He was clear, cold day in April and have been thirteen hours.
Winston Smith has had his chin buried in his breast in order to escape the toxic wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats.
On the one hand, he was nailed to the wall color, the interior construction of the poster too.
It depicted simply an enormous, more than a meter wide face: the face of a man of about forty, with a bushy black mustache and a sharply defined, ruggedly handsome features.
Winston he went for the stairs.
It was no use trying the lift.
Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and now the electric current in the daylight hours odklapljali.
This is part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week.
The flat was in the seventh floor, and Winston, who was nine and his varicose ulcer above his right ankle, was walking slowly, resting several times on the way.
In each floor, opposite the lift shaft wall staring at the poster with the enormous face.
It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move.
"Big Brother is watching you", the caption beneath it.
In the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of numbers that have had something to do with the production of pig iron.
The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right wall.
Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable.
Device (called to be picked) was dimmed, but shutting it off completely.
He went to the window: a smallish, frail figure, which leanness is emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the Party.
His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold winter that has just ended.
Outside, he looked cold even through the shut window.
Down in the street the wind swirls dust sukali and pieces of paper and although the sun was shining and the sky was blue, there seemed to be no color anywhere else in the posters that were plastered everywhere.
With black face gazed down from every commanding corner.
One is hung on the facade of the house immediately opposite.
"Big Brother is watching you," the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston.
Down at the road, another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, row, and uncovering the single word masking Angsoc.
Far behind the helicopter down between the roofs, for a moment hung in the air as dragonfly and curve then run again.
It was a police patrol, snooping is the windows.
Patrols were however not mattered.
Edinole the Thought Police mattered.
Winston back to the telescreen was still čenčal of raw iron and the overfulfillment triletko ninth.
The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously.
Any sound, louder than a whisper, which was caused by Winston, is picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained in the field of vision, which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen and heard.
Of course it was impossible to know whether this is observed at a given moment.
About how often and on what system the Thought Police plugged in or that the transmitter, you can only guess.
You had to live - did live, from habit that became instinct - in the assumption that each noise tapped to do it, and watch - except in the dark - your every move.
Winston turned his back telescreen.
It was safer, though it was, as he well knew, even back can be treacherous.
A kilometer away the Ministry of Truth, topping lift, his workplace, vast and white above the grimy landscape.
This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste, it is London, the capital Airstripa One, a third of the province population density in Oceania.
He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this.
They have always stood on this kind of rotting nineteenth century houses whose walls are supported by wooden logs, windows patched with cardboard and corrugated iron roof, a safety net is hung on all sides?
And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow Mon heaps of rubble, and the places where the bombs devastated major areas in which they grew colonies stained wooden huts Kurnik like?
In vain, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
Ministry of Truth - Minitrue in Newspeak - was startlingly distinct from any other object.
It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, terraced burned up, three hundred meters into the air.
From where Winston stood it was just possible to read the three slogans of the party who were in elegant lettering on its white facade: "War is Peace" "Freedom is slavery" "Ignorance is Strength"
Ministry of truth is contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level and an appropriate number below.
According to London have been just three other buildings of similar shape and size.
So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all three at once.
Their names in Newspeak: Minitrue, minimizes, and Miniob Miniljub.
Ministry of Love was really frightening.
Windows on it at all there was.
Winston has never been in the Ministry of Love, but also in its neighborhood within a radius of half a kilometer of it.
You can get there only on official business, but even then it was necessary to penetrate through a maze of barbed wire, steel doors, and hidden machine gun nests.
Even the streets leading to its outer barriers were slaughtered guards in black uniforms with their faces gorillas, armed with batons.
Winston turned round abruptly.
He had set his features into an expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen.
He crossed the room in a small kitchen.
When he had gone at that hour of the Ministry, has sacrificed his lunch in the canteen and was unaware that the kitchen is no food, except a piece of black bread, but it should be saved for tomorrow's breakfast.
The police took a bottle of colorless liquid with a plain white label marked Victory Gin.
She gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese rice spirit.
Winston has poured a cup of tea close to be prepared for the shock, and gulped it down like medicine.
His face turned scarlet and the water ran from his eyes.
The stuff was like nitric acid, even more, when you swallow, you had the feeling that with a rubber hit on the crown.
However, the fire in his belly died down and the next moment the world began to look more cheerful.
He took a cigarette from the crumpled packet marked Victory Cigarettes and incautiously held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell to the floor.
The next he was more successful.
He returned to the living room and sat at a small table that stood to the left of the screen.
From the table drawer he took pen, ink bottle and a thick, quarto blank book with a red back and hard cover.
For some reason the telescreen in the living room in an unusual position.
Instead of making it, as usual, on the back wall, where it could command the whole room was on the long wall opposite the window.
Next to it was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting, and that was when the flats were built, probably for the bookshelves.
If Winston sat in a niche and is strongly leaning back, at least was able to remain outside the visual screen.
Of course it could be heard, but so long as he stayed in his present position, it can not be seen.
It was partly the unusual geography of the room suggested to him, which is now about to do.
But it has also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out of the drawer.
It was a peculiarly beautiful book.
Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was of a type that is already at least forty years are produced.
However, it can be assumed that the book was much older.
I saw him lying in the dirty window in a small starinarne infamous urban areas (which is actually a quarter was not now remember) and it immediately took an insurmountable desire to possess it.
Party members do not walk into ordinary shops (dealing with the free market, as it was called), but this rule was not strictly kept, because there were people available to various things such as shoelaces and razor blades, which are another way could not be obtained.
A quick glance down the street is up and down, and slipped inside for two and a half dollar bought the book.
At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose.
The guilt you took the briefcase home.
The mere fact that he had, although it was not written anything, he is compromising.
Just preparing for that to open a diary.
It was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there was no more laws), but if detected it would certainly have been punished by death or at least Twenty-five years of forced labor camps.
Winston fitted a nib into the holder and the supernatant sucked off.
The pen was an archaic instrument, even for rarely need the signatures, he has furnish you, simply because he felt that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to write it with the right pen, not pencil čečkaš with ink.
In fact, he was not used to writing by hand.
Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything in narekovalnik, but this was of course impossible.
Aid the pen in ink and then hesitated for a moment.
Srh by spreletel.
To mark the paper was an act which constitutes the decision.
In small letters he wrote cumbersome:
4th April 1984
He leaned back.
The feeling of complete helplessness by the cover.
There was no certainty that this is true year of the 1984th
For whom, it suddenly occurred to me, but writing this blog?
For the future, for the unborn
His thoughts for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, then hit the floor in Newspeak - dvomišljenje.
For the first time understood the importance of their venture.
How is it possible to communicate with the future?
It was of its nature impossible.
The future will resemble the present, and in this case it would not listen, or it would be different from her, and his predicament would be meaningless.
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper.
The telescreen had changed over to strident military music.
It was curious that he not only lost the power to express, but even to have forgotten what was originally intended to say at all.
For several weeks preparing for this moment, and it never occurred to me not to be needed for anything other than courage.
Writing would be easy.
All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that has been literally years and years inside his head.
This moment, however, even the monologue had dried up.
Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching unbearably.
He did not dare by popraskati, because if he did, he is still caught fire.
Seconds ticked past Sat.
He knew nothing except the blankness of the front of itching of the ankle, the blaring music and a slight okajenosti, caused by the gin.
Suddenly he began writing a panic, knowing only half of what it says.
His small but childish handwriting scribbling up and down on paper first izpuščajoč capitalization, punctuation and then also:
4th April 1984.
Yesterday at the cinema.
War films themselves.
One very good on a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean.
helicopter then threw a grenade on them 20 kilsko terrific flash and the boat turned into cod.
it was a wonderful scene with baby hand that flies straight up up up into the air a helicopter with a camera in the bow had to follow it up and there was much applause of party seats with a woman at the headquarters of the Raja was created and launched tulila cry and that this should not be to show the child that is not also not before the child is not until a police threw out threw out that I do not believe what happened to her nobody cares nothing what he says paradise rather typical reaction they never -
Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp.
He did not know what it is prepared to the fact that pour out this stream of rubbish.
But the curious thing was that he was meant to head izčistil completely different memory, and this to such an extent that it almost felt capable of writing it down.
Because of this second event, it is now realized, was now suddenly decided to come home and begin the diary.
It happened this morning at the Ministry, if some unspecified things so you can say that to happen.
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the compartment and install them in the center of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate.
Winston is also the seat in its own space in one from the middle rows when they unexpectedly entered the room two people, male and female, which is seemingly familiar, but had never talked with them.
That girl has already met several times in the corridors.
He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department.
I guess she performed some mechanical job on one machine to write novels, because it is often seen with oily hands and a screwdriver.
Appears to be daring, be it about twenty years, she had thick hair, freckled face and her movements were swift and sports.
A narrow purple band, the emblem of the Junior Anti Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to oblino emphasized her hips.
Winston has been annoying at first glance.
He knew why.
It was the atmosphere of hockey fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean opinion, which seemed to carry about with them.
He disliked nearly all women, especially the young and beautiful.
They have always been women, and especially young women, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, raznašalke slogans, the amateur spies and razkrivalke unorthodoxy.
This girl but it is especially arouse the impression that it is more dangerous than most.
Once they passed in the hallway, he quickly bending sideways glance which seemed to pierce right into the interior, and more for a moment had filled him with black terror.
The idea had even that can be an agent of the Thought Police.
This was really quite amazing.
Still, he came over again and again to feel a peculiar uneasiness, which was mixed up with fear and hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.
The other was a man named O'Brien, an Inner Party member who has had so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of what means.
Among people per seat for a moment hush when they saw the black overalls is an Inner Party member.
O'Brien was a big, burly man with a neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face.
Despite the dreadful appearance he had in his behavior a certain charm.
He had the habit his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming, and in some indefinable way, curiously civilized.
This was a gesture that might be - if anyone still thought in those terms - recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his dose by snuff.
Winston had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in as many years.
He felt deeply drawn to him, not only because he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien urbane manner and professional boxing.
Much more of a secretly held belief - or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope - that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was not perfect.
Something in his face suggested it irresistibly.
And again, maybe it was not even unorthodoxy that what was written in his face, but was simply intelligence.
Anyway, calling it the appearance of human beings that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get him on the spot.
Winston has never even make the smallest effort to do so.
At this moment O'Brien glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate.
He sat on a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple of places away.
Small red-haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was between them.
Girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.
The next moment he burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room a hideous, grinding squealing as they came from the huge machine running without oil.
It was a noise, at which the zaskominali teeth and bristled the hair at the nape of the neck.
The Hate had started.
As usual, the screen flashed on the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, Enemy of the People.
Among the crowd is here and there završalo.
Little Redhead gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust.
Goldstein was the renegade and the deserter, who was once, long ago (how long, nobody quite remembered), one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, then he attended the counter-revolutionary activities and was sentenced to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared.
Two Minutes Hate varied program every day was different, but in all it was a central figure of Goldstein.
He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party of purity.
All subsequent crimes against the Party, all the treachery, sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly from his teachings.
Somewhere, he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps beyond the sea where, under the protection of their foreign paymasters, perhaps even - so it was occasionally rumored - in some hiding place in Oceania itself.
Winston had fallen thick.
He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions.
It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard - a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long, narrow nose, which eventually bore glasses.
It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice was a sheep.
Goldstein has vomited his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party - an attack that was so exaggerated and perverse that may be overlooked by the children, but plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other, less rational than you, can be deceptive.
Big Brother is offended, attacked the dictatorship of the Party, demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed - and all with quick, mnogozložno speech which was a sort of parody of the traditional style of party speakers, and even contained Newspeak words from, in fact, the words of Newspeak was more than any Party member would normally use in everyday life.
Meanwhile, it should be in any doubt about what Goldstein lip service to its head marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army - row after row of solid man with brezizraznimi aziatskimi faces, who swam to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by new, exactly similar.
The dull rhythmic tramp of military boots formed the background to Goldstein beketajočemu voice.
Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds when half the people in the room started to escape uncontrollable exclamations of rage.
He was the object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with another.
Although Goldstein was hated and despised by all, although every day and a thousand times a day in the stands, telescreen, in books and newspapers reject doctrines, kill, funny, and the general gaze razkazovali pathetic rubbish that they were true - but the wonder, despite all this seemed to be his influence never decreases.
Always there were fresh dupes who were waiting to be seduced by him.
A day never passed when the Thought Police would not unmasked and saboterjev spies who worked under his directions.
He was commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators, who have vowed that they made an coup d'Etat.
Apparently it was called the Brotherhood.
It was also rumored a terrible book, a compendium of all heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there.
The book is not a title.
People referred to it, if at all, just books.
But such things were known only through vague rumors.
Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject which should ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it.
In the second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy.
People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting loudly as they could in the effort to drown in the madness tirajoči, beketavi voice that came from the screen.
Little Redhead is purple red, her mouth was opening and closure as fish on dry land.
Even O'Brien's face was flushed eclipses.
He sat very straight in his chair, his mighty chest Tensioners and twitched, as though the assault waves.
Dark hair girl behind Winston had begun crying out 'Swine! Pig! Pig! "And suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen.
It struck Goldstein nose and bounced off the voice continued inexorably.
In a lucid moment Winston realized that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair.
The most horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that I have had a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining.
Within thirty seconds any pretense was always unnecessary.
A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge hammer, seemed to flow over the whole group of people like an electric current and change anyone, even against his will into a grimacing, squeaky crazy.
And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of the lamps.
Thus, at one moment Winston hatred was not turned against Goldstein, but also wrong, against the Party, against Big Brother and the Thought Police, and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies.
However, the very next moment, the one with the people around you and everything that was said of Goldstein seemed to him really.
In those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and he felt that Big Brother is elevated, invincible, fearless protector, like a rock against Asian Bunch, and Goldstein, in spite of his loneliness, helplessness and doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.
In some moments it was possible to hate even a conscious shift in this or that direction.
Suddenly, the sort of violent effort with which one night odtrgaš head from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred of the girl with dark hair behind.
Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his brain.
Up to flog to death with a truncheon.
Would tie her naked to a stake and full of arrows like Saint Sebastian.
He would ravish her and cut the throat moment of climax.
Moreover, it is better now than before he knew why he hates it.
He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet, flexible band, which seemed to ask that you embrace it, just the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.
Hostility reached its peak.
Goldstein's voice became law beketanje sheep and face for a moment turned into a sheep.
Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be approaching, a huge and terrifying, his submachine gun was drdrala and it appeared that out of the surface of the screen, so that some people in the first types reduced to their seats.
In the same moment, and this is everyone izvilo deep sigh of relief, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, haired, black mustache, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled the screen.
Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying.
It was only a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are in the battle hrumu izrečeš that are not distinguishable individually but influenced by confidence by the fact that they are spoken.
Then the face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead try to pinpoint the three slogans of the Party, in bold letters: "War is Peace" "Freedom is slavery" "Ignorance is Strength"
But it seemed the face of Big Brother persist for several seconds on the screen as if the impression it had made on everyone's eyes are too alive, that it could be easily erased.
Little redhead had flung herself forward over the chair in front of them rely.
With a tremulous murmur that sounded like 'My Saviour! "She extended her arms towards the screen.
Then she buried her face in her hands.
Obviously, praying.
At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmic chant of 'BB! ... BB! ... BB! ... "Again and again, very slowly, with a long pause between the V and B - a heavy, mrmrajoč, somehow curiously savage noise in the background of which it seemed that the power to hear the tramp of bare feet and hit tamtama.
It took maybe thirty seconds.
It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of overwhelming emotion.
Partly it was a kind of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but even more it was an act of self-hypnosis, liberating drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise.
Winston seemed to freezing entries.
Two Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this inhuman chanting of "BB! ... BB! 'Always filled him with horror.
Of course he chanted with the others it was impossible to do otherwise.
Concealing emotions, control your face, do what they were doing another, it was instinctive reaction.
But a few seconds during which the expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him.
And just at this moment that the significant thing happened - if it did happen.
For a moment he caught sight O'Brien.
O'Brien has been raised.
You took off his glasses and was it just you natikal again on his nose with his characteristic gesture.
But for a fraction of a second when their eyes met, and in that moment when it happened, Winston knew - yes, he knew - that O'Brien thinks just like him.
Unmistakable message was delivered.
It was as though their spirits are opened and the thoughts were flowing from one to another through the eyes.
"I'm with you", he seemed to say O'Brien.
"I know exactly how you feel."
"I know all about your contempt, your hatred and disgust."
"But do not worry, I'm on your side."
And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O'Brien's face was as unfathomable as any other faces.
That was all and he was already uncertain whether it had happened.
Such incidents never had any sequel.
Only achieve this, he maintained that his conviction or hope that others besides himself were the enemies of the Party.
Maybe the rumors of vast underground conspiracy is true - perhaps the Brotherhood actually exists.
Despite the endless arrests and confessions and executions could not be certain that the Brotherhood or not a myth.
Sometimes he believed in it, sometimes not.
There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conversations, small Scribble on the walls of toilets - sometimes even when the two met a stranger - a small movement of the hand, which seemed to be was a signal of recognition.
All of this was guesswork: very likely he had imagined everything.
He went back to his cubicle without looking at O'Brien.
The idea of following up their momentary contact hardly crossed his mind.
It would have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it.
For the moment, the two exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the story.
But this was the event that you were worth remembering in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
Winston woke up and sat up.
Rignil it.
Gin he was rising from the stomach.
The focus is to look at the paper.
He discovered that while he sat helplessly musing, almost automatically also wrote.
And it was no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before.
His pen is lustfully sliding over the smooth paper and with large, beautiful characters printing - "Down with Big Brother" "Down with Big Brother" "Down with Big Brother" "Down with Big Brother" "Down with Big Brother" "Down with Big Brother "over and over again, filling half a page.
It is not something you could not push the panic was felt.
This was absurd, since the writing of those words was not more dangerous than that began the diary, but for the moment he was tempted to rip my spoiled and abandon the enterprise altogether.
However, this is not done, because he knew that it was useless.
However, it was completely, or he wrote "Down with Big Brother", or has this refrain.
The Thought Police would get him just the same.
He had - and would also be guilty if he had never set pen to paper - the essential crime that contained all others in itself.
They called it a thought crime.
Thought crime is a thing that it should be concealed for ever.
You have successfully may be slated for a short time, perhaps for years, but sooner or later they are getting.
It always happened at night, all the arrests invariably happened at night.
A sudden jolt during sleep, the rough hand shaking my shoulder, the lights glaring in your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed.
In most cases there was no trial, no reports of the arrest.
People simply disappeared, always during the night.
Your name was removed from the registers, every record of his activities are deleted, its former existence was denied and then forgotten.
Were abolished, annihilated: vaporized was the usual term.
For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria.
He began to write fast, unreadable Scribble:
shoot me shoot me they will care about me in the neck, they will care about me down with big brother always get shot in the neck, I do not care down with big brother -
Ashampoo slightly leaned back and laid down his pen.
The next moment he started violently.
Knock on the door.
Already!
He sat quietly as a mouse, in the futile hope that whoever is already gone after a single attempt.
But no, the knocking was repeated.
Worst of all would be to delay.
His heart was thumping like a drum but his face was probably due to long work facelift.
He got up and moved heavily towards the door.
When he laid his hand on the doorknob, he noticed that the log is left open on the table.
"Down with Big Brother" was written vsevprek with such large letters that were legible, almost across the room.
How inconceivably stupid, it was what he had done.
However, despite preplahu he knew that would not be liked by popackati creamy paper that would close the book until the ink is still wet.
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Right now it is wrapped in a warm wave of relief.
Appearance colorless broken woman, and Zoran sršečih facial hair was standing outside.
"Oh, mate," came the sad, whining voice, "I thought that I heard you come."
"Would you be able to come and look at our kitchen sink?"
"Stopper is and -"
She was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbor from the same floor.
(The term "Mrs." The party did not approve - everyone had to be called "mate" - but in some women it is used instinctively.)
She was a woman about thirty years, but he seemed much older.
Raise any impression is that it lies within the folds of the face powder.
Winston followed her down the hall.
Such amateur repairs are almost a daily nuisance.
Victory Mansions were old building, built in 1930 or around then, and the parachute.
Plasterer steadily crumbles from walls and ceilings, pipes are in any serious cups cold, the roof is leaking, whenever snow falls, the heating devices are normally only work in half when not on economic grounds at all excluded.
Repairs, except those which can be done alone, was carried out by special committees, which are even able to delay the insertion of window panes for two years.
"Of course this is only because Tom is not home," said Mrs. Parsons faintly.
Parsonsovo apartment was bigger than Winston, and neglected by other means.
All had broken, trampled look like the apartment just visited a big, wild animal.
Sports equipment, hockey sticks, boxing gloves, cheap soccer ball, a pair of inverted sweaty shorts - Cross were lying on the floor, the table was the pile of dirty dishes and dog-ears carnet.
On the walls hung red banners of the Union of Youth and spies, and a giant poster of Big Brother.
And throughout the building there is the smell of boiled cabbage, but dominated by the pungent smell of sweat, which - it was clear from the first inhalation, although it was hard to tell how - the sweat of someone who at this moment was not present .
In another room someone with a comb and a piece of toilet paper tried to catch the melody of military marches by the telescreen was still broadcast.
"These are children, 'said Mrs. Parsons, and half turned toward the door with fear.
"We were not outside."
"And of course ..."
She had a habit in the middle of the strike breakers.
Kitchen sink was full nearly to the edge of disgusting, greenish water which smelt worse than cabbage.
Winston knelt down and examined the knee on the tube.
I hate it worked with their hands and reluctantly he bent, because it always causes coughing.
Mrs. Parsons was helpless watching him.
"Of course, Tom immediately editor, he would be home," she said.
"He loves that stuff."
"Yes, Tom is very smart for such things."
Parsons was Winston colleague in the Ministry of Truth.
He was obese, a brisk man, amazingly stupid, Mount bebavega enthusiasm - one of those completely nevprašujočih surrendered garačev, where more than for the Thought Police underpin the strength of the Party.
For thirty-five years has just been removed against their will from the Union of Youth and before he was promoted to the League of Youth, Spies was in one year longer than is the case in the statute.
The Ministry has been busy on some weak point, which did not require intelligence, on the other hand, was a leading figure in the Sports Committee and other committees that have dealt with the organization of group trips, spontaneous demonstrations, savings campaigns, and voluntary actions in general.
With quiet pride you messages, while the blowers from the tap that for four years and shows every night in the municipal center.
Almighty smell of sweat, a sort of unconscious testimony to the zeal of his life, followed him wherever he went, and remained for him even after he is gone.
"You have a screw driver?"
Winston said, and played with the queen at the knee tube.
"You know, I do not know."
"Maybe kids -"
Listed are the sound of boots and re-blast on the comb, when children come into the living room.
Mrs Parsons brought a screwdriver.
Winston the water and let the ball away disgusted female hair, which was being closed down the drain.
As far as ever he could, he has taken out of cold tap water to cleanse his fingers and returned to another room.
"Hands up!" Wild voice exclaimed.
Devetleten beautiful appearance is a tough boy peeping from under the table and threatened him with an automatic gun - a toy, while his sister, about two years younger, doing the same with a piece of wood.
Both were dressed in blue shorts, black shirts and red scarves, which was the uniform of the spies.
Winston raised his hands above his head, but with unpleasant feelings, because it was so bad guys voice that was not all play together.
"You traitor!" Shouted the boy.
"Thought criminal!"
"Eurasian spy!"
"I shot this, I will evaporate, I will send the salt mines!"
Suddenly they are both bouncing around and screaming "Traitor!" And "thought criminal!" And each girl has brothers mimic stroke.
In a sense it was slightly scary as jumping tiger pup that will soon grow to be ljudožrce.
The boy's eyes was a kind of a speculative cruelty, quite clear desire to hit or kick Winston and awareness that will soon be big enough to do so.
True happiness that a gun in his hands is not correct, thought Winston.
Mrs. Parsons Eyes Sat nervous puzzled from Winston to the children and back again.
In a better light in the living room he noticed that the folds of her face really lies dust.
"But they really so noisy," she said.
"Are disappointed because they can not go to the hanging, for it goes."
"I do not have time to ride them, but Tom will not come back from work in time."
"Why do not we go see it hanging?"
tulil the boy with his formidable voice.
"I want to see the hanging!"
"I want to see the hanging!" Chanted the little girl and still bouncing around.
Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes should be hanged that night in the park, Winston remembered.
This has happened once a month and was very popular spectacle.
Children are always loudly demanded to be transported to watch.
Goodbye from Mrs Parsons, and went to the door.
But it still did six steps down the hall when he hit something unbearable pain in his neck.
He felt as if shouted him razžarjena red wire.
He turned just in time to be able to see Mrs Parsons, who pulled his son across the threshold, while the boy fračo interfered in his pocket.
'Goldstein! "Zarjul the boy as the door closed behind him.
But Winston is the best shock expression of helpless terror on his wife greyish face.
When he was back in the house, walked quickly past the telescreen and sat down at the table and you're still rubbing his neck.
Music on the telescreen paused.
Instead it was chopped off by the military voice was reading a description of the kind of brutal military equipment všečnostjo new floating fortress, which was just anchor between Iceland and Faroeškimi Islands.
With these children, Winston is thinking, it must be a woman all his life horror.
In year two, it will be day and night looking in her symptoms of unorthodoxy.
Almost all the children were due awesome.
Worst of all was that by such organizations as the Spies they were systematically preobražali in uncontrollable small wildlife, but this had not raised any tendency to resist party discipline.
In contrast, Sat Parthia and adored everything about her.
Songs, parades, flags, tours, children's training rifles, shouting slogans, the worship of Big Brother - all this was for them a kind of brilliant plays.
All their cruelty was redirected outwards, against the enemy country against foreigners, traitors, saboterjem, thought crimes.
It was almost natural that people are over the age of thirty years, fearing their own children.
And for that reason they had, it is hardly a week passed when the newspaper does not produce the short article, describing how the little informer - "child hero" was commonly used phase - pulling on the ears and heard the remark, which is compromising their parents, and denounced by the Thought Police.
Pain in the neck from a hit, it subsided.
Faintheartedly grabbed a pen, are wondering whether you can still find something to write in the journal.
Suddenly he began to think back to O'Brien.
A few years ago - how long has it?
It must have been seven years - a dream that goes through the room in which a black theme.
And someone who was sitting at his side, he was when he passed, he said: "We are met in a place where there is darkness."
This was said very over, almost in passing - as an argument and not command.
He went out without being stopped.
But the curious thing was that tistikrat, in a dream, that word it made a strong impression not.
Only later and gradually, he seemed to have become more important.
He could not recall whether it was before or after that when he dreamed that O'Brien had first seen, or he could not remember when it was first recognized that a vote for O'Brien.
However, the voices were the same.
O'Brien was the one which is addressed in the dark.
Winston has never been fully convinced - even after today's lucid moment from O'Brien eyes it was still impossible to be sure - whether friend or foe O'Brien.
Nor is he does not consider it a serious matter.
The bond of understanding between them was more important than affection or belonging to the same things.
"We are met in a place where there are no issues," he was saying.
Winston did not know what that means, he knew only that it will happen one way or another.
The voice on the telescreen paused.
Trumpet call, clear and beautiful, it swam in the calm air.
The voice is coarse continue.
That moment arrived with the latest news Malabarske front.
Our forces in South India izbojevale glorious victory.
I hereby notify you that the act, which are reported in a timely manner may lead to the end of the war.
Here are the latest news -
Bad news coming, thought Winston.
And indeed, the description of the bloody collapse of the Eurasian army, with huge numbers of killed and captured, followed the announcement that next week will reduce the chocolate ration from thirty grams to twenty.
Winston rignil.
Gin is razgubljal and leaving it feeling of emptiness.
The telescreen - or to celebrate victory or to wipe the memory of the lost chocolate - has boomed Oceania, we celebrate this.
He would get up in the attention.
However, it has been in your current situation invisible.
Oceania, celebrate this, he withdrew the music easier.
Winston went to the window with his back facing the telescreen.
The day was still cold and clear.
Somewhere far away is suppressed, reboot gromom rocket exploded bomb.
There were about twenty or thirty Meanwhile, things are dropped on London each week.
Below on the street is still anterior plapolal poster here and there in the wind and the word Angsoc appeared and disappeared abruptly.
Angsoc.
Angsoca Council principles.
Newspeak, dvomišljenje, variability in the past.
He felt like wandering in the woods on the seabed, lost in the monster world, where the monster himself.
He was alone.
The past is dead and the future was unimaginable.
Was he ever be sure that only one man now living on his side?
And how was I to know that the Dominion Party will not last forever?
As in the response, he returned three slogans of white facade of the Ministry of truth: "War is Peace" "Freedom is slavery" "Ignorance is Strength" From his pocket he took twenty-five cent coin.
Also, there were small, clear letters written the same slogans and, on the other side of the coin, the head of Big Brother.
Even with those coin eyes to follow.
The coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, the flags, the posters on cigarette packets wrappers - everywhere.
Always eyes watching you and the voice that surrounds it.
If you're asleep or awake, at work or food, both inside and outside, in the bath or bed - no escape.
Nothing was yours, apart from a few cubic centimeters inside the skull.
His heart trembled before the huge pyramid.
Too much is not the power naskočiti.
A thousand rocket bombs would not undermine it.
They again asked for whom they write diary.
For the future, the past - the eyelids, which may be imaginary.
Log in to change it in the ash and fumes.
Only the Thought Police would read what was written before they disappear from the life and memory.
How could you sent your request to a future where neither trail for you and even nameless word written on a piece of paper can not survive?
The telescreen struck fourteen.
In the ten minutes to go.
For up to two thirty should be back at work.
Strangely, he felt that he was being an hour vlilo new courage.
It was a lonely ghost, speaking words that no one will ever hear.
But until they are pronounced in some strange way link is broken.
Not with this, to do that they hear, but this, to stay sane, human heritage continues.
He went back to the table, helping pen and wrote:
Future or the past, a time when freedom of thought, when people are different from each other and not to live alone - a time when there will be the truth and what is done will not be able to be deleted:
From the ages of uniformity, from loneliness Ages, Ages of Big Brother, from the ages dvomišljenja - Welcome!
He thought that he was already dead.
It seemed to him that just now, when he made a decisive step, can express their thoughts.
The consequences of any act involving the act itself.
He wrote:
Thought crime does not pay death: Thought crime is death.
Now, when he realized he was dead, it became important to the extent possible to keep him alive long.
Two fingers on his right hand was dirty from the ink.
This was exactly the bit that they can be issued.
What vohljajoč gorečnež in ministry (probably a woman, someone like a little redhead, or dark hair girl from the Fiction Department) might become curious as to why he wrote during a lunch break, why use old fashioned pen is what he wrote - and then nodded to the relevant section.
He went into the bathroom and carefully zribal ink with coarse, dark brown soap which strugalo skin as emery paper and was therefore very suitable for this purpose.
He put the diary in a drawer.
Clean would have been pointless to hide, but you can at least determine whether it will be discovered or not.
Hair, gently at the ends would be preočiten.
The summit was picked up invisible finger off-white powder and placed it on the corner of the cover, from where they will certainly fall, if someone Volume moves.
Winston was dreaming about my mother.
He had to be, so he thought, ten or eleven years old when his mother disappeared.
She was high, postavna, fairly quiet woman slow movements and beautiful, blond hair.
Father he remembered more vaguely as dark and thin man with glasses, always dressed in a neat, dark clothes (Winston remembered especially has very thin soles of her father's feet).
Both the apparent drift in one of the first great purges happened in the fifties.
This time the mother is sitting somewhere deep within him by his little sister in her arms.
His sister did not remember, except as soft, weak, always quiet large inquisitive eyes of a child.
They both looked up to him.
They were somewhere in the underworld below - at the bottom of wells, for example, or a very deep abyss - but this was the place which, although a deep underneath it still sank.
They were in the lounge of the ship is sinking and was looking through temnečo water.
The parlor was still air and still have it and he could see them, but while the tonili down, down into the green water, which must always next time to hide his eyes.
He was outside, the light and air, while sesalo them down to death and two were below it, because he was up here.
He knew it and they know onidve and this knowledge can be noticed in their faces.
There was no complaint on their face does not in our hearts, only the information that must die so that he can stay alive and that this is an indispensable part of policy.
He could not remember what had happened, but in his dream he knew that they were the mother's life and sacrificed his sister anyway.
They were one of those dreams which, while typically retained a dream image, the continuation of mental life and where you know the facts and thoughts that these new and valuable zde even after you are already awake.
What is now Winston shook, it was a recognition that maternal mortality has been almost thirty years before the tragic and regrettable, in a way that is no longer possible.
Tragedy, he realized one of the old time to time when people still enjoy privacy, love and friendship, and when the family members stood side by side, without the need to know the reason.
Such things, he knew not possible today.
Today, fear, hate, pain, but the dignity of emotion, no deep and full of pain.
All this seemed to see the big eyes of a mother and sister, when you look up through the green water, hundreds of fathoms deep, while still Tone.
Suddenly he stood in a low, soft, and breaks on summer evenings, when the oblique rays of the sun zlatili earth.
Province, who watched her, he had many times to show in a dream that was never entirely sure whether it had ever really seen or not.
In the waking mind he called the Golden Land.