If there was hope, it must lie in the proles, because only there in those swarming1 disregarded masses, 85 per cent of the population of Oceania, could the force to destroy the Party ever be generated. The Party could not be overthrown3 from within. Its enemies, if it had any enemies, had no way of coming together or even of identifying one another. Even if the legendary4 Brotherhood5 existed, as just possibly it might, it was inconceivable that its members could ever assemble in larger numbers than twos and threes. Rebellion meant a look in the eyes, an inflexion of the voice, at the most, an occasional whispered word. But the proles, if only they could somehow become conscious of their own strength, would have no need to conspire6. They needed only to rise up and shake themselves like a horse shaking off flies. If they chose they could blow the Party to pieces tomorrow morning. Surely sooner or later it must occur to them to do it? And yet-!
He remembered how once he had been walking down a crowded street when a tremendous shout of hundreds of voices women's voices -- had burst from a side-street a little way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger and despair, a deep, loud 'Oh-o-o-o-oh!' that went humming on like the reverberation7 of a bell. His heart had leapt. It's started! he had thought. A riot! The proles are breaking loose at last! When he had reached the spot it was to see a mob of two or three hundred women crowding round the stalls of a street market, with faces as tragic8 as though they had been the doomed9 passengers on a sinking ship. But at this moment the general despair broke down into a multitude of individual quarrels. It appeared that one of the stalls had been selling tin saucepans. They were wretched, flimsy things, but cooking-pots of any kind were always difficult to get. Now the supply had unexpectedly given out. The successful women, bumped and jostled by the rest, were trying to make off with their saucepans while dozens of others clamoured round the stall, accusing the stall-keeper of favouritism and of having more saucepans somewhere in reserve. There was a fresh outburst of yells. Two bloated women, one of them with her hair coming down, had got hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear it out of one another's hands. For a moment they were both tugging10, and then the handle came off. Winston watched them disgustedly. And yet, just for a moment, what almost frightening power had sounded in that cry from only a few hundred throats! Why was it that they could never shout like that about anything that mattered?
He wrote:
Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.
That, he reflected, might almost have been a transcription from one of the Party textbooks. The Party claimed, of course, to have liberated11 the proles from bondage12. Before the Revolution they had been hideously13 oppressed by the capitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had been forced to work in the coal mines (women still did work in the coal mines, as a matter of fact), children had been sold into the factories at the age of six. But simultaneously14, true to the Principles of doublethink, the Party taught that the proles were natural inferiors who must be kept in subjection, like animals, by the application of a few simple rules. In reality very little was known about the proles. It was not necessary to know much. So long as they continued to work and breed, their other activities were without importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned loose upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted15 to a style of life that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral pattern. They were born, they grew up in the gutters16, they went to work at twelve, they passed through a brief blossoming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married at twenty, they were middle-aged17 at thirty, they died, for the most part, at sixty. Heavy physical work, the care of home and children, petty quarrels with neighbours, films, football, beer, and above all, gambling18, filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult. A few agents of the Thought Police moved always among them, spreading false rumours19 and marking down and eliminating the few individuals who were judged capable of becoming dangerous; but no attempt was made to indoctrinate them with the ideology20 of the Party. It was not desirable that the proles should have strong political feelings. All that was required of them was a primitive21 patriotism22 which could be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make them accept longer working-hours or shorter rations23. And even when they became discontented, as they sometimes did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without general ideas, they could only focus it on petty specific grievances24. The larger evils invariably escaped their notice. The great majority of proles did not even have telescreens in their homes. Even the civil police interfered25 with them very little. There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a whole world-within-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes, drug-peddlers, and racketeers of every description; but since it all happened among the proles themselves, it was of no importance. In all questions of morals they were allowed to follow their ancestral code. The sexual puritanism of the Party was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity26 went unpunished, divorce was permitted. For that matter, even religious worship would have been permitted if the proles had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. They were beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: 'Proles and animals are free.'
Winston reached down and cautiously scratched his varicose ulcer27. It had begun itching28 again. The thing you invariably came back to was the impossibility of knowing what life before the Revolution had really been like. He took out of the drawer a copy of a children's history textbook which he had borrowed from Mrs Parsons, and began copying a passage into the diary:
In the old days (it ran), before the glorious Revolution, London was not the beautiful city that we know today. It was a dark, dirty, miserable29 place where hardly anybody had enough to eat and where hundreds and thousands of poor people had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to sleep under. Children no older than you had to work twelve hours a day for cruel masters who flogged them with whips if they worked too slowly and fed them on nothing but stale breadcrusts and water.
But in among all this terrible poverty there were just a few great big beautiful houses that were lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to look after them. These rich men were called capitalists. They were fat, ugly men with wicked faces, like the one in the picture on the opposite page. You can see that he is dressed in a long black coat which was called a frock coat, and a queer, shiny hat shaped like a stovepipe, which was called a top hat. This was the uniform of the capitalists, and no one else was allowed to wear it. The capitalists owned everything in the world, and everyone else was their slave. They owned all the land, all the houses, all the factories, and all the money. If anyone disobeyed them they could throw them into prison, or they could take his job away and starve him to death. When any ordinary person spoke30 to a capitalist he had to cringe and bow to him, and take off his cap and address him as 'Sir'. The chief of all the capitalists was called the King, and --
But he knew the rest of the catalogue. There would be mention of the bishops31 in their lawn sleeves, the judges in their ermine robes, the pillory32, the stocks, the treadmill33, the cat-o'-nine tails, the Lord Mayor's Banquet, and the practice of kissing the Pope's toe. There was also something called the jus primae noctis, which would probably not be mentioned in a textbook for children. It was the law by which every capitalist had the right to sleep with any woman working in one of his factories.
How could you tell how much of it was lies? It might be true that the average human being was better off now than he had been before the Revolution. The only evidence to the contrary was the mute protest in your own bones, the instinctive34 feeling that the conditions you lived in were intolerable and that at some other time they must have been different. It struck him that the truly characteristic thing about modern life was not its cruelty and insecurity, but simply its bareness, its dinginess35, its listlessness. Life, if you looked about you, bore no resemblance not only to the lies that streamed out of the telescreens, but even to the ideals that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it, even for a Party member, were neutral and non-political, a matter of slogging through dreary36 jobs, fighting for a place on the Tube, darning a worn-out sock, cadging37 a saccharine38 tablet, saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the Party was something huge, terrible, and glittering -- a world of steel and concrete, of monstrous39 machines and terrifying weapons -- a nation of warriors40 and fanatics41, marching forward in perfect unity42, all thinking the same thoughts and shouting the same slogans, perpetually working, fighting, triumphing, persecuting43 -- three hundred million people all with the same face. The reality was decaying, dingy44 cities where underfed people shuffled45 to and fro in leaky shoes, in patched-up nineteenth-century houses that smelt46 always of cabbage and bad lavatories47. He seemed to see a vision of London, vast and ruinous, city of a million dustbins, and mixed up with it was a picture of Mrs Parsons, a woman with lined face and wispy48 hair, fiddling49 helplessly with a blocked waste-pipe.
He reached down and scratched his ankle again. Day and night the telescreens bruised50 your ears with statistics proving that people today had more food, more clothes, better houses, better recreations -- that they lived longer, worked shorter hours, were bigger, healthier, stronger, happier, more intelligent, better educated, than the people of fifty years ago. Not a word of it could ever be proved or disproved. The Party claimed, for example, that today 40 per cent of adult proles were literate51: before the Revolution, it was said, the number had only been 15 per cent. The Party claimed that the infant mortality rate was now only 160 per thousand, whereas before the Revolution it had been 300 -- and so it went on. It was like a single equation with two unknowns. It might very well be that literally52 every word in the history books, even the things that one accepted without question, was pure fantasy. For all he knew there might never have been any such law as the jus primae noctis, or any such creature as a capitalist, or any such garment as a top hat.
Everything faded into mist. The past was erased53, the erasure54 was forgotten, the lie became truth. Just once in his life he had possessed55 -- after the event: that was what counted -- concrete, unmistakable evidence of an act of falsification. He had held it between his fingers for as long as thirty seconds. In 1973, it must have been -- at any rate, it was at about the time when he and Katharine had parted. But the really relevant date was seven or eight years earlier.
The story really began in the middle sixties, the period of the great purges56 in which the original leaders of the Revolution were wiped out once and for all. By 1970 none of them was left, except Big Brother himself. All the rest had by that time been exposed as traitors57 and counter-revolutionaries. Goldstein had fled and was hiding no one knew where, and of the others, a few had simply disappeared, while the majority had been executed after spectacular public trials at which they made confession58 of their crimes. Among the last survivors59 were three men named Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. It must have been in 1965 that these three had been arrested. As often happened, they had vanished for a year or more, so that one did not know whether they were alive or dead, and then had suddenly been brought forth60 to incriminate themselves in the usual way. They had confessed to intelligence with the enemy (at that date, too, the enemy was Eurasia), embezzlement61 of public funds, the murder of various trusted Party members, intrigues62 against the leadership of Big Brother which had started long before the Revolution happened, and acts of sabotage63 causing the death of hundreds of thousands of people. After confessing to these things they had been pardoned, reinstated in the Party, and given posts which were in fact sinecures64 but which sounded important. All three had written long, abject65 articles in The Times, analysing the reasons for their defection and promising66 to make amends67.
Some time after their release Winston had actually seen all three of them in the Chestnut68 Tree Cafe. He remembered the sort of terrified fascination69 with which he had watched them out of the corner of his eye. They were men far older than himself, relics70 of the ancient world, almost the last great figures left over from the heroic days of the Party. The glamour71 of the underground struggle and the civil war still faintly clung to them. He had the feeling, though already at that time facts and dates were growing blurry72, that he had known their names years earlier than he had known that of Big Brother. But also they were outlaws73, enemies, untouchables, doomed with absolute certainty to extinction74 within a year or two. No one who had once fallen into the hands of the Thought Police ever escaped in the end. They were corpses75 waiting to be sent back to the grave.
There was no one at any of the tables nearest to them. It was not wise even to be seen in the neighbourhood of such people. They were sitting in silence before glasses of the gin flavoured with cloves76 which was the speciality of the cafe. Of the three, it was Rutherford whose appearance had most impressed Winston. Rutherford had once been a famous caricaturist, whose brutal77 cartoons had helped to inflame78 popular opinion before and during the Revolution. Even now, at long intervals79, his cartoons were appearing in The Times. They were simply an imitation of his earlier manner, and curiously80 lifeless and unconvincing. Always they were a rehashing of the ancient themes -- slum tenements81, starving children, street battles, capitalists in top hats -- even on the barricades82 the capitalists still seemed to cling to their top hats an endless, hopeless effort to get back into the past. He was a monstrous man, with a mane of greasy83 grey hair, his face pouched84 and seamed, with thick negroid lips. At one time he must have been immensely strong; now his great body was sagging85, sloping, bulging86, falling away in every direction. He seemed to be breaking up before one's eyes, like a mountain crumbling87.
It was the lonely hour of fifteen. Winston could not now remember how he had come to be in the cafe at such a time. The place was almost empty. A tinny music was trickling88 from the telescreens. The three men sat in their corner almost motionless, never speaking. Uncommanded, the waiter brought fresh glasses of gin. There was a chessboard on the table beside them, with the pieces set out but no game started. And then, for perhaps half a minute in all, something happened to the telescreens. The tune89 that they were playing changed, and the tone of the music changed too. There came into it -- but it was something hard to describe. It was a peculiar90, cracked, braying91, jeering92 note: in his mind Winston called it a yellow note. And then a voice from the telescreen was singing:
Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree.
The three men never stirred. But when Winston glanced again at Rutherford's ruinous face, he saw that his eyes were full of tears. And for the first time he noticed, with a kind of inward shudder93, and yet not knowing at what he shuddered94, that both Aaronson and Rutherford had broken noses.
A little later all three were re-arrested. It appeared that they had engaged in fresh conspiracies95 from the very moment of their release. At their second trial they confessed to all their old crimes over again, with a whole string of new ones. They were executed, and their fate was recorded in the Party histories, a warning to posterity96. About five years after this, in 1973, Winston was unrolling a wad of documents which had just flopped97 out of the pneumatic tube on to his desk when he came on a fragment of paper which had evidently been slipped in among the others and then forgotten. The instant he had flattened98 it out he saw its significance. It was a half-page torn out of The Times of about ten years earlier -- the top half of the page, so that it included the date -- and it contained a photograph of the delegates at some Party function in New York. Prominent in the middle of the group were Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. There was no mistaking them, in any case their names were in the caption99 at the bottom.
The point was that at both trials all three men had confessed that on that date they had been on Eurasian soil. They had flown from a secret airfield100 in Canada to a rendezvous101 somewhere in Siberia, and had conferred with members of the Eurasian General Staff, to whom they had betrayed important military secrets. The date had stuck in Winston's memory because it chanced to be midsummer day; but the whole story must be on record in countless102 other places as well. There was only one possible conclusion: the confessions103 were lies.
Of course, this was not in itself a discovery. Even at that time Winston had not imagined that the people who were wiped out in the purges had actually committed the crimes that they were accused of. But this was concrete evidence; it was a fragment of the abolished past, like a fossil bone which turns up in the wrong stratum104 and destroys a geological theory. It was enough to blow the Party to atoms, if in some way it could have been published to the world and its significance made known.
He had gone straight on working. As soon as he saw what the photograph was, and what it meant, he had covered it up with another sheet of paper. Luckily, when he unrolled it, it had been upside-down from the point of view of the telescreen.
He took his scribbling106 pad on his knee and pushed back his chair so as to get as far away from the telescreen as possible. To keep your face expressionless was not difficult, and even your breathing could be controlled, with an effort: but you could not control the beating of your heart, and the telescreen was quite delicate enough to pick it up. He let what he judged to be ten minutes go by, tormented107 all the while by the fear that some accident -- a sudden draught108 blowing across his desk, for instance -- would betray him. Then, without uncovering it again, he dropped the photograph into the memory hole, along with some other waste papers. Within another minute, perhaps, it would have crumbled109 into ashes.
That was ten -- eleven years ago. Today, probably, he would have kept that photograph. It was curious that the fact of having held it in his fingers seemed to him to make a difference even now, when the photograph itself, as well as the event it recorded, was only memory. Was the Party's hold upon the past less strong, he wondered, because a piece of evidence which existed no longer had once existed?
But today, supposing that it could be somehow resurrected from its ashes, the photograph might not even be evidence. Already, at the time when he made his discovery, Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia, and it must have been to the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men had betrayed their country. Since then there had been other changes -- two, three, he could not remember how many. Very likely the confessions had been rewritten and rewritten until the original facts and dates no longer had the smallest significance. The past not only changed, but changed continuously. What most afflicted110 him with the sense of nightmare was that he had never clearly understood why the huge imposture111 was undertaken. The immediate112 advantages of falsifying the past were obvious, but the ultimate motive113 was mysterious. He took up his pen again and wrote:
I understand HOW: I do not understand WHY.
He wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one. At one time it had been a sign of madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; to-day, to believe that the past is inalterable. He might be alone in holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him: the horror was that he might also be wrong.
He picked up the children's history book and looked at the portrait of Big Brother which formed its frontispiece. The hypnotic eyes gazed into his own. It was as though some huge force were pressing down upon you -- something that penetrated114 inside your skull115, battering116 against your brain, frightening you out of your beliefs, persuading you, almost, to deny the evidence of your senses. In the end the Party would announce that two and two made five, and you would have to believe it. It was inevitable117 that they should make that claim sooner or later: the logic105 of their position demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the very existence of external reality, was tacitly denied by their philosophy. The heresy118 of heresies119 was common sense. And what was terrifying was not that they would kill you for thinking otherwise, but that they might be right. For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable what then?
But no! His courage seemed suddenly to stiffen120 of its own accord. The face of O'Brien, not called up by any obvious association, had floated into his mind. He knew, with more certainty than before, that O'Brien was on his side. He was writing the diary for O'Brien -- to O'Brien: it was like an interminable letter which no one would ever read, but which was addressed to a particular person and took its colour from that fact.
The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command. His heart sank as he thought of the enormous power arrayed against him, the ease with which any Party intellectual would overthrow2 him in debate, the subtle arguments which he would not be able to understand, much less answer. And yet he was in the right! They were wrong and he was right. The obvious, the silly, and the true had got to be defended. Truisms are true, hold on to that! The solid world exists, its laws do not change. Stones are hard, water is wet, objects unsupported fall towards the earth's centre. With the feeling that he was speaking to O'Brien, and also that he was setting forth an important axiom, he wrote:
Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that is granted, all else follows.
温斯顿写道：如果有希望的话，希望在无产者身上。
如果有希望的话，希望一定(must)在无产者身上，因为只有在那里，在这些不受重视的蜂拥成堆的群众中间，在大洋国这百分之八十五的人口中间，摧毁党的力量才能发动起来。党是不可能从内部来推翻的。它的敌人，如果说有敌人的话，是没有办法纠集在一起，或者甚至互相认出来的。即使传说中的兄弟团是存在的 ——很可能是存在的——也无法想象，它的团员能够超过三三两两的人数聚在一起。造反不过是眼光中的一个神色，声音中的一个变化；最多，偶而一声细语而已。但是无产者则不然，只要能够有办法使他们意识到自己的力量，就不需要进行暗中活动了。他们只需要起来挣扎一下，就象一匹马颤动一下身子把苍蝇赶跑。他们只要愿意，第二天早上就可以把党打得粉碎。可以肯定说，他们迟早会想到要这么做的。但是——！
他记得有一次他在一条拥挤的街上走，突然前面一条横街上有几百个人的声音——女人的声音——在大声叫喊。这是一种不可轻侮的愤怒和绝望的大声叫喊，声音又大又深沉，“噢——噢——噢！”，就象钟声一样回荡很久。他的心蹦蹦地跳。开始了！他这么想。发生了骚乱！无产者终于冲破了羁绊！当他到出事的地点时，看到的却是二三百个妇女拥在街头市场的货摊周围，脸上表情凄惨，好象一条沉船上不能得救的乘客一样。原来是一片绝望，这时又分散成为许许多多个别的争吵。原来是有一个货摊在卖铁锅。都是一些一碰就破的蹩脚货，但是炊事用具不论哪种都一直很难买到。
卖到后来，货源忽然中断。买到手的妇女在别人推搡拥挤之下要想拿着买到的锅子赶紧走开，其他许多没有买到的妇女就围着货摊叫嚷，责怪摊贩开后门，另外留着锅子不卖。又有人一阵叫嚷。有两个面红耳赤的妇女，其中一个被头散发，都抢着一只锅子，要想从对方的手中夺下来。她们两人抢来抢去，锅把就掉了下来。温斯顿厌恶地看着她们。可是，就在刚才一刹那，几百个人的嗓子的叫声里却表现了几乎令人可怕的力量！为什么她们在真正重要的问题上却总不能这样喊叫呢？
他们不到觉悟的时候，就永远不会造反；他们不造反，就不会觉悟。
他想，这句话简直象从党的教科书里抄下来的。当然，党自称正把无产者从羁绊下解放出来。在革命前，他们受到资本家的残酷压迫，他们挨饿、挨打，妇女被迫到煤矿里去做工(事实上，如今妇女仍在煤矿里做工)，儿童们六岁就被卖到工厂里。但同时，真是不失双重思想的原则，党又教导说，无产者天生低劣，必须用几条简单的规定使他们处于从属地位，象牲口一样。事实上，大家很少知道无产者的情况。没有必要知道得太多。只要他们继续工作和繁殖，他们的其他活动就没有什么重要意义。由于让他们去自生自长，象把牛群在阿根廷平原上放出去一样，他们又恢复到合乎他们天性的一种生活方式，一种自古以来的方式。他们生了下来以后就在街头长大，十二岁去做工，经过短短一个美丽的情窦初开时期，在二十岁就结了婚，上三十岁就开始衰老，大多数人在六十岁就死掉了。重体力活、照顾家庭子女、同邻居吵架、电影、足球、啤酒，而尤其是赌博，就是他们心目中的一切。要控制他们并不难。总是有几个思想警察的特务在他们中间活动，散布谣言，把可能具有危险性的少数人挑出来消灭掉。但是没有作任何尝试要向他们灌输党的思想。无产者不宜有强烈的政治见解。对他们的全部要求是最单纯的爱国心，凡是需要他们同意加班加点或者降低定量的时候可以加以利用。即使他们有时候也感到不满，但他们的不满不会有什么结果。因为他们没有一般抽象思想，他们只能小处着眼，对具体的事情感到不满。大处的弊端，他们往往放过去而没有注意到。大多数无产者家中甚至没有电幕。甚至民警也很少去干涉他们。伦敦犯罪活动很多，是小偷、匪徒、娼妓、毒贩、各种各样的骗子充斥的国中之国；但是由于这都发生在无产者圈子里，因此并不重要。在一切道德问题上，都允许他们按他们的老规矩办事。党在两性方面的禁欲主义，对他们是不适用的。乱交不受惩罚，离婚很容易。
而且，如果无产者有此需要，甚至也允许信仰宗教。他们不值得怀疑。正如党的口号所说：“无产者和牲口都是自由的。”
温斯顿伸下手去，小心地搔搔静脉曲张溃疡的地方。这地方又痒了起来。说来说去，问题总归是，你无法知道革命前的生活究竟是什么样子。他从抽屉中取出一本儿童历史教科书，这是他从派逊斯太太那里借来的，他开始把其中一节抄在日记本上：
从前，在伟大的革命以前，伦敦不是象现在这样一个美丽的城市。当时伦敦是个黑暗、肮脏、可怜的地方，很少有人食能果腹，衣能蔽体，成千上万的人穷得足无完履，顶无片瓦。还不及你们那么大的孩子就得为凶残的老板一天工作十二小时，如果动作迟缓就要遭到鞭打，每天只给他们吃陈面包屑和白水。但在那普遍贫困之中却有几所有钱人住的华丽的宅第，伺候他们的佣仆多达三十个人。
这些有钱人叫做资本家。他们又胖又丑，面容凶恶，就象下页插图中的那个人一样。你可以看到他穿的是中做大礼服的长长的黑色上衣，戴的是叫做高礼帽的象烟囱一样的亮晶晶的奇怪帽子。这是资本家们的制服，别人是不许穿的。资本家占有世上的一切，别人都是他们的奴隶。他们占有一切土地、房屋、工厂、钱财。谁要是不听他们的话，他们就可以把他投入狱中，或者剥中他的工作，把他饿死。老百姓向资本家说话，得诚惶诚恐，鞠躬致敬，称他做“老爷”。资本家的头头叫国王——
余下的他都心里有数。下面会提到穿着细麻僧袍的主教、貂皮法袍的法官、手枷脚栲、踏车鞭笞、市长大人的宴会、跪吻教皇脚丫子的规矩。还有拉丁文叫做“初夜权”的，在儿童教科书中大概不会提到。所谓“初夜权”，就是法律规定，任何资本家都有权同在他的厂中做工的女人睡觉。
这里面有多少是谎言，你怎么能知道呢？现在一般人的生活比革命前好，这可能(might)是确实的。唯一相反的证据是你自己骨髓里的无声的抗议，觉得你的生活条件在无法忍受以前一定有所不同的这种本能感觉。他忽然觉得现代生活中真正典型的一件事情倒不在于它的残酷无情、没有保障，而是简单枯燥、暗淡无光、兴致索然。你看看四周，就可以看到现在的生活不仅同电幕上滔滔不绝的谎言毫无共同之处，而且同党要想达到的理想也无共同之处。甚至对一个党员来说，生活的许多方面都是中性的，非政治性的，单纯地是每天完成单调乏味的工作、在地铁中抢一个座位、补一双破袜子、揩油一片糖精、节省一个烟头。而党所树立的理想却是一种庞大、可怕、闪闪发光的东西，到处是一片钢筋水泥、庞大机器和可怕武器，个个是骁勇的战士和狂热的信徒，团结一致地前进，大家都思想一致、口号一致，始终不懈地在努力工作、战斗、取胜、迫害——三亿人民都是一张脸孔。而现实却是城市破败阴暗，人民面有菜色，食不果腹，穿着破鞋在奔波忙碌，住在十九世纪东补西破的房子里，总有一股烂白菜味和尿臊臭。他仿佛见到了一幅伦敦的田景，大而无当，到处残破，一个由一百万个垃圾筒组成的城市，在这中间又有派逊斯太太的一幅照片，一个面容憔悴、头发稀疏的女人，毫无办法地在拾掇一条堵塞的水管。
他又伸下手去搔一搔脚脖子。电幕日以继夜地在你的耳边聒噪着一些统计数字，证明今天人们比五十年前吃得好，穿得暖，住得宽敞，玩得痛快——他们比五十年前活得长寿，工作时间比五十年前短，身体比五十年前高大、健康、强壮，日子比五十年前过得快活，人比五十年前聪明，受到教育比五十年前多。但没有一句话可以证明是对的或者是不对的。例如，党声称今天无产者成人中有百分之四十识字；而革命前只有百分之十五。党声称现在婴儿死亡率只有千分之一百六十，而革命前是千分之三百——如此等等。这有点象两个未知数的简单等式。很有可能，历史书中的几乎每一句话，甚至人们毫无置疑地相信的事情，都完全出之于虚构。谁知道，也许很有可能，从来没有象“初夜权”那样的法律，或者象资本家那样的人，或者象高礼帽那样的服饰。
一切都消失在迷雾之中了。过去给抹掉了，而抹掉本身又被遗忘了，谎言便变成了真话。他一生之中只有一次掌握了进行伪造的无可置疑的具体证据，那是在发生事情以后：
这一点是很重要的。这个证据在他的手指之间停留了长达三十秒钟之久。这大概是在1973年——反正是大概在他和凯瑟琳分居的时候。不过真正重要的日期还要早七、八年。
这件事实际开始于六十年代中期，也就是把革命元老彻底消灭掉的大清洗时期。到1970年，除了老大哥以外，他们已一个不留了。到那个时候，他们都当作叛徒和反革命被揭发出来。果尔德施坦因逃走了，藏匿起来，没有人知道是在什么地方；至于别人，有少数人就此消失了，大多数人在举行了轰动一时的公开审判，供认了他们的罪行后被处决。最后一批幸存者中有三个人，他们是琼斯、阿朗逊、鲁瑟福。
这三个人被捕大概是在1965年。象经常发生的情况那样，他们销声匿迹了一两年，没有人知道他们的生死下落，接着又突然给带了出来，象惯常那样地招了供。他们供认通敌(那时的敌人也是欧亚国)，盗用公款，在革命之前起就已开始阴谋反对老大哥的领导，进行破坏活动造成好几十万人的死亡。在供认了这些罪行之后，他们得到了宽大处理，恢复了党籍，给了听起来很重要但实际上是挂名的闲差使。三个人都在《泰晤士报》写了长篇的检讨，检查他们堕落的原因和保证改过自新。
他们获释后，温斯顿曾在栗树咖啡馆见到过他们三个人。他还记得他当时怀着又惊又怕的心情偷偷地观察他们。
他们比他年纪大得多，是旧世界的遗老，是建党初期峥嵘岁月中留下来的最后一批大人物。他们身上仍旧隐隐有着地下斗争和内战时代的气氛。他觉得，虽然当时对于事实和日期已经遗忘了，他很早就知道他们的名字了，甚至比知道老大哥的名字还要早几年。但是他们也是不法分子、敌人、不可接触者，绝对肯定要在一两年内送命的。凡是落在思想警察手中的人，没有一个人能逃脱这个命运。他们不过是等待送回到坟墓中去的行尸走肉而已。
没有人坐在同他们挨着的桌边。在这种人附近出现不是一件聪明人该做的事。他们默默地坐在那里，前面放着有丁香味的杜松子酒，那是那家咖啡馆的特色。这三人中，鲁瑟福的外表使温斯顿最有深刻的印象。鲁瑟福以前是有名的漫画家，他的讽刺漫画在革命前和革命时期曾经鼓舞过人民的热情。即使到了现在，他的漫画偶而还在《泰晤士报》上发表，不过只是早期风格的模仿，没有生气，没有说服力，使人觉得奇怪。这些漫画总是老调重弹——贫民窟、饥饿的儿童、巷战、戴高礼帽的资本家——甚至在街垒中资本家也戴着高礼帽——这是一种没有希望的努力，不停地要想退回到过去中去。他身材高大，一头油腻腻的灰发，面孔肉松皮皱，嘴唇突出。他以前身体一定很强壮，可现在却松松夸夸，鼓着肚子，仿佛要向四面八方散架一样。他象一座要倒下来的大山，眼看就要在你面前崩溃。
这是十五点这个寂寞的时间。温斯顿如今已记不得他怎么会在这样一个时候到咖啡馆去的。那地方几乎阒无一人。
电幕上在轻轻地播放着音乐。那三个人几乎动也不动地坐在他们的角落里，一句话也不说。服务员自动地送上来杜松子酒。他们旁边桌上有个棋盘，棋子都放好了，但没有人下棋。这时——大约一共半分钟——电幕上忽然发生了变化，正在放的音乐换了调子，突如其来，很难形容。这是一种特别的、粗哑的、嘶叫的、嘲弄的调子；温斯顿心中所要听的黄色的调子，接着电幕上有人唱道：
“在遮荫的栗树下，我出卖你，你出卖我；他们躺在那里，我们躺在这里，在遮荫的栗树下。”
这三个人听了纹丝不动。但是温斯顿再看鲁瑟福的疲惫的脸时，发现他的眼眶里满孕泪水。他第一次注意到，阿朗逊和鲁瑟福的鼻子都给打瘪了，他心中不禁打了一阵寒颤，但是却不知道为什么(atwhat)打寒颤。
以后不久，这三个人又都被捕了。原来他们一放出来后就马上又在搞新的阴谋。在第二次审判时，他们除了新罪行以外，又把以前的罪行招供一遍，新帐老账一起算。他们被处决后，他们的下场记录在党史里，以儆后代效尤。大约五年以后即1973年，温斯顿在把气力输送管吐在他桌子上的一叠文件打开的时候，发现有一张纸片，那显然是无意中夹在中间而被遗忘的。他一打开就意识到它的重要意义。这是从十年前的一份《泰晤士报》上撕下来的——是该报的上半页，因此上面有日期——上面是一幅在纽约举行的一次党的集会上代表们的照片，中间地位突出的是琼斯、阿朗逊、鲁瑟福三人。
一点也没有错，是他们三人；反正照片下面的说明中有他们的名字。
问题是，这三个人在两次的审判会上都供认，那一天他们都在欧亚国境内。他们在加拿大一个秘密机场上起飞，到西伯利亚某个秘密地点，同欧亚国总参谋部的人员见面，把重要的军事机密泄漏给他们。温斯顿的记忆中很清楚地有那个日期的印象，因为那正好是仲夏日；但是在无数的其他地方一定也有这件事的记载。因此只有一个可能的结论：这些供词都是屈打成招的。
当然，这件事本身并不是什么新发现，即使在那个时候，温斯顿也从来没有认为，在清洗中被扫除的人确实犯了控告他们的罪行。但是这张报纸却是具体的证据；这是被抹掉的过去的一个碎片，好象一根骨头的化石一样，突然在不该出现的断层中出现了，推翻了地质学的某一理论。如果有办法公布于世，让大家都知道它的意义，这是可以使党化为齑粉的。
他原来一直在工作。一看到这张照片是什么，有什么意义，就马上用另一张纸把它盖住。幸好他打开它时，从电幕的角度来看，正好是上下颠倒的。
他把草稿夺放在膝上，把椅子往后推一些，尽量躲开电幕。要保持面部没有表情不难，只要用一番功夫，甚至呼吸都可以控制，但是你无法控制心脏跳动的速度，而电幕却很灵敏，能够收听得到。他等了一会儿估计大约有十分钟之久，一边却担心会不会发生什么意外会暴露他自已，例如突然在桌面上吹过一阵风。然后他连那盖着的纸揭也不揭，就把那张照片和一些其它废纸一古脑儿丢在忘怀洞里去。大概再过一分钟就会化为灰烬了。
这是十年——不，十一年以前的事了，要是在今天，他大概会保留这张照片的。奇怪的是，今天这张照片同它所记录的事件一样，已只不过是记忆中的事了，可是在手中遗留片刻这件事，在他看来仍旧似乎有什么了不起的关系似的。
他心里寻思，由于一纸不再存在的证据一度(hadonce)存在过，党对过去的控制是不是那么牢固了？
可是到今天，即使这张照片有办法从死灰中复活，也可能不再成为证据了。因为在他发现照片的时候，大洋国已不再同欧亚国打仗，而这三个死人是向欧亚国的特务出卖祖国的。从那时以后，曾有几次变化——两次，三次，他也记不清有多少次了。很可能，供词已一再重写，到最后，原来的日期和事实已毫无意义。过去不但遇到了篡改，而且不断地在被篡改。最使他有恶梦感的是，他从来没有清楚地理解过为什么要从事伪造。伪造过去的眼前利益比较明显，但最终动机却使人不解。他又拿起笔写道：
我懂得方法(HOW)：我不懂得原因(WHY)。
他心中寻思，他自已是不是个疯子，这，他已想过好几次了。也许所谓疯子就是个人少数派。曾经有一个时候，相信地球绕着太阳转是发疯的症状；而今天，相信过去不能更改也是发疯的症状。有这样的想法，可能只有他一个人，如果如此，他就是个疯子。不过想到自已是疯子并不使他感到可怕；可怕的是他自己可能也是错的。
他拣起儿童历史教科书，看一看卷首的老大哥相片。那双富有魅力的眼睛注视着他。好象有一种巨大的力量压着你——一种能够刺穿你的头颅，压迫你的脑子，吓破你的胆子，几乎使你放弃一切信念，不相信自己感官的东西。到最后，党可以宣布，二加二等于五，你就不得不相信它。他们迟早会作此宣布，这是不可避免的：他们所处的地位必然要求这样做。他们的哲学不仅不言而喻地否认经验的有效性，而且否认客观现实的存在。常识成了一切异端中的异端。可怕的不是他们由于你不那么想而要杀死你，可怕的是他们可能是对的。因为，毕竟，我们怎么知道二加二等于四呢？怎么知道地心吸力发生作用呢？怎么知道过去是不可改变的呢？如果过去和客观世界只存在于意识中，而意识又是可以控制的——那怎么办？
可是不行！他的勇气似乎突然自发地坚强起来。他的脑海中浮现出奥勃良的脸，这并不是明显的联想所引起的。他比以前更加有把握地知道，奥勃良站在他的一边。他是在为奥勃良——对奥勃良——写日记，这象一封没有完的信，没有人会读，但是是写给一个具体的人，因此而有了生气。
党叫你不相信你耳闻目睹的东西。这是他们最后的最根本的命令。他一想到他所面对的庞大力量，一想到党的任何一个知识分子都能轻而易举地驳倒他，一想到那些巧妙的论点，他不仅不能理解，因此更谈不上反驳，心不觉一沉。但是他是正确的！他们错了，他是对的。必须捍卫显而易见、简单真实的东西。不言自明的一些道理是正确的，必须坚持！客观世界存在，它的规律不变。石头硬，水湿，悬空的东西掉向地球中心。他觉得他是在向奥勃良说话，也觉得他是在阐明一个重要的原理，于是写道：
所谓自由就是可以说二加二等于四的自由。承认这一点，其他一切就迎刃而解。
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收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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conspire
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| v.密谋，（事件等）巧合，共同导致 | |
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reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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ideology
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| n.意识形态，(政治或社会的)思想意识 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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promiscuity
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| n.混杂，混乱；（男女的）乱交 | |
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ulcer
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| n.溃疡，腐坏物 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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30
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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31
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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32
pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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33
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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34
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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35
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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36
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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37
cadging
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| v.乞讨，乞得，索取( cadge的现在分词 ) | |
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38
saccharine
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| adj.奉承的，讨好的 | |
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39
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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40
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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41
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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42
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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43
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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44
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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45
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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46
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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47
lavatories
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| n.厕所( lavatory的名词复数 )；抽水马桶；公共厕所（或卫生间、洗手间、盥洗室）；浴室水池 | |
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48
wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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49
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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50
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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51
literate
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| n.学者；adj.精通文学的，受过教育的 | |
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52
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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53
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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54
erasure
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| n.擦掉，删去；删掉的词；消音；抹音 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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56
purges
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| 清除异己( purge的名词复数 )； 整肃（行动）； 清洗； 泻药 | |
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57
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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58
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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59
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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61
embezzlement
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| n.盗用，贪污 | |
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62
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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63
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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sinecures
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| n.工作清闲但报酬优厚的职位，挂名的好差事( sinecure的名词复数 ) | |
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65
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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66
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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67
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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68
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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69
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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70
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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71
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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72
blurry
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| adj.模糊的；污脏的，污斑的 | |
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73
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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74
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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75
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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76
cloves
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| n.丁香（热带树木的干花，形似小钉子，用作调味品，尤用作甜食的香料）( clove的名词复数 )；蒜瓣(a garlic ~|a ~of garlic) | |
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77
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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78
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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79
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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80
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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81
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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82
barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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83
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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84
pouched
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| adj.袋形的，有袋的 | |
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85
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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86
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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87
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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88
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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89
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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90
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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91
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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92
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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93
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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94
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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95
conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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96
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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97
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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98
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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99
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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100
airfield
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| n.飞机场 | |
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101
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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102
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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103
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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104
stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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105
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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106
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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107
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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108
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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109
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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110
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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112
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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113
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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114
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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115
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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116
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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117
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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118
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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119
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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120
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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