The weather was baking hot. In the labyrinthine1 Ministry2 the windowless, air-conditioned rooms kept their normal temperature, but outside the pavements scorched3 one's feet and the stench of the Tubes at the rush hours was a horror. The preparations for Hate Week were in full swing, and the staffs of all the Ministries4 were working overtime5. Processions, meetings, military parades, lectures, waxworks6, displays, film shows, telescreen programmes all had to be organized; stands had to be erected7, effigies8 built, slogans coined, songs written, rumours10 circulated, photographs faked. Julia's unit in the Fiction Department had been taken off the production of novels and was rushing out a series of atrocity11 pamphlets. Winston, in addition to his regular work, spent long periods every day in going through back files of The Times and altering and embellishing12 news items which were to be quoted in speeches. Late at night, when crowds of rowdy proles roamed the streets, the town had a curiously13 febrile air. The rocket bombs crashed oftener than ever, and sometimes in the far distance there were enormous explosions which no one could explain and about which there were wild rumours.
The new tune14 which was to be the theme-song of Hate Week (the Hate Song, it was called) had already been composed and was being endlessly plugged on the telescreens. It had a savage15, barking rhythm which could not exactly be called music, but resembled the beating of a drum. Roared out by hundreds of voices to the tramp of marching feet, it was terrifying. The proles had taken a fancy to it, and in the midnight streets it competed with the still-popular 'It was only a hopeless fancy'. The Parsons children played it at all hours of the night and day, unbearably16, on a comb and a piece of toilet paper. Winston's evenings were fuller than ever. Squads17 of volunteers, organized by Parsons, were preparing the street for Hate Week, stitching banners, painting posters, erecting18 flagstaffs on the roofs, and perilously19 slinging20 wires across the street for the reception of streamers. Parsons boasted that Victory Mansions21 alone would display four hundred metres of bunting. He was in his native element and as happy as a lark22. The heat and the manual work had even given him a pretext23 for reverting24 to shorts and an open shirt in the evenings. He was everywhere at once, pushing, pulling, sawing, hammering, improvising25, jollying everyone along with comradely exhortations26 and giving out from every fold of his body what seemed an inexhaustible supply of acrid-smelling sweat.
A new poster had suddenly appeared all over London. It had no caption27, and represented simply the monstrous28 figure of a Eurasian soldier, three or four metres high, striding forward with expressionless Mongolian face and enormous boots, a submachine gun pointed29 from his hip30. From whatever angle you looked at the poster, the muzzle31 of the gun, magnified by the foreshortening, seemed to be pointed straight at you. The thing had been plastered on every blank space on every wall, even outnumbering the portraits of Big Brother. The proles, normally apathetic32 about the war, were being lashed33 into one of their periodical frenzies34 of patriotism35. As though to harmonize with the general mood, the rocket bombs had been killing36 larger numbers of people than usual. One fell on a crowded film theatre in Stepney, burying several hundred victims among the ruins. The whole population of the neighbourhood turned out for a long, trailing funeral which went on for hours and was in effect an indignation meeting. Another bomb fell on a piece of waste ground which was used as a playground and several dozen children were blown to pieces. There were further angry demonstrations37, Goldstein was burned in effigy38, hundreds of copies of the poster of the Eurasian soldier were torn down and added to the flames, and a number of shops were looted in the turmoil39; then a rumour9 flew round that spies were directing the rocket bombs by means of wireless40 waves, and an old couple who were suspected of being of foreign extraction had their house set on fire and perished of suffocation41.
In the room over Mr Charrington's shop, when they could get there, Julia and Winston lay side by side on a stripped bed under the open window, naked for the sake of coolness. The rat had never come back, but the bugs42 had multiplied hideously43 in the heat. It did not seem to matter. Dirty or clean, the room was paradise. As soon as they arrived they would sprinkle everything with pepper bought on the black market, tear off their clothes, and make love with sweating bodies, then fall asleep and wake to find that the bugs had rallied and were massing for the counter-attack.
Four, five, six -- seven times they met during the month of June. Winston had dropped his habit of drinking gin at all hours. He seemed to have lost the need for it. He had grown fatter, his varicose ulcer44 had subsided45, leaving only a brown stain on the skin above his ankle, his fits of coughing in the early morning had stopped. The process of life had ceased to be intolerable, he had no longer any impulse to make faces at the telescreen or shout curses at the top of his voice. Now that they had a secure hiding-place, almost a home, it did not even seem a hardship that they could only meet infrequently and for a couple of hours at a time. What mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist. To know that it was there, inviolate46, was almost the same as being in it. The room was a world, a pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk. Mr Charrington, thought Winston, was another extinct animal. He usually stopped to talk with Mr Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs. The old man seemed seldom or never to go out of doors, and on the other hand to have almost no customers. He led a ghostlike existence between the tiny, dark shop, and an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his meals and which contained, among other things, an unbelievably ancient gramophone with an enormous horn. He seemed glad of the opportunity to talk. Wandering about among his worthless stock, with his long nose and thick spectacles and his bowed shoulders in the velvet47 jacket, he had always vaguely48 the air of being a collector rather than a tradesman. With a sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this scrap49 of rubbish or that -- a china bottle-stopper, the painted lid of a broken snuffbox, a pinchbeck locket containing a strand50 of some long-dead baby's hair -- never asking that Winston should buy it, merely that he should admire it. To talk to him was like listening to the tinkling51 of a worn-out musical-box. He had dragged out from the corners of his memory some more fragments of forgotten rhymes. There was one about four and twenty blackbirds, and another about a cow with a crumpled52 horn, and another about the death of poor Cock Robin53. 'It just occurred to me you might be interested,' he would say with a deprecating little laugh whenever he produced a new fragment. But he could never recall more than a few lines of any one rhyme.
Both of them knew -- in a way, it was never out of their minds -- that what was now happening could not last long. There were times when the fact of impending54 death seemed as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they would cling together with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned soul grasping at his last morsel55 of pleasure when the clock is within five minutes of striking. But there were also times when they had the illusion not only of safety but of permanence. So long as they were actually in this room, they both felt, no harm could come to them. Getting there was difficult and dangerous, but the room itself was sanctuary56. It was as when Winston had gazed into the heart of the paperweight, with the feeling that it would be possible to get inside that glassy world, and that once inside it time could be arrested. Often they gave themselves up to daydreams57 of escape. Their luck would hold indefinitely, and they would carry on their intrigue58, just like this, for the remainder of their natural lives. Or Katharine would die, and by subtle manoeuvrings Winston and Julia would succeed in getting married. Or they would commit suicide together. Or they would disappear, alter themselves out of recognition, learn to speak with proletarian accents, get jobs in a factory and live out their lives undetected in a back-street. It was all nonsense, as they both knew. In reality there was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one's lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available.
Sometimes, too, they talked of engaging in active rebellion against the Party, but with no notion of how to take the first step. Even if the fabulous59 Brotherhood60 was a reality, there still remained the difficulty of finding one's way into it. He told her of the strange intimacy61 that existed, or seemed to exist, between himself and O'Brien, and of the impulse he sometimes felt, simply to walk into O'Brien's presence, announce that he was the enemy of the Party, and demand his help. Curiously enough, this did not strike her as an impossibly rash thing to do. She was used to judging people by their faces, and it seemed natural to her that Winston should believe O'Brien to be trustworthy on the strength of a single flash of the eyes. Moreover she took it for granted that everyone, or nearly everyone, secretly hated the Party and would break the rules if he thought it safe to do so. But she refused to believe that widespread, organized opposition62 existed or could exist. The tales about Goldstein and his underground army, she said, were simply a lot of rubbish which the Party had invented for its own purposes and which you had to pretend to believe in. Times beyond number, at Party rallies and spontaneous demonstrations, she had shouted at the top of her voice for the execution of people whose names she had never heard and in whose supposed crimes she had not the faintest belief. When public trials were happening she had taken her place in the detachments from the Youth League who surrounded the courts from morning to night, chanting at intervals63 'Death to the traitors64!' During the Two Minutes Hate she always excelled all others in shouting insults at Goldstein. Yet she had only the dimmest idea of who Goldstein was and what doctrines66 he was supposed to represent. She had grown up since the Revolution and was too young to remember the ideological67 battles of the fifties and sixties. Such a thing as an independent political movement was outside her imagination: and in any case the Party was invincible68. It would always exist, and it would always be the same. You could only rebel against it by secret disobedience or, at most, by isolated69 acts of violence such as killing somebody or blowing something up.
In some ways she was far more acute than Winston, and far less susceptible70 to Party propaganda. Once when he happened in some connexion to mention the war against Eurasia, she startled him by saying casually71 that in her opinion the war was not happening. The rocket bombs which fell daily on London were probably fired by the Government of Oceania itself, 'just to keep people frightened'. This was an idea that had literally72 never occurred to him. She also stirred a sort of envy in him by telling him that during the Two Minutes Hate her great difficulty was to avoid bursting out laughing. But she only questioned the teachings of the Party when they in some way touched upon her own life. Often she was ready to accept the official mythology73, simply because the difference between truth and falsehood did not seem important to her. She believed, for instance, having learnt it at school, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. (In his own schooldays, Winston remembered, in the late fifties, it was only the helicopter that the Party claimed to have invented; a dozen years later, when Julia was at school, it was already claiming the aeroplane; one generation more, and it would be claiming the steam engine.) And when he told her that aeroplanes had been in existence before he was born and long before the Revolution, the fact struck her as totally uninteresting. After all, what did it matter who had invented aeroplanes? It was rather more of a shock to him when he discovered from some chance remark that she did not remember that Oceania, four years ago, had been at war with Eastasia and at peace with Eurasia. It was true that she regarded the whole war as a sham74: but apparently75 she had not even noticed that the name of the enemy had changed. 'I thought we'd always been at war with Eurasia,' she said vaguely. It frightened him a little. The invention of aeroplanes dated from long before her birth, but the switchover in the war had happened only four years ago, well after she was grown up. He argued with her about it for perhaps a quarter of an hour. In the end he succeeded in forcing her memory back until she did dimly recall that at one time Eastasia and not Eurasia had been the enemy. But the issue still struck her as unimportant. 'Who cares?' she said impatiently. 'It's always one bloody76 war after another, and one knows the news is all lies anyway.'
Sometimes he talked to her of the Records Department and the impudent77 forgeries78 that he committed there. Such things did not appear to horrify79 her. She did not feel the abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought of lies becoming truths. He told her the story of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford and the momentous80 slip of paper which he had once held between his fingers. It did not make much impression on her. At first, indeed, she failed to grasp the point of the story.
'Were they friends of yours?' she said.
'No, I never knew them. They were Inner Party members. Besides, they were far older men than I was. They belonged to the old days, before the Revolution. I barely knew them by sight.'
'Then what was there to worry about? People are being killed off all the time, aren't they?'
He tried to make her understand. 'This was an exceptional case. It wasn't just a question of somebody being killed. Do you realize that the past, starting from yesterday, has been actually abolished? If it survives anywhere, it's in a few solid objects with no words attached to them, like that lump of glass there. Already we know almost literally nothing about the Revolution and the years before the Revolution. Every record has been destroyed or falsified, every book has been rewritten, every picture has been repainted, every statue and street and building has been renamed, every date has been altered. And that process is continuing day by day and minute by minute. History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Party is always right. I know, of course, that the past is falsified, but it would never be possible for me to prove it, even when I did the falsification myself. After the thing is done, no evidence ever remains81. The only evidence is inside my own mind, and I don't know with any certainty that any other human being shares my memories. Just in that one instance, in my whole life, I did possess actual concrete evidence after the event -- years after it.'
'And what good was that?'
'It was no good, because I threw it away a few minutes later. But if the same thing happened today, I should keep it.'
'Well, I wouldn't!' said Julia. 'I'm quite ready to take risks, but only for something worth while, not for bits of old newspaper. What could you have done with it even if you had kept it?'
'Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have planted a few doubts here and there, supposing that I'd dared to show it to anybody. I don't imagine that we can alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine little knots of resistance springing up here and there -- small groups of people banding themselves together, and gradually growing, and even leaving a few records behind, so that the next generations can carry on where we leave off.'
'I'm not interested in the next generation, dear. I'm interested in us.'
'You're only a rebel from the waist downwards,' he told her.
She thought this brilliantly witty82 and flung her arms round him in delight.
In the ramifications83 of party doctrine65 she had not the faintest interest. Whenever he began to talk of the principles of Ingsoc, doublethink, the mutability of the past, and the denial of objective reality, and to use Newspeak words, she became bored and confused and said that she never paid any attention to that kind of thing. One knew that it was all rubbish, so why let oneself be worried by it? She knew when to cheer and when to boo, and that was all one needed. If he persisted in talking of such subjects, she had a disconcerting habit of falling asleep. She was one of those people who can go to sleep at any hour and in any position. Talking to her, he realized how easy it was to present an appearance of orthodoxy while having no grasp whatever of what orthodoxy meant. In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most successfully on people incapable85 of understanding it. They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations86 of reality, because they never fully84 grasped the enormity of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently87 interested in public events to notice what was happening. By lack of understanding they remained sane88. They simply swallowed everything, and what they swallowed did them no harm, because it left no residue89 behind, just as a grain of corn will pass undigested through the body of a bird.
赛默消失了。一天早上，他没有来上班；有几个没头脑的人谈到了他的旷工。第二天就没有人提到他了。第三天，温斯顿到纪录司的前厅去看布告板，上面有一张布告开列着象棋委员会委员的名单。赛默过去是委员。这张名单看上去几乎同以前一模一样，上面并没有谁的名字给划掉，但是名单上少了一个人。这就够了。赛默已不再存在；他从来也没有存在过。
天气十分酷热。在迷宫般的部里，没有窗户，装有空气调节设备的房间保持着正常的温度，但是在外面，人行道热得烫脚，上下班时间，地铁的臭气薰人。仇恨周的准备工作正进行得如火如荼，各部工作人员都加班加点。游行、集会、军事检阅、演讲报告、蜡像陈列、电影放映、电幕节目都得组织起来，模拟人像赶制出来，口号起草出来，歌曲编写出来，谣言传播出去，照片伪造出来。小说司里裘莉亚所在的那个单位已不在制造小说，而在赶制许多暴行小册子。
温斯顿除了经常工作以外，每天还要花很多时间检查《泰晤士报》过期的旧报存档，把要在演讲和报告中引用的新闻篡改修饰。深夜里喧闹的无产者群众在街头闲逛，整个城市奇怪地有一种狂热的气氛。火箭掉下的次数更多了，有时候远处有大声爆炸，谁也不知什么缘故，谣言却很纷纭。
仇恨周主题歌(叫做“仇恨歌”)的新曲已经谱出，电幕上正在没完没了地播放。歌曲的旋律象野兽的吼叫，很难叫做音乐，而有点象击鼓。配着进军的步伐，由几百个男声大声合唱，听起来怪怕人的。无产者很喜欢它，在夜半的街头，同仍旧流行的《这不过是没有希望的单恋》竞相比美。派逊斯家的孩子用一只蜂窝和一张大便纸白天黑夜地吹奏着，使人无法忍受。温斯顿每天晚上都比以前排得更满了。派逊斯组织的志愿人员在为这条街道准备仇恨周，缝旗子、画招贴、在屋顶上竖旗杆、在街上架铁丝准备挂横幅。派逊斯吹嘘说，单单胜利大厘挂出的旗加起来就有四百公尺。他兴高采烈，得其所哉。天气热，再加上干体力活，使他有了借口，在晚上也穿着短裤和敞领衬衫。他同时出现在几个地方，忙碌不堪，推啊拉的，缝啊敲的，出主意想办法，用同志间劝告的口吻鼓动每个人，身上无处不散发出似乎无穷无尽的恶浊的汗臭。
伦敦到处突然出现了一幅新的招贴，没有文字说明，画的只是一个欧亚国士兵的庞大身躯，有三、四公尺高，蒙古种的脸毫无表情，跨着大军靴向前迈步行进，腰上一挺轻机枪。你不论从哪个角度看那招贴，机枪的枪口总是对准着你，由于透视的原理，枪口很大很大。这张招贴画贴在每道墙上的每个空位上，甚至比老大哥画像的数目还要多。无产者一般不关心战争，这时却被鼓动起来，进发出他们一时的爱国热情。好象是为了要配合流行的情绪，火箭炸死的人比平时更多了。有一枚落在斯坦普奈一家座满的电影院里，把好几百人埋在废墟下面。附近的居民都出来送殡，行列之长，数小时不断，实际上成了抗议示威。还有一枚炸弹落在一个当作游戏场的闲置空地上，有好几十个儿童被炸得血肉横飞。于是又举行了愤怒的示威，把果尔德施坦因的模拟像当众焚毁，好几百张欧亚国士兵的招贴给撕了下来一起烧掉，在一片混乱之中有一些店铺遭到洗劫；接着有谣言说，有间谍在用无线电指挥火箭的投扔，有一对老年夫妇只因为有外国血统之嫌，家屋就被纵火焚毁，两位老人活活烧死。
在却林顿先生铺子的楼上，裘莉亚和温斯顿只要有机会去，就在窗户底下的空床上并排躺着，为了图凉快，身上脱得光光的。老鼠没有再来，但在炎热中臭虫却猛增。这似乎并没有什么关系。不论是脏还是干净，这间屋子无异是天堂。他们一到之后就到处撒上黑市上买来的胡椒，脱光衣服，流着汗作爱，完了就睡一觉，醒来时臭虫又开始猖獗，聚集起来进行反攻。
在六月份里，他们一共幽会了四次，五次，六次——七次。温斯顿已没有一天到晚喝杜松子酒的习惯。他似乎已经不再有此需要。他长胖了，静脉曲张溃疡消褪，只是在脚踝上方的皮肤上留下一块棕斑，他早起的咳嗽也好了。生活上的一些琐事也不再使他觉得难以忍受了，他已不再有什么冲动要向电幕做鬼脸表示厌恶，或者拉开嗓门大骂。现在他们有了一个固定的幽会地点，几乎象是自己的家，因此即使只能偶一相会，时间也才只一两个小时，但这也无所谓了。重要的是居然有旧货铺楼上那一间屋子。知道有它安然存在，也就跟到了里面差不多。这间屋子本身就自成一个天地，过去世界的一块飞地，现已绝迹的动物可以在其中迈步。温斯顿觉得，却林顿先生也是一个现已绝迹的动物。他有时在上楼的时候停下步来同却林顿先生聊一会。那个老头儿似乎很少外出，甚至根本不外出，此外，他也几乎没有什么顾客。
他在黑暗的小店堂与甚至更小的后厨房之间，过着幽灵一般的生活，他在那间厨房里自己做饭，厨房里还有一台老掉了牙的唱机，上面安着一个大喇叭，能有机会与人说话，他似乎很高兴。他的鼻子又尖又长，戴着一副镜片很厚的眼镜，穿着一件平绒上衣，弯着背在那些不值一钱的货物之间踱来踱去，神情活象一个收藏家，不象一个旧货商。他有时会略带热情地摸摸这件破烂或者那件破烂——瓷器做的瓶塞、破鼻烟壶的釉漆盖、镀金胸针盒，里面装着几根早已夭折的婴孩的头发——从来不要求温斯顿买东西，只是请他欣赏欣赏。听他说话就象听一架老掉牙的八音盒一样。他从他的记忆中又挖掘出来一些早已为人所遗忘的歌谣片断。有一只歌是关于二十四只乌鸦的，还有一只歌是关于一头折了角的母牛的，还有一只歌是关于柯克罗宾的惨死的。“我想你也许会觉得有兴趣，”他每次想起一个片断，就会有点不以为然地笑道。但是不管哪一只歌谣，他记得的只有一两句。
他们两个人都知道——也可以说，这个念头一直盘桓在他们的心中——现在这样的情况是不可能长久的。有时候，死亡的临近似乎比他们睡在上面的那张大床还要现实，他们就只好紧紧地搂在一起，这是一种绝望的肉欲，就象一个快死的人在临死前五分钟享受他最后一点的快感一样。但也有一些时候，他们却有不仅感到安全而且感到长远的幻觉。他们两人都感到，只要他们实际处身于那间屋子，就不会有灾难临头。要到那里去，倒是又困难又危险，但是那间屋子却是个避难所。当温斯顿凝视着那镇纸的中央的时候，他感到，要到那水晶世界里面去是办得到的，一旦到了里面，时间就能停止了。他们常常耽溺于逃避现实的白曰梦。他们的运气会永远好下去，他们可以在这一辈子永远这样偷偷摸摸搞下去而不会被发觉。或者凯瑟琳会死掉，温期顿和裘莉亚就可以想个巧妙的方法结婚。或者他们一起自杀。或者他们躲了开去，改头换面，学会无产者说话的腔调，到一家工厂去做工，在一条后街小巷里过一辈子，而不被人发觉。他们两人都知道，这都是痴人说梦。实际生活中是没有出路的。甚至那唯一切实可行的办法，即自杀，他们也无意实行。过一天算一天，过一星期算一星期，虽然没有前途，却还是尽量拖长现在的时间，这似乎是一种无法压制的本能，就象只要有空气，人肺就总要呼吸一样。
有时候他们也谈到搞实际活动来反党，但是却不知道怎样采取第一步。即使传说中的兄弟会确有其事，要参加进去还有困难。他告诉她在他和奥勃良之间存在着，或者说似乎存在着一种奇怪的亲切感。他有时就感到有这样的冲动，要到奥勃良面前去对他说自已是党的敌人，要求他的帮助。很奇怪，她并不觉得这样做太冒失。她善于从相貌上看人，温斯顿只根据眼光一闪就认为奥勃良是个可靠的人。她似乎觉得是很自然的事。此外，她也想当然地认为，大家，几乎每个人，内心里都是仇恨党的，只要安全无失，都会打破规矩的。但是她不相信有普遍的、有组织的反对派存在，或者有可能存在。她说，关于果尔德施坦因及其地下军的传说只不过是党为了它自己的目的而捏造出来的胡说八道，你不得不假装相信。在党的集会和自发的示威中，她还无数次拉开嗓门高喊要把那些她从来没有听到过而且她也一点也不相信他们犯了什么罪行的人处以死刑。在公审大会上，她参加青年团的队伍，在法庭外面从早到晚高喊“打倒卖国贼！”在两分钟仇恨中，她咒骂果尔德施坦因总抢在别人之先。但是果尔德施坦因是谁，他的主张是什么，她却一无所知。她是革命后成长的，年纪太轻，不知五十年代和六十年代的思想战线上的斗争。象独立的政治运动这样的事，她是无法理解的；而且不论怎么说，党是不可战胜的。它将永远存在，永远是那个样子。你的反抗只能是暗中不服从，或者至多是孤立的暴力行为，例如杀掉某个人或者炸掉某个地方。
在某些方面她比温斯顿还精，还不易相信党的宣传。有一次谈到同欧亚国打仗时，她随口说，她认为根本没有在打仗，这叫他大吃一惊。她说，每天落在伦敦的火箭可能是大洋国政府自己发射的，“目的只是为了要吓唬人民”。这个念头他可从来没有想到过。她也使他感到有些妒意，因为她说在两分钟仇恨中她最大的困难还是要忍住不致大声笑出来。但是她对党的教导有怀疑只是在这些教导触及她自己的生活的时候。她经常是容易相信官方的无稽之谈的，那只是因为在她看来真假之间的区别关系不大。例如，她相信飞机是党发明的，这是她在上小学的时候学到的。(温斯顿记得，在他上小学的时候，那是在五十年代后期，党自称由它发明的还只有直升飞机；十多年以后，裘莉亚上小学时，就是飞机了；再隔一代，就会说蒸气机也是它发明的了。当他告诉她，在他出生之前，早在革命发生之前，就已有了飞机的存在时，她对这一事实一点也不发生兴趣。说到头，飞机究竟是谁发明的有汁么关系呢？但是比较使他吃惊的却是有一次随便聊天时他发现，她不记得四年之前大洋国在同东亚国打仗，同欧亚国和平相处。不错，她认为整个战争都是假的；但显然她甚至没有注意到已经换了敌人的名字。她含糊地说，“我以为我们一直在同欧亚国打仗。”这使他感到有点吃惊。飞机的发明是在她出生以前很久的事，而战争对象的转换却才只有四年，是她早巳长大成人以后的事。他同她辩论了大约有半小时，最后他终于使她记起来说，她隐约记得有一阵子敌人是东亚国而不是欧亚国。但是她认为这一问题无所谓。她不耐烦地说，“谁管它？总是不断地打仗，一个接着一个，反正你知道所有的消息都是谎话。”
有时他同她说到记录司和他在那里干的大胆伪造的工作。她对这种事刹？”裘莉亚说。“我敢冒险，但只为值得冒险的事冒险，决不会为几张旧报纸冒险。即使你留了下来，你又能拿它怎么样？”
“也许没有多大用处。但这毕竟是证据。可能在这里或者那里撤布一些怀疑的种子，那是假定我敢拿去给别人看。
我认为在我们这一辈子要改变任何现状是不可能的了。但是可以想象，有时在某个地方会出现反抗的小集团，一小批人集合在一起，人数慢慢增加，甚至还留下一些痕迹，下一代的人可以接着干下去。”
“我对下一代没有兴趣，亲爱的。我只对我们自己有兴趣。”
“你只是一个腰部以下的叛逆，”他对她说。
她觉得这句话十分风趣，高兴得伸开胳膊搂住他。
她对党的理论和细枝末节毫无兴趣。他一开始谈到英社的原则、双重思想、过去的默默无声和客观现实的抹杀，或者一开始用新话的词儿，她就感到厌倦，混乱，说她从来没有注意过这种事情。大家都知道这都是废话，因此操这个心干什么？她只知道什么该高兴，什么该不高兴，这样就够了。如果他老是谈这种事情，她往往就睡着了，这个习惯真叫他没有办法。她是那样的一种人，随时随地都可以睡觉。
在同他说话中，他发现假装正经而又不知正经为何意是件十分容易的事。可以说，在没有理解能力的人身上，党把它的世界观灌输给他们最为成功。最明显不过的违反现实的东西，都可以使他们相信，因为他们从来不理解，对他们的要求是何等荒唐，因为他们对社会大事不发生兴趣，从来不去注意发生了什么事情。正是由于缺乏理解，他们没有发疯。
他们什么都一口吞下，吞下的东西对他们并无害处，因为没有残渣遗留，就象一颗玉米粒不加消化地通过一只鸟的体内一样。
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收听单词发音
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1
labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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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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overtime
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| adj.超时的，加班的；adv.加班地 | |
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waxworks
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| n.公共供水系统；蜡制品，蜡像( waxwork的名词复数 ) | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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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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atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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embellishing
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| v.美化( embellish的现在分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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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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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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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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unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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squads
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| n.（军队中的）班( squad的名词复数 )；（暗杀）小组；体育运动的运动（代表）队；（对付某类犯罪活动的）警察队伍 | |
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erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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slinging
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| 抛( sling的现在分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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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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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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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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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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frenzies
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| 狂乱( frenzy的名词复数 )； 极度的激动 | |
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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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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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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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effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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ulcer
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| n.溃疡，腐坏物 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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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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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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57
daydreams
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| n.白日梦( daydream的名词复数 )v.想入非非，空想( daydream的第三人称单数 ) | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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62
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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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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64
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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65
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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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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ideological
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| a.意识形态的 | |
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68
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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70
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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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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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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forgeries
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| 伪造( forgery的名词复数 )； 伪造的文件、签名等 | |
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horrify
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| vt.使恐怖，使恐惧，使惊骇 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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81
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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83
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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84
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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85
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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86
violations
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| 违反( violation的名词复数 )； 冒犯； 违反（行为、事例）； 强奸 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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