one It was a clear and cold April day, and the clock struck thirteen.Winston Smith shrank his neck to avoid the cold wind, and quickly slipped through the glass door of the Victory Building-but he was not fast enough to avoid a whirlwind of sand and sand blowing through the door behind him. The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage served with broken straw mats.At one end of the hall, there is a colorful poster nailed to the wall, which is too big to hang on the wall.On the poster was a large face, one meter wide: a man, about forty-five years old, with a thick black mustache, rough and handsome.Winston walked towards the stairs--the elevator, you needn't try.Even in the best of times, the elevators seldom operate, not to mention the power outages during the day.Now that we are welcoming Hate Week, we are running a thrift campaign, which is also a program.Winston lived on the seventh floor, but he was thirty-nine and had a varicose vein on his right ankle.He had no choice but to climb up slowly, resting a few times on the way.On every floor, on the wall facing the elevator, is that poster—a giant face staring back at you.There is that kind of picture, no matter where you move, the eyes on the painting are made to follow you, and this poster is like that.There is also a line of explanatory text below, saying: Big Brother is watching you.

In his room, a sweet voice read a string of pig iron production figures.The sound came from a rectangular metal panel like a blurred mirror on the right-hand wall.Winston turned a knob, and the voice dropped a little, but the words were still clearly audible.The device was called the telescreen, and it could be dimmed, but it couldn't be turned off completely.Winston went to the window: he was small and frail, and his blue overalls (it was the uniform of the Party) made him look even thinner.He was blond and naturally ruddy, and all he had at his disposal were coarse soaps that blunted razor blades, and the winter that had just passed had left his skin rough.

The glass window was closed tightly, but when I looked out of the window, I still felt that it was very cold outside.Downstairs on the street, small whirlwinds blew dust and shreds of paper around desperately.The sun is bright and the sky is blue, but apart from the posters posted all over the world, everything looks pale and colorless.That face, with its black beard, stares down at you from every point of view.On the opposite side of the house, there is a picture facing the street, which also says: Big Brother looks at you—those black eyes, staring straight into Winston's heart.In the street below there was another poster, torn at one corner and flapping in the wind, with the single word INGSOC on it alternately covered and exposed.In the distance, a helicopter flew over the roof, circled around like a blowfly for a while, and then circled and seemed to go away. This was a policeman spying on someone's window.But the cops don't really care.Only the Thought Police really suck.

Behind Winston, the fellow on the telescreen was still babbling about pig iron and overfulfilling the Ninth Three-Year Plan.The telescreen received as well as it broadcast: whatever sound he made, Winston, had to be audible above a very low whisper; Not only can people hear it, but it can also be seen by others.Of course, at any time, no one can know whether you are being seen by others at the moment.On what frequency, on what system, and on whom, the Thought Police put their wires through, the answer to such questions could only be purely guesswork.It may even be imagined that they are constantly watching everyone.At least they can always get through to your line if they want to.People have to live under the assumption that every sound you make is secretly eavesdropped on; every movement you make, as long as it is not in the dark, is carefully scrutinized.Habit can become instinct; in this sense, people already live like this.

Winston turned his back to the telescreen.It would be safer; but he knew that even the back would show up.His workplace, the Ministry of Truth, was just a kilometer away, a towering white building towering above the grimy background.He thought with a faint disgust: Well, this is called London, the main city of Airport One—in Oceania, Airport One is still the third most populous province.He's trying to wring out some childhood memories that will tell him if London has always been like this.How could it be like this?All he could remember were nineteenth-century dilapidated houses with battened walls, cardboard windows, corrugated roofs, and crumbling garden walls.There were bombing sites everywhere, the sky was full of dust, and the rubble was overgrown with weeds.Or, it was some big empty space cleared by the bombs, and a group of chicken coops suddenly overwhelmed like dirty wooden apartment buildings-but it was useless, and he couldn't remember anything.Except for a series of bright images, with no background to be seen, no details to be made out, nothing remained of his childhood.Compared with all the other buildings in front of us, the building of the Ministry of Truth looked very different.In Newspeak, the Ministry of Truth should be called the Ministry of Truth. This majestic building looks like a pyramid, with white concrete walls shining brightly, rising layer by layer, reaching three hundred meters into the sky.From where Winston stood, the three slogans of the Party could be seen, written in beautiful handwriting on the white wall:

war is peace freedom is slavery ignorance is power People say that the Ministry of Truth has 3,000 rooms just above the ground, and the layout of the underground is the same.There are three other buildings elsewhere in London, similar in appearance and size to the Ministry of Truth building.They seem to stand out among the low buildings, standing on the roof of the Victory Building, you can have a panoramic view of these four buildings.The entire government agency is divided into four ministries, and they are located in these four buildings: the Ministry of Truth is in charge of news, entertainment, education and the arts, the Ministry of Peace is in charge of war, the Ministry of Love is in charge of law and order, and the Ministry of Wealth is in charge of is an economic matter.In Newspeak, they are called Zhenbu, Hebu, Aibu, and Fubu.

The care department is really scary.The whole building has no windows at all.Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Care, not even within half a kilometer.No one wants to enter unless they are on business; even if they can enter, they must first go through a maze of barbed wire, iron gates, and hidden machine gun bunkers.Even the streets leading to the checkpoints on the outer floors of the building were patrolled by rude and vicious guards, in black uniforms and armed with flail batons. Winston turned abruptly, and he had acquired the serene, optimistic expression on his face which was ideal when facing the telescreen.He walked across the room and into the kitchenette.Leaving the Ministry of Truth at this time of the day, he would have to sacrifice lunch in the cafeteria; he also knew that there was nothing to eat in the kitchen except a loaf of brown bread—that had to be saved for tomorrow's breakfast.He took a bottle of clear water from the shelf, and there was a white label on the bottle, with a simple line written: Victory Brand Gin.The wine had an oily smell, which made people sick, just like Chinese rice wine.Winston poured almost a teacup, cheered himself up, and swallowed it in one gulp.

His face turned red, and tears welled up in his eyes.It's kind of like nitric acid; and when you swallow it, it feels like a sap in the back of the head.But then, the burning feeling in my stomach disappeared, and the world seemed a little bit more pleasant.He took a cigarette from a crumpled pack (it said Victory Cigarettes), accidentally stood it upright, and the tobacco spilled on the floor.He took out another one to save the cut tobacco.So he went back to the living room and sat down at a small table to the left of the telescreen.From the desk drawer, he took out a pen holder, a bottle of ink, and a thick quarto journal with a red spine and a marbled cover.

For some reason or other, the telescreen was placed in a peculiar position in the living room.Normally it should have been placed on the end wall, where it had a good view of the room; now it was placed on the side wall, facing the window.On one side of the telescreen there was a shallow alcove, where the bookshelves had probably been intended when the apartment was built, and where Winston now sat.By sitting in an alcove and trying to get as far away as possible, he could stay out of range of the telescreen and not be seen by it.Of course, his voice will inevitably be heard, but as long as he stays where he is now, others will not be able to see him.He wanted to do what he was doing partly because of the unusual layout of the room.

However, there is another reason for him to do this, which is the diary he just took out of the drawer.This diary is extremely exquisite. The smooth and delicate paper is a little yellowed due to time, and it has not been produced for at least forty years.It can be guessed that the current diary is even older.It was in a squalid neighborhood of the city (he had long since forgotten which), and he found it lying in the window of a musty little junk shop.Immediately, his heart moved, and he was determined to buy it.It is said that party members are not happy to go to ordinary shops (that is called "speculating in the free market"), but the rules are not always strictly enforced.There are many things, shoelaces, blades, that simply cannot be obtained in any other way.So, he glanced at both sides of the street as if flying, then slipped in and bought the diary for two yuan and fifty cents.At that time, he didn't realize at all what use this book would be used for.He took the notebook home in his briefcase, feeling a little guilty -- there was no need to write anything in it, just having it in his hand was enough to get him into trouble.

What he has to do is to start a diary.It wasn't illegal at all (it wasn't illegal at all, because there were no laws anymore), but if found out, it was punishable by death, or at least twenty-five years in a labor camp.Winston put the nib in the barrel and sucked it to get the grease off.Such a dip pen has long been an antique, and it is rare to use it even when signing.After a lot of effort, he got one secretly, just because he always felt that such a smooth and delicate paper was only worth writing with a real nib, not graffiti with an ink pencil.In fact, he is not used to writing by hand.Except for the very short notes, he is now dictating on the dictation device, but of course he can't use the dictation device to do what he is doing now.He dipped the nib into the ink; for a moment he hesitated.A shudder ran through his bowels.Writing a word on paper, this action has a decisive meaning.He began to write in small, clumsy characters: April 4, 1984 He sat up straight again, suddenly feeling utterly helpless.First, he couldn't tell whether it was 1984 or not.Around 1984, yes; he was sure he was thirty-nine years old, and believed he had been born in 1944 or 1945.But now, if you want to determine the date, it will not be less than a year or two, there is no way. Suddenly, he was puzzled again: Who is this for?Give it to the future, give it to the offspring who have not yet been born.His mind hesitated for a moment over the questionable date on the page, and suddenly he remembered a Newspeak word called doublethink.For the first time, he thought clearly that what he was trying to do was so important.How can we communicate with the future?From the nature alone, it is absolutely impossible to do so.If the future were the same as the present, his words would be ignored; if the future were different from the present, what would his situation mean? He sat blankly for a long time, staring at the book.The telescreen changed to loud military music.It was strange, as if not only had he lost the ability to express his thoughts, but he had also completely forgotten what he wanted to say at first.He had been preparing for this moment for weeks, yet he had never realized that he needed anything else but courage.It would be easy to actually keep a diary: those endless monologues that have been haunting your head for years, just put them on paper.At this point, however, even the monologue dries up.The varicose veins began to itch unbearably again, but he dared not even scratch them for fear of getting red, swollen and inflamed.He had to let the time pass by second by second, except for the blank page in front of him, the itchy skin on his ankle, the loud music, and the slight drunkenness brought by the gin, he completely lost consciousness. Suddenly, he began to write in a panic, but only vaguely realized what he was writing.The small and immature handwriting was drawn zigzagging on the paper, first omitting the capital letters, and finally not even writing the period: April 4, 1984.Saw a movie last night.All war movies.There's a really good one about a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean.Audiences find it amusing to see a fat man trying to swim away from a helicopter chasing him.At first, he was seen rolling in the water like a dolphin, then he was seen in the sight of the helicopter, and finally the sea water around the hole turned red all over his body, and he suddenly sank as if the hole was leaking. The audience laughed and cheered as it sank.The next shot is a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter circling overhead.A middle-aged woman who looked like a Jew was sitting on the bow holding a little boy about three years old in her arms.The little boy screamed in fright and put his head straight into her arms as if he was going to get inside her. The woman put her arms around him, but her own face was blue with fright.She had been protecting him as much as she could, as if she thought her arms could take bullets for him.Then the helicopter dropped a twenty-kilogram bomb among them and then there was a frightening flash and the whole lifeboat was blown to pieces.Then there was a wonderful scene, a child raised his arm high, higher and higher, and a helicopter with a camera on the nose was following his arm, cheering in the party seats, but a woman suddenly appeared in the proletariat Started yelling that they shouldn't be doing this movie and shouldn't be showing it to kids and they just weren't right and shouldn't be showing it to kids and finally the cops kicked her out anyway I don't think anything happened to her no one cares what the proletarians say it's typical of the proletarians responded that they would never... Winston stopped writing, and his fingers were numb.I really don't know what made him write so many nonsense like a gallop.Strangely enough, however, while he was writing in his diary, a memory of a very different kind came to light in his thoughts, and he almost felt sure of writing it down.Now he understood that it was this incident that made him suddenly decide to go home today and start writing a diary. It happened at the Ministry this morning--if something so vague could be called "happening." It was just before eleven o'clock in the Records Office where Winston worked, and they dragged their chairs out of their cubicles and lined up in the middle of the hall, facing the telescreen, ready for the Two Minutes Hate.Winston had just taken a chair in the middle row and sat down when two persons also entered the room unexpectedly.He had met these two people, but had never spoken to them: one was a girl whom he often met in the corridors, but he didn't know her name, only that she worked at the General Bureau of Fiction.Sometimes he saw her with greasy hands and a wrench, and she must have been a mechanic of some sort, repairing a novel-writing machine.The girl was about twenty-seven, bold-looking, with black hair, a freckled face, and the quickness of an athlete.A narrow bright red belt was looped around the waist of her overalls, and tied just enough to show her beautiful buttocks-the belt was the symbol of the Anti-Sex Youth League.Winston had been filled with disgust from the first sight of her, and he knew why.Because her air is full of hockey, cold baths, group wild outings, pure thoughts from head to toe, and she deliberately makes herself show this air.He had an almost total dislike for all women, especially young and pretty ones.Women, especially young women, tend to be the most staunch supporters of the party.They credulously believed in Party slogans, they were willing amateur spies, and they sniffed out unorthodox ideas better than anyone else.However, this girl was special, which made him feel more dangerous than others.Once they met in the corridor and she gave him a quick sidelong glance that seemed to pierce right into his heart and filled him for a moment with dark terror.He even thought that she might be an agent of the Thought Police.True, that was unlikely--but he felt a strange uneasiness whenever she was near, mixed with fear and hostility. The other, named O'Brien, was an Inner Party man whose position Winston could only have a vague idea of ​​the nature of, in the presence of some very important high office.Seeing a black overalls of the Inner Party approaching, the people around the chair fell silent for a moment.O'Brien was a stocky, heavy-necked man with a rough, cruel face and a good sense of humour.Although his appearance was frightening, his manner was not lacking in charm.He always had the habit of straightening the eyes on his nose; strangely enough, it reminded one of an eighteenth-century gentleman offering you his snuff-box.Winston had seen O'Brien about a dozen times during the ten years or so; he had taken a keen interest in O'Brien, not least because the contrast between O'Brien's suave demeanor and his boxer-like physique aroused his curiosity. .Rather, he secretly believed—perhaps not even believing, but merely hoping—that O'Brien was politically unorthodox.There was something about his face that made the conclusion almost beyond doubt.Besides, what is written on his face may not even be unorthodox at all, but wisdom at all.But at any rate, judging by his appearance, a man like him would have a lot to talk to if he could be alone with him through the telescreen.Winston made not the slightest effort to confirm his suspicions; in fact, it was simply impossible to do so.Presently, O'Brien, glancing at his watch, saw that it was nearly eleven o'clock, and had evidently decided to stay at the Records Office and wait two minutes for the enmity to be over.He sat in the same row as Winston, two seats away from him.Between them sat a small, light-brown woman who worked in the office next to Winston's.The dark-haired girl sat in the row behind them. Then, suddenly, there was a terrible squeaking and screeching from the big telescreen at the far end of the room, like some monster machine turning around without fuel.The sound made people clench their teeth and make their hair stand on end.This is where the hatred begins. As always, the face of Enemy of the People Emmanuel Goldstein flashed on the screen.The audience booed, and the little woman with light brown hair let out an exclamation of horror and disgust.Goldstein was a renegade, a reactionary, and a long, long time ago (no one knows how long) was a party leader, almost as high as Big Brother.Later, he started counter-revolutionary activities and was sentenced to death, but mysteriously escaped and disappeared.Every day of the Two Minute Hate show is different, but there isn't a single day that doesn't feature Goldstein.He was the chief traitor, the first to sully the purity of the party.Since then, all crimes against the Party, subversion, sabotage, heresy, heresy, and heresy have come directly from his instigation.He lived somewhere, and did some intrigue--perhaps overseas, under the protection of his foreign masters; perhaps in Oceania--it was sometimes rumored. Winston's heart tightened involuntarily.Every time he saw Goldstein's face, he couldn't help feeling mixed feelings and pain.It was--a thin Jew's face, with shaggy white hair and a small goatee--a face that was intelligent, but mean; And a pair of glasses.This face is like a sheep's face, and even the voice of the speech is a sheep's tune.As usual, Goldstein made a vicious attack on party principles, an attack so exaggerated and so preposterous that even a child could see through it; If you have a high level of awareness, you will definitely be lured into the water.He abused Big Brother, he attacked the dictatorship of the party, he demanded an immediate treaty with Eurasia, he preached freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly and freedom of thought, he shouted hysterically that the revolution was betrayed - he spit out everything The long words, ironically imitating the manner in which Party orators were accustomed, also contained Newspeak words--indeed, he used more Newspeak words than the Party members usually use.When he was inciting the attack, lest anyone would doubt the reality of such slanderous slander, behind his head on the telescreen, there were images of countless Eurasian soldiers marching in line-row after row, a group of soldiers. Another group, forceful and expressionless, these Asian-faced soldiers flashed alternately on the telescreen endlessly.The monotonous tapping of the soldiers' boots set off Goldstein's sharp shouts. The hatred hadn't lasted half a minute, and half the people in the room couldn't help shouting in anger.The self-satisfied sheep face on the screen, and the awe-inspiring power of Eurasia behind this face, are really unbearable.In fact, just looking at Goldstein's appearance and thinking about Goldstein's name, fear and hatred will arise spontaneously.Neither Eurasia nor Eastasia was so often a target of hatred, for if Oceania was at war with one of these two countries, it was usually at peace with the other.The strange thing is that although Goldstein is hated by thousands of people, people criticize him, attack him, mock him, so that everyone can see how small and pitiful his nonsense is-yet nevertheless, His influence has not been weakened in the slightest.There are always fools out there, just waiting to be instigated by him.Not a day went by without the Thought Police uncovering the activities of agents and saboteurs under his command.There is a huge underground army, an underground sabotage network composed of a group of conspirators, and he manipulates it to subvert the country.The conspiracy was said to be called the Brotherhood; and in whispers there was also mention of that dreadful book of all heresies, secreted far and wide, by Goldstein.It doesn't even have a title, and when it's mentioned, everyone just talks about that book.All this, however, comes only from vague hearsay; and all rank and file members, if possible, prefer to keep silent about the Brotherhood and the book. By the second minute, the hate turned to madness.People were jumping up and down, yelling, trying to overwhelm Goldstein's voice on the telescreen--the bleating shriek was driving one mad.The little woman with light brown hair flushed all over her face, and her mouth opened and closed like a fish that had landed on land.Even O'Brien's big face was flushed.He sat upright on the chair, his strong chest was bulging, and he couldn't stop trembling, as if his blood was boiling.The dark-haired girl behind Winston shouted: "Pig! Pig! Pig!" She suddenly picked up a thick Newspeak dictionary and threw it at the telescreen.The dictionary hit Goldstein's nose and bounced off again, his rambling voice as tenacious as ever.In a moment of lucidity Winston felt that he was shouting like everyone else, kicking violently with his heel against the rung of the chair.Those two minutes of hate are horrific, because you can't help but throw yourself into it without being forced to put on a show.In less than thirty seconds, all the excuses became superfluous waste.It was a terrible ecstasy of fear and revenge, a desire to torture and slaughter, and to smash people's faces with a sledgehammer -- this ecstasy, this desire, spread through everyone's body like an electric current, until it turned people into Grinning, screaming lunatics.However, this passion is really a bit of a blind abstraction, like the flame of a blowtorch, which can be moved from one object to another.For a moment, then, Winston could not arouse any hatred for Goldstein, and all his hatred was directed against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police.At this moment he sympathized with the lonely and scolded heretic on the telescreen, the lonely guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies.However, after a while, he stood with those who scolded him again, and only felt that everything that attacked Goldstein was absolutely true.At this time, his hatred for Big Brother turned into worship, and the image of Big Brother became upright, like a brave and fearless warrior, resisting the swarming Asian ghosts like a mainstay.As for Goldstein, helpless as he was, and though his existence was uncertain, he was a wicked wizard capable of toppling edifices of civilization with a mere movement of his lips. Sometimes, they can even intentionally divert the hatred.Suddenly, Winston threw his hatred from the sheep's face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him -- as violent as a nightmare, he jerked his head out of the pillow.A vivid and wonderful image flashed in his mind.He beat her to death with a rubber baton.He tied her naked to a stake and pierced her with arrows like Saint Sebastian.During orgasm, he raped her and then slit her throat.At the same time, he felt more clearly than before why he hated her.She is young, beautiful and sexy, and he will never succeed in his attempts to sleep with her, and her soft and beautiful waist, which is clearly intended to invite you to hug, is wrapped around a hateful red belt-provocatively chaste. The hatred reached a climax.Goldstein's voice really turned into a sheep's cry, and for a moment, his face also turned into a sheep's face.Then the sheep's face turned into a soldier of Eurasia, tall and frightening, advancing boldly, the light machine gun in his hand roared wildly, as if rushing out of the screen, scaring the people in the front row to huddle on the back of the chair.However, at the same time, everyone couldn't help but breathe a long sigh of relief—that hostile image turned into the face of Big Brother: black hair, black beard, calm and strong, with a face so big that it almost took up the entire screen .No one can hear what Big Brother said, but you can't hear a few words that inspire fighting spirit in the hustle and bustle of battle, but someone's words are enough to restore your confidence.Then the face of Big Brother disappeared, and what appeared were the three slogans of the Party written in capital letters: war is peace freedom is slavery ignorance is power Yet Big Brother's face seemed to linger on the screen for a few seconds, as if it were too vivid in people's eyes to disappear suddenly.The little woman with light brown hair flung herself on the back of the chair in the front row, stretched her arms towards the telescreen, and murmured tremblingly: "My savior!" Then she turned her face Buried in the palm of your hand, it looks like you are praying. Suddenly, the whole room yelled in a low, slow, rhythmic voice: "BB!... BB!" There is a strange barbarity, as if the stamping of bare feet and the beating of tambourines can be heard.They shouted for thirty seconds, like a refrain that is often sung when passion is high.Although this praises the greatness of Big Brother, it is more of a kind of self-hypnosis, deliberately replacing conscious consciousness with rhythmic noise.Winston felt nothing but a chill in his heart.During the Two Minutes Hate he couldn't help but join in the gibberish, but this bestial howl, "BB! . . . BB!" still filled him with terror.It is true that he shouted no worse than the others, because there was no other possibility.Concealing true emotions, controlling the expression on the face, following others' steps, all of these have long been instinctive reactions.For a second or two, however, it seemed the look in his eyes gave him away.And it was at this very moment that the momentous thing happened—if anything at all happened. Suddenly his eyes met O'Brien's.By this time O'Brien had risen early, had taken off his spectacles, and was putting them back on as usual.Yet in that very second their eyes met, and Winston knew at once what was going on--yes, he did! --O'Brien had the same thoughts in his heart.The messages they exchanged were unmistakably true: as if hearts were opened, thoughts communicated through the eyes. "I'm with you," O'Brien seemed to say to him, "I know all about what you think. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your abhorrence. But it doesn't matter, I'm on your side!" But this The gleam of wisdom was fleeting, and O'Brien's face became as inscrutable as anyone else's. That was all there was to it, and Winston almost began to wonder if it ever happened.There was no beginning or end to such events; the only trace was his belief—or rather hope—that there were other willing enemies of the Party besides him.Maybe the rumor that there was a whole lot of underground conspirators was true--maybe the Brotherhood really existed!Arrests, confessions, executions, always on and on; yet it was impossible to say that the Brotherhood was anything but a myth.Sometimes he was convinced that the Brotherhood was real, and sometimes he doubted it—wasn’t there any evidence, there were just fleeting flashes, maybe meaningful, maybe absurd—it was a word he heard by chance, it was the toilet There are vague graffiti on the wall, and even when two strangers meet, they only move their hands slightly, which looks like they are meeting.All of this was guesswork, probably all out of his imagination.Without looking at O'Brien again, he went straight back to his office, without the slightest thought in his mind of continuing to explore their momentary exchange.Even if he knew how to do it, the danger involved was unimaginable after all.They only exchanged vague glances for a second or two, and it was all over.Yet their situation is one of closed solitude; so such things are still very noteworthy. Winston withdrew his thoughts and sat up straight.He belches -- the smell of gin rising from his belly. His eyes were fixed on the notebook again.It turned out that just now he was sitting here helplessly meditating, but his hand never stopped writing, as if he was working automatically.His handwriting is not as twisted and clumsy as before.On the glossy paper his pen flitted all the way, in one example in neat capitals-- down with big brother down with big brother down with big brother down with big brother down with big brother This filled half a page over and over again. He couldn't help feeling flustered.In fact, this is quite ridiculous, because writing these words is not much more dangerous than starting a diary; yet for a moment, he still couldn't help but want to tear off the pages on which the words were written, and stop writing Lao Shizi's diary. Yet he did not.He knew it was useless, because it didn't make any difference whether he wrote about Big Brother or refrained from writing about it.It made no difference whether he kept his diary down or not at all.The Thought Police charged him anyway.He has committed a fundamental crime, a felony which encompasses all other crimes; a crime he has committed even if he has not written it down.This is what they call a thought crime; such a crime can't be expected to be covered up for a lifetime.You can escape for a while, even for a few years, but sooner or later they will bring you to justice. It's always at night -- an arrest happens at night.You suddenly wake up from a dream, a rough hand pushes your shoulder, the light shines directly into your eyes, and a circle of grim faces surrounds the bed.In the vast majority of cases there were no trials and no arrests were reported.People simply disappear, and always at night.Your name is deleted from the account, your activities are erased from the file, and your past existence becomes nothingness and is forgotten.They cancel you, eliminate you -- in the usual parlance, this is called vaporization. Suddenly he became hysterical.He began to scribble hastily: They're going to shoot me I don't care they're gonna shoot me in the back of the head I don't care about beating Big Brother they're always shooting people in the back of the head I don't care beating Big Brother... He leaned back in the chair, a little embarrassed for himself, and put down his pen.Then, he began to write frantically again - at this moment, someone knocked on the door. Here it comes!He sat like a mouse, hoping in vain that a knock would at least go away.But no, the door knocked again.This procrastination is the worst.His heart was beating like a drum; however, he was used to it naturally, and his face was probably still indifferent.He stood up and moved heavily towards the door. two Winston had just touched the doorknob when he saw him leave the diary open on the table.The book was full of Down with Big Brother, written so big that it could be read clearly across the room.How unreasonable that he did such a stupid thing!However, he also understands that even in a panic, he doesn't like to close the book when the ink is still wet.He didn't want to stain the delicate paper. He took a breath and opened the door.Immediately, a warm current of relief surged through the whole body - the person standing outside the door turned out to be a pale and old woman with thinning hair and wrinkled face. "Uh, comrade," she said in a weak, mumbled voice. "我想，我听你回来啦。你呃，能不能来一趟，看看我家厨房水池子。好像堵啦，我……" 这是帕森斯太太，温斯顿同层楼一个邻居的老婆。（"太太"这词儿，党是不大主张用的，不管对谁，你都得叫"同志"才行。可有那么一些妇人，你总会本能地叫一声"太太"的。）这妇人有三十岁，看样子却要老许多。看她那张脸，皱纹里仿佛尽是些灰泥。温斯顿就跟着她，往走廊另一边走过去。这种业余修理的活儿恼人得很，几乎每天不断。胜利大厦还是一九三○年左右盖的，已经太老啦，简直就坍成个瓦砾堆。天棚墙壁不断掉皮儿，遇上霜冻，水管准裂；碰着下雪，房顶准漏。至于暖气，要么烧得半死不活，要么索性关闭了事--他们说这是为了节约。修修补补，除非你能自己动手，只能求得个冷漠的委员会批准才能行--单为修理一扇玻璃窗，它有本事给你拖上一两年。 "当然啦，全怪托姆不在家，"帕森斯太太讷讷地说。 帕森斯家比温斯顿家大，那种邋遢像也另有一套--一眼看去，所有东西全都给人捣毁砸烂，活像刚有头狂暴的巨兽光临过。各色的体育用具满地都是：曲棍球棒，拳击手套，足球爆了胎，一条汗津津的短裤里子朝外。桌上丢着堆脏碗碟，和几本破烂练习本。满墙挂的是些青年团跟侦察队的红旗，还有张巨大的老大哥画像。跟整座公寓一样，房里照例一股子清煮白菜味儿；然而在这个人家，空气里还弥漫着一种更加刺鼻的汗臭。发出这股子汗臭的人如今不在家，这一点只消闻一下就知道--虽然很难说清为什么。另一间房里，有谁拿木梳垫张大便纸吹喇叭，学着电幕上还在播放的曲子奏军乐。 "孩子们在那儿，"帕森斯太太说着，战兢兢朝那扇房门看了一眼，"他们今天没出去。当然啦……" 她总习惯把后半截话咽进肚子里。厨房的水池满是脏兮兮的绿水，几乎漾到了池外，那味道比白菜还难闻。温斯顿跪下来，查看水管的接头。他讨厌用手，也不愿意弯腰，这老害他咳嗽。帕森斯太太帮不上忙，只好在一旁傻看。 "当然啦，托姆在家，一下子就能修好，"她说，"他就爱干这事儿。托姆手才巧哩，他可真是……" 帕森斯是温斯顿真理部的同事。他身材肥胖，头脑愚笨，然而积极肯干，有的是低能的热情--这样的人，盲目忠诚，勤勤恳恳，是党维持安定团结的第一靠山，连思想警察也只好退居二线。在三十五岁上，他刚刚不情不愿退出了青年团；其实升级到青年团之前，他就不管超龄，生生在侦察队里多赖了一年。在部里，他担任个什么低级职务，不花脑子，却管着体育委员会，还兼任所有集体野游、自发示威、厉行节约、加班献工之类委员会的头目。他会抽着烟斗，带着种宁静的洋洋自得，告诉你过去四年里，他每个晚上都参加了街道活动中心的活动。不管他走到哪儿，都有股子排山倒海的汗味儿跟着他，无形中证明了他生活的狂热--甚至他已经离开，这汗臭依然挥之不去。 "有扳手么？"温斯顿摆弄着接头的螺帽。 "扳手，"帕森斯太太一下子软了下来。"呃，不知道，真的。没准儿孩子们……" 接着是一阵脚步杂沓，伴着木梳吹出的军乐，孩子们冲进了起居室。帕森斯太太拿来扳手，温斯顿放掉脏水，忍着恶心把堵住水管的一团头发掏出来。他就着水龙头的冷水尽量把手洗干净，回到起居室里。 "举起手来！"有人恶狠狠地嚷了一声。 一个九岁男孩子从桌子后边突地蹦了出来。他长得挺漂亮，然而一脸凶横，拿了支玩具手枪，朝温斯顿直比划。他的妹妹要小两岁光景，也学哥哥的样子做，手里拿的是根木头棍儿。他俩灰衬衫，蓝短裤，系着红领巾，这是侦察队的制服。温斯顿把双手高举过头，心里挺不踏实--看那男孩的动作凶巴巴，一点儿没有玩游戏的意思。 "你个叛徒！"男孩子叫道。"你个思想犯！你个欧亚国特务！我毙了你，我蒸发你，我送你去开盐矿！" 他俩突然间在温斯顿的身边上窜下跳，一片声乱嚷："叛徒！""思想犯！"小丫头每个动作全学着哥哥样子做。这两个孩子真有点吓人，好比两个虎羔子跳来蹦去，转眼就会长到张嘴吃人。那男孩子满脸专横的凶相，毫不掩饰渴望着对温斯顿拳打脚踢，也明知就快长到有这样的本事。温斯顿想，幸好他手里的那支枪不是真家伙。 帕森斯太太惴惴不安，把目光在温斯顿跟孩子的身上转来掉去。起居室里亮得很，温斯顿饶有兴致地发现，敢情她脸上的皱纹里还真有灰泥。 "这俩孩子真闹人，"她说。"没看成吊死人，挺不乐意的，就这么闹。我太忙啦，没法带他们去，托姆下班又赶不上趟。" "干吗不叫我看吊死人？"男孩子高声吼道。 "要看吊死人！要看吊死人！"小丫头跳跳蹦蹦，一边嚷道。 温斯顿记起来，有几个欧亚国的战俘犯了战争罪，今晚要在公园给绞死。这种事每月都得来一回，而且总是人山人海地看热闹。小孩子更是吵着大人，带他们去瞧吊死人。温斯顿跟帕森斯太太道了别，就往门口走；没等他在走廊里走几步，后脖梗早着着实实挨了一下子，如同一根红热的铁丝戳进了肉里。他扭过头，正来得及瞧见帕森斯太太把儿子拽进屋，那孩子还在把个弹弓揣起来。 "戈德斯坦！"房门关上的时候，那孩子还在乱嚷。然而最叫温斯顿惊异不迭的，倒是那妇人灰蒙蒙的脸上一片无助的惊恐。 回到房里，他迅疾走过电幕，重新坐回桌前，一面还摩着脖梗子。电幕上的音乐早停了下来，换了个简截干脆的军人嗓音，语调狰狞，读的是一篇刚设置在冰岛跟法罗群岛之间的什么新型浮堡的报道。 他心里想，带着这样的孩子，那可怜的妇人整日价准得活得惨兮兮。过上一两年，他们就得没日没夜监视她，看她有没有思想不正统的蛛丝马迹。如今这世道，差不多所有的孩子全都招人怕。最糟的是，依靠侦察队之类的组织，他们给系统地变成无羁无绊的小野人，却绝不至于对党的规矩稍有忤逆。对党和跟党有关的一切，他们盲目崇拜；唱歌，游行，旗帜，野游，耍假枪，喊口号，崇敬老大哥--在他们眼里这一例是好玩的游戏。他们全部的凶残斗狠，给怂恿得发泄无遗，对准了国家公敌，对准了外国佬、思想犯、叛徒跟破坏分子。只要你活到三十多岁，害怕自己的孩子就成了正常现象--其实这很容易理解，因为难得有哪个星期，《泰晤士报》不登上篇报道，讲什么偷听谈话的小密探，窃听到父母的坏话，就向思想警察揭发了--这样的孩子，一般是叫做"小英雄"的。 挨的那下弹弓不那么疼啦。他半心半意拿起笔，不晓得是不是还想得起什么，能给他写在日记里。突然间，他再次想起了奥勃良。 几年以前--有几年？准有七年了--他曾经梦见在一间漆黑漆黑的屋里走。有什么人坐在他旁边，在他走过去的时候就说："我们会在个没有黑暗的地方再见的。"话说得相当平静，几乎漫不经心--是陈述，不是命令。他一径走下去，甚至没有停脚。真怪，当时在梦里，这句话他根本没注意；只是过了一段时间，话里的意义才慢慢显露了出来。他早记不得初次见到奥勃良是在何时，做梦前还是做梦后；他也记不得什么时候，他竟听出那是奥勃良的声音。然而毕竟，他听出了这声音。真的是奥勃良，在黑地里跟他说了话。 温斯顿一直没办法确定奥勃良是朋友还是敌人，即便今早，两人目光一闪，他依然无法断定。不过这没有什么要紧--他们建起了相互理解的纽带；比起人间的感情，比起相同的政见，这一点都来得格外重要。"我们会在个没有黑暗的地方再见的"--他就是这样说的。温斯顿不晓得话里的意思，只知道无论如何，这句话一定能实现。 电幕上的声音停了下来。污浊的空气当中，响起了一声清晰悦耳的喇叭。讲话的人粗声粗气说下去： "注意啦！请注意！现在收到马拉巴前线发来的报道。我军在南印度取得了辉煌的胜利！我受权宣布，由于我们报道的行动，战争的结束指日可待！报道如下……" 温斯顿想，坏事儿来啦。果然，先是鲜血淋漓地描述对欧亚国军队的屠戮，报告大量杀伤俘获的人数，而后便宣布，从下周开始，巧克力的定量供应从三十克减到二十克。 温斯顿又打了个嗝儿。杜松子酒劲儿已经消失，心里只剩了种沮丧。那电幕猛然播起了《这是为了你，大洋国》--或许为的是庆祝胜利，，或许是打算压一压减少巧克力供应的记忆。照理这会儿得立正如仪；不过他呆在这里，也没人瞧得见他。 现在轻音乐替代了《这是为了你，大洋国》。温斯顿走到窗前，背对着电幕。天依然是湛蓝冰冷，远远的什么地方炸了颗火箭弹，声音闷雷一样，激起隆隆的回声。像这样的爆炸，眼下每周在伦敦总有个二三十次呢。 下面的街道上，风来回吹动着那张扯破的海报，英社那个词儿，一会露出来，一会又给盖住。英社。神圣的英社原则。新话，双重思想，变易无常的过去。他只觉得，自己仿佛在海底的丛林之中彷徨，在魔怪世界里迷失了方向，而他自己便是个怪物。他孑然一身。过去已经死亡，未来则无法想象。谁断定得了，哪怕有一个活生生的人，肯站在他的阵营？谁搞得清楚，党的统治会不会永世长存？于是，真理部白墙上的三句标语映入眼帘，像在给他个回答： 战争就是和平 自由就是奴役 无知就是力量 他从口袋里，掏出了一枚两毛五分钱硬币。在这硬币上面，同样用清晰的小字，刻着这三句口号；硬币的另一面，便是老大哥的头像。甚至在硬币上，老大哥的眼睛也在盯着你看。这头像给闹得满世界都是--硬币上，邮票上，旗帜上，海报上，书籍封面上，香烟盒子上--真是无所不在。那眼睛总是死死盯着你，那声音总是紧紧围着你。你睡觉也罢，醒来也罢，工作也罢，吃饭也罢，在家也罢，出门也罢，洗澡也罢，上床也罢--全都是无可逃避。一切的一切，再也不属于你啦--除去脑壳里区区几立方厘米的空间，那还算得上你的领地。 太阳开始斜仄，真理部大楼那数不清的窗户照不到阳光，黑洞洞的，仿佛堡垒的枪眼一般狰狞。面对这金字塔般的庞然大物，他的心不由得一阵畏缩。它过于强大，无懈可击。一千发火箭弹，也没法将它摧毁。他重又开始诧异，这日记究竟是为谁而写。为将来罢，为过去罢--为一个想象出来的时代罢。然而横陈在他面前的，并不是死亡，而是消灭。日记会变灰，他会被蒸发。他写的东西惟有思想警察会读到，而后，他们会把它从现实和记忆当中抹干净。要是你自己，甚至你在纸片上涂画的只言片语，都绝无实际存在的迹象，向未来呼吁又哪有可能？ 电幕敲了十四点。他必得在十分钟以内离开家，十四点三十分就要上岗工作啦。 怪得很，这报时的钟声仿佛让他抖擞了精神。他，一个孤独的鬼魂，宣示了一个真理，却没有人能听到。然而他毕竟宣示了出来；在某个晦暗的意义上，这便维护了一种连续性。用不着让旁人听到你，只消坚持心智健全，便是延续了人类的传统。他回到桌前，蘸了蘸笔，又写道： 致未来，致过去，致思想自由的时代，人们千差万别、不再相互隔绝的时代--致真理长存、存在不能化为非存在的时代： 划一的时代，隔绝的时代，老大哥的时代。双重思想的时代--向你们致敬！ 他心里想，他已经死掉啦。仿佛惟有现在，当他能够将自己的思想表述清楚，他才采取了决定性的一步。每一行动的后果，都包含在这一行动当中。他便写道： 思想罪并不会导致死亡。思想罪就是死亡。 如今他既已认识到自己是死人，要紧的便在于尽可能长久地生存下去。他右手的两个指头沾上了墨迹，恰便是这样的细节最会暴露了他。部里有哪个热心的包打听（没准儿是个女人，像那浅棕发的小个子，或小说总局那个黑发姑娘），怕早开始犯魂儿：大中午的歇晌儿么，他干吗写东西，还用支老式的钢笔，他写的是什么？--而后，便好向有关当局露上点口风。他便到浴室，拿块褐色的粗肥皂，细心地把墨迹洗得干干净净。这玩意儿蹭到皮肤上粗得像砂纸，派这个用场倒是满合适。 他把日记簿放到抽屉里。企图藏起它来，根本就是徒劳；然而至少他还能断定，是不是有人发现了他的日记。在书页里夹根头发，这太嫌招摇；他便用手指尖，拈了颗看不见的白色土粒儿，放在封面的一角。谁动了本子，这粒尘土准得掉下来。 three 温斯顿梦见了妈妈。 妈妈失踪那会儿，他该有十岁，或者十一岁。她个子又高，长相又美，寡言少语，动作缓慢，一头漂亮的金发。至于爸爸，他的印象就更加模糊，只记得他黑黑瘦瘦，总是齐整整的一身黑衣服，戴着眼镜。温斯顿竟然还记得，爸爸的鞋后跟来得特别薄。显然，他们俩在五十年代的第一次大清洗当中，就给吞噬掉了。 如今，妈妈就坐在他身下什么挺深挺深的地方，怀里还拥着他的小妹。他的妹妹早给他忘得一干二净--除去记得她还是婴孩那会儿，长得羸弱瘦小，总是一声不响，一双大眼睛戒心十足。她们两个，全在那深处仰头看着他。她们身在地下，像是井底，又像是深不可测的坟茔--然而这地方已经极深极深，却还在沉落下去。她们给困在艘沉船的大厅，透过黑沉沉的海水仰头看着他。大厅还残留着空气，他们还彼此望得见；然而她们不断向下沉，沉落到绿色的海水里。用不了多久，海水便会将她们吞吃个干净。他享受着光明，占有着空气；她们却被吸下去送死，她们沉下去正是因为他留在了上面。这一点他清楚，她们也清楚；看她们的脸色，就知道她们一定是明明白白。然而她们的脸色和心情，都绝无嗔怪，单知道她们必得死去好让他活，这是事物的一个无可回避的规律。 他不记得发生了什么事。然而在梦里，他晓得从某种方面讲，妈妈和小妹是为他牺牲了性命。有这样一种梦，梦境的特征样样俱全，同时却延续着人的精神生活；在这样的梦里，你会意识到一些事实，一些想头，在醒来以后，它们依然显得新鲜可贵。温斯顿的梦便是如此。现在他猛然悟到，妈妈死了，死了快三十年，这样的事情真是可悲可哀，因为在某种意义上，此类的死亡已经绝无可能。他知道，悲剧云者只属于古代，那时还存在着私情、爱情和友情，一家子相濡以沫，也不问个理由。想起妈妈，他就会心如刀绞；因为他知道，她由于爱他，才自蹈死地。那会儿他年幼自私，又不晓得以爱相报。同时，她仿佛也因了种隐秘坚贞的忠诚而赴死，然而对此，他的记忆全不分明。他明明见到，如今这样的事情再碰不着啦。今天有的是恐惧、仇恨和痛苦，却绝无情感的尊严，绝无深切复杂的悲哀。所有这些，他倒是见诸妈妈和小妹的大眼睛--她们的眼睛透过绿色的海水仰视着他，早沉落了千百噚深，可还在继续往下沉。 突然间，他就站到了一片低矮松软的草坪上。这是个夏日的傍晚，西斜的阳光把大地染成了一片金色。他看见的这番景致，经常出现在梦里，闹得他几乎没法确定，现实里是否见过它。梦醒以后想起来，他便把它叫做黄金国。这是片古老的牧场，给兔子啃得七零八落，一条踏出的小径横穿其中，这里那里尽是鼹鼠拱出的小丘。草地对面，一片参差的树丛，榆树的枝条伴着微风轻盈摇摆，一簇簇树叶轻轻颤动，仿佛女人的秀发。手边附近，藏着条清澈的小溪轻轻流，柳荫下的水潭里，还有鲤鱼游来游去。 那黑发姑娘穿过草地，向他走了过来。只消那么一动，她就脱掉了衣服，轻蔑地丢在一旁。她那身体白皙光滑，然而引不起他的欲望，他甚至没向她看上几眼。那时他满心敬佩的，是她脱掉衣服的动作，优美雅致，漫不经心，然而却仿佛消灭了全部文化和思想体系，犹如单单把胳膊潇洒地一动，老大哥、党跟思想警察全都给扫除到九霄云外。这样的动作，同样属于久远的古代。他喃喃念着"莎士比亚"这个词，从梦中醒了过来。 原来是电幕发出了一声刺耳的尖啸，还依样持续了三十秒钟长。这是零七点十五分，白领职员们该起床啦。温斯顿把身子拖下床；他赤裸着身子，谁让外围党员一年只发给三千张布票，买套睡衣还得花上六百张呢。他从椅子上，扯过一条脏兮兮的背心，还有条短裤。再有三分钟，体操就要开始啦。这时，他弯腰剧烈咳嗽起来，每次起床不久，这样的咳嗽几乎就是必不可少的节目。他咳呀咳的，直到肺腔子咳得空空荡荡，闹得他只好躺回到床上大口喘气，这才算把呼吸恢复了过来。这阵子咳嗽，直叫他静脉贲张，脚脖子也刺痒起来。 "三十到四十岁组！"一个女人刺耳地嚷了一声。"三十到四十岁组！请站好啦，三十到四十岁的！" 温斯顿跳到电幕前面，来了个立正。电幕上早出现了个年轻女人，瘦骨嶙峋的，然而刚健有力，身穿紧身上衣，脚蹬体操鞋。 "伸展运动！"她高声叫道。"跟着我做。一，二，三，四！一，二，三，四！来，同志们，精神点儿！一，二，三，四！一，二，三，四！……" 那场大梦在温斯顿心里留下的痕迹煞是强烈，咳嗽大发作带来的痛苦也未能赶它出去，体操有节奏的动作倒有点恢复了它。他机械地将胳膊前后摆动，脸上是做操时必得挂着的惨笑，心底里却拼了命把思绪扯回孩提时晦暗的回忆。这样的努力艰难之极，因为五十年代之前的一切，早渐渐消失了影踪。一旦缺乏具体的记录给你参照，连你平生的概况也不再清晰可及。你记得的什么事情甚或从来未有过，你记得的某些细节却想不出当时的氛围，另一些时期干脆就是漫长的空白，简直想不起任何东西。所有的一切，全都彻底变了样啦。甚至国家的名称，还有它们在地图上的形状，都已经截然不同。举个例罢，一号机场，当初才不是这个名儿--那会儿叫做英格兰，或者不列颠--虽然他确实晓得，伦郭可是一直叫伦敦。 温斯顿没法子确切地记得，他的国家有哪一天不在打仗；不过显然，童年时他也曾经历过很长时期的和平。因为他还记得小时候，碰上一次空袭，真真让所有人着实大吃了一惊。或许就是那次，原子弹给投到了科尔切斯特。空袭是什么样子，他已经记不清楚，只记得爸爸抓着他的手往地下赶，不断地赶，直走到地下什么挺深的地方。他们绕呀绕地走一条螺旋台阶，直到他两腿发酸，哭哭啼啼，才算停下脚来歇口气。妈动作慢得如在梦中，远远跟在后面，还抱着他的小妹--也没准儿她抱的不过是几条毯子，闹不清那会儿小妹是否生了下来。最后他们到的地方喧闹嘈杂，拥挤不堪，他认出原来是个地铁站。 地铁站石板铺地，人们坐了个满满登登。旁的人同样挤成一团，坐在双层铁床上面，一个高过一个。温斯顿和爸妈在地上找了个位置，旁边便是一对老人肩挨肩坐在铁床上。老头儿身上的深色衣服还算齐整，一顶黑布帽推到后脑勺，露出雪白雪白的头发。他满脸通红，蓝莹莹的眼睛热泪盈眶。老头儿浑身杜松子酒气，看那样子，仿佛他的皮肤排出的不是汗倒是酒，连他眼里涌出的泪水也像是纯酒。不过他纵然略有醉意，却有着什么真切难忍的悲恸。温斯顿那会儿满心童稚，只知道出了件骇人的事，无法原谅，也无可补救。他恍惚间知道出了什么事。老头儿心爱的什么人给杀死了--或许是他的小孙女。每过几分钟，他就说一遍相同的话： "信他们做啥？我就说嘛，他妈，是不？信罢信罢，就这德性！我就说嘛，信那帮肏性做啥？" 可不该信哪帮肏性，温斯顿却记不得啦。 就从那时开始，战争没有一天停止过。不过严格地讲，进行的还不总是同一场战争。在他孩提时，伦敦城曾有过几个月乱糟糟的巷战，其中的一些他至今记忆犹新。然而想摸清那时期的历史，比方说谁在什么时候跟谁打仗，却根本办不到，因为绝无白纸黑字的记录，绝无信誓旦旦的言语，提及还有什么别样的联盟。比方说现如今，是一九八四年(要是真是一九八四年的话)，大洋国跟欧亚国打仗，跟东亚国结盟。公开声明也罢，私下谈话也罢，谁也没承认过，这三巨头什么时候还有过别样的组合关系。可其实，温斯顿就知道，迟至四年以前，大洋国便是跟东亚国打仗，跟欧亚国结盟。这全怪他的记忆没有控制好，一些知识碎片偷偷留了下来。在政府嘴里，盟国可是从未改变过。大洋国在跟欧亚国打仗，由此推之，它也便一直在跟欧亚国打仗。眼下的敌人一例代表了绝对的邪恶；因之无论过去，无论将来，都绝无跟它达成一致的任何可能。 他痛苦地把肩膀使劲向后挺。与此同时，他得把手放到屁股上，从腰部往上把身体旋转起来，他们说这节体操对后背的肌肉有好处。他这样做着，一面成千上万次想，可怕的是，可怕的是没准儿他们完全对。要是党能够把手伸到过去，能够说这事那事从来就没有发生过--难道这不是比起拷打处决更骇人？ 党说，大洋国从来没跟欧亚国结过盟。而他，温斯顿·史密斯，却晓得迟至四年以前，大洋国便跟欧亚国结过盟。可这种知识倒是在哪里呀？只是在他的意识里，不过要不了多久，他的意识好歹得给人家消灭。要是旁人全相信党撒的谎--要是所有记录全都是众口一词--那这句谎话可就写进了历史，变成了真理。党有句口号，道是："控制了过去，就控制了未来；控制了现在，就控制了过去。"从性质上论，过去自然是可以改变，然而还没有人改变得了它。凡是现在正确的事情，自会永远正确。这些全都是易如反掌。需要你做的，惟有不断战胜你的记忆而已。他们把这叫做"现实控制"；拿新话来讲，就叫做"双重思想"。 "稍息！"女教练叫了一声，腔调也和气了一点。 温斯顿放下胳膊，慢慢将空气吸回肺腔去。他的思绪，早滑进到双重思想迷宫般的世界里去。知道一切，又一无所知；通晓真情，又把谎撒得圆；混淆是非，无视矛盾；运用逻辑来对抗逻辑，吹嘘道德又弃绝道德；视民主为妄想，又相信党捍卫民主；该忘的抛到脑后，该想的召之即来，而后再迅疾忘它个干净--而特别是，把这样的过程就用在过程上面去。真叫妙不可言：有意进到无意识当中，却不去意识到刚刚进行了催眠。即便要弄懂"双重思想"这个词，也得用上点双重思想才行呢。 女教练又叫他们立正啦。"看谁够得着自己的脚趾头！"她热情得很。"从臀部弯下去--来呀，同志们!一--二！一--二！……" 温斯顿恨透了这节体操，它老是害他从脚后跟直疼到屁股，到头来准又闹得一阵咳嗽。方才的沉思带给他不少欢愉，现在也一扫而光。他心里想，过去不光遭到了改变，简直遭到了毁灭。因为纵然过去的事实极端明显，若除你的记忆而外毫无记录，这样的事实又何能确定？他试着回忆，第一次听人说起老大哥是什么时候。一准在六十年代的哪一年，然而根本没办法断定。不用说，在党史里面，老大哥打从革命之初，便是革命的领袖和卫士啦。他的丰功伟绩逐渐往回推，已经到了三十和四十年代那个传说时期，那时资本家依然戴着奇形怪状的高礼帽，坐着乌光锃亮的汽车，或者镶了玻璃的马车，在伦敦街头招摇过市。这样的传说几分真切，几分虚构，只有鬼知道。温斯顿甚至记不得，党打从哪年哪月开始存在。他相信一九六○年前，他从来没听过英社这个词，不过也有可能，那会儿流行的是老话的词儿，叫做"英国社会主义"。一切都融解在云雾当中。其实有时候，确定一句谎话简直易如反掌--比方说罢，党史书宣称党发明了飞机，然而他记得，他孩提时飞机就已经有啦。可是--你无法证明一切呀。从来没有过任何证据。他平生只有一次，他把一件无可置疑的书面证据抓在了手中，足以证明一个历史事件出于窜改。那时候…… "史密斯!"电幕上那泼妇般的嗓子尖叫道。"6079号，W. 史密斯！对，就是你！再弯低点儿！你能做得更好。也不试试！再低点儿！这样好多啦，同志。现在--全队稍息！大家看我做！" 温斯顿猛可里大汗淋漓，可脸色仍然是莫测高深。绝不能显得沮丧！绝不能显得不满！只消眼光一轮，就算把你给交待啦。他就站在那里，瞧女教练把胳膊高举过头，而后弯下身子，把手指尖触到了脚趾。那动作算不上优美，然而颇有些简洁利落劲儿。 "就这样，同志们！我要看你们全都这样做。再看我做一遍。我三十九岁啦，还有四个孩子。可是看！"她又把身子弯下去。"你们看，我的膝盖可一点儿没弯。只要肯做，你们也做得到！"她挺直身子，接着说。"只要不超过四十五岁，全能碰到脚趾。我们不全能上前线光荣作战，可我们全能把身体练得棒棒的！想想马拉巴尔前线的孩子们！再想想浮堡里的水兵们！想想他们忍受的是什么！现在再来一遍！好多啦，同志，确实好多啦，"她见温斯顿猛地俯身，膝盖毫不弯曲，终于触到脚趾，便鼓励他一句。这么多年，这可是他头一次做到呀。