为灰烬，他自己会化为乌有。只有思想警察会读他写的东西，然后把它从存在中和记忆中除掉。你自己，甚至在一张纸上写的一句匿名的话尚且没有痕迹存留，你怎么能够向未来呼吁呢？
电幕上钟敲十四下。他在十分钟内必须离开。他得在十四点三十分回去上班。
奇怪的是，钟声似乎给他打了气。他是个孤独的鬼魂，说了一旬没有人会听到的真话。但是只要他说出来了，不知怎么的，连续性就没有打断。不是由于你的话有人听到了，而是由于你保持清醒的理智，你就继承了人类的传统。他回到桌边，蘸了一下笔，又写道：
千篇一律的时代，孤独的时代，老大哥的时代，双重思想的时代，向未来，向过去，向一个思想自由、人们各不相同、但并不孤独生活的时代——向一个真理存在、做过的事不能抹掉的时代致敬！
他想，他已经死了。他觉得只有到现在，当他开始能够把他的思想理出头绪的时候，他才采取了决定性的步骤。一切行动的后果都包括在行动本身里面。他写道：
思想罪不会带来死亡：思想罪本身就是死亡。
现在他既然认识到自已是已死的人，那么尽量长久地活着就是一件重要的事。他右手的两只手指治了墨水迹。就是这样的小事情可能暴露你。部里某一个爱管闲事的热心人(可能是个女人；象那个淡茶色头发的小女人或者小说部里的那个黑头发姑娘那样的人)可能开始怀疑，他为什么在中午吃饭的时候写东西，为什么他用老式钢笔，他在写些什么(what)——然后在有关方面露个暗示。他到浴室里用一块粗糙的深褐色肥皂小心地洗去了墨迹，这种肥皂擦在皮肤上象砂纸一样，因此用在这个目的上很合适。
他把日记收在抽屉里。要想把它藏起来是没有用的，但是他至少要明确知道，它的存在是否被发现了。夹一根头发太明显了。于是他用手指尖蘸起一粒看不出的白色尘土来，放在日记本的封面上，如果有人挪动这个本子，这粒尘土一定会掉下来的。
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收听单词发音
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1
wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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7
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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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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flaked
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| 精疲力竭的，失去知觉的，睡去的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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17
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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18
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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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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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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drudges
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| n.做苦工的人，劳碌的人( drudge的名词复数 ) | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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evicted
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| v.（依法从房屋里或土地上）驱逐，赶出( evict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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30
strenuousness
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31
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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invertebrate
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| n.无脊椎动物 | |
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33
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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clot
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| n.凝块；v.使凝成块 | |
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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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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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gambolling
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的现在分词 ) | |
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cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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39
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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40
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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41
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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42
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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43
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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44
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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45
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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49
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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50
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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51
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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52
eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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53
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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55
Partisanship
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| n. 党派性, 党派偏见 | |
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56
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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57
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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58
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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60
belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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61
deflated
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| adj. 灰心丧气的 | |
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62
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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63
reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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72
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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78
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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