Chapter 2 4-6

Four Winston could not help sighing deeply.Let the telescreen be with him, but it wouldn't prevent him from sighing when he started to work.He pulled the dictation device close to him, blew the dust off the microphone, and put on his glasses.The pneumatic tube on the right side of the desk had passed four small paper rolls; he unfolded them and clamped them together. There are three holes in the wall of the office room.The one on the right of the dictation device is called a pneumatic tube, which is used to deliver written documents; the one on the left is larger and used to deliver newspapers.The one on the side wall that can be reached by hand is a large rectangular crack, and the crack is covered with iron bars, which are specially used to dispose of waste paper.There are tens of thousands of such cracks in the building, and every room must have one, and every corridor must have one not far away.This crack is nicknamed the memory hole, and there is quite a reason for this—once someone knows that certain documents should be destroyed, or even finds a piece of waste paper thrown around him, an automatic reaction is to lift the cover of the memory hole around him , drop it.There was a warm draft, and it was sucked into the great furnace--the furnace was hidden somewhere at the bottom of the building.

Winston looked at the four slips of paper which he had unfolded.Each note contained a short line or two of instructions in the Ministry's internal abbreviation--not really Newspeak yet, but containing quite a few Newspeak words.The note reads: Times 17.3.84 bb speech misreporting Africa corrected The Times 19.12.83 Forecast 3-Year Plan 4Q 1983 Mistakes Correct Recent Data Times 14.2.84 Rich ministry misquotes chocolate corrected The Times reported on 3.12.83 that bb ordered double plus non-good mention and non-person all to be rewritten before archiving for review Winston put aside the fourth instruction with a vague sense of satisfaction.This job is quite complicated and requires a sense of responsibility, so it should be left to the last.The other three were all routine, though the second, which involved looking up a set of numbers, might be a bit tedious.

Winston dialed the "outdated number" on the telescreen and ordered the relevant issues of The Times.In just a few minutes, the pneumatic tube delivered the newspaper he wanted.The instructions he received demanded that, for one reason or another, revisions must be made—in the words of the government, relevant articles or news must be corrected.For example, the "Times" of March 17 reported Big Brother's speech the day before, predicting that there would be no fighting on the South Indian front and that Eurasia would soon launch an offensive in North Africa.But in fact, the Eurasian Supreme Command attacked South India, leaving North Africa behind.This requires rewriting the passage of Big Brother's speech, so that his prophecy matches the actual situation.Also, The Times of December 19 published government forecasts for the output of various consumer goods in the fourth quarter of 1983 (that is, the sixth quarter of the Ninth Three-Year Plan).And today's newspapers published the actual production, so that every number in the forecast was completely wrong.Winston had to correct the first figures so that they corresponded with the later figures.As for the third instruction, it was a small mistake, but it was so simple that it took only a few minutes to correct it.As recently as February, the Ministry of Plenty gambled on an oath (the government's so-called "clear guarantee") that in 1984 there would be no reduction in chocolate rations.As a matter of fact, Winston had heard, too, that this weekend the supply of chocolate would be reduced from thirty grams to twenty grams—and all he had to do was make up a warning that it might take some chocolate. Just lower the supply sometime in April and replace the original guarantee.

As Winston finished processing each instruction, he clipped the dictation corrections to the appropriate copy of The Times and pushed them into the pneumatic tube.Then he crumpled the original instructions, together with all the memos he had made, into a ball of paper and threw it into the memory hole to be consumed by the flames—he tried to make it seem like a subconscious habit. This pneumatic tube leads at last to an invisible labyrinth.As for what happened in that labyrinth, he didn't know the details, but the general situation was clear to him after all.If any issue of "The Times" needs to be corrected, the relevant materials need to be collected and checked, and the newspaper of that issue will be reprinted, the original version will be destroyed, and the corrected version will be archived.The work of revision continues in this way; and the scope of revision is not limited to newspapers.Books, magazines, pamphlets, posters, leaflets, films, audio tapes, cartoons, photographs—in short, as long as a document may have political or ideological significance, its fate cannot be excluded.The past is being refurbished every moment; thus every prophecy of the party is supported by documents.Regardless of news or opinions, as long as it is contrary to the needs of the moment, it must not remain in the record.History becomes a parchment that can be wiped clean and rewritten as needed.Once such work is done, there is absolutely no evidence that any falsification of history has occurred.In fact, the largest department in the General Records Bureau was much larger than the one where Winston worked. The duty of the staff there was to search for and collect all the books, newspapers and documents that should be replaced and destroyed.An issue of The Times could be rewritten a dozen times, because of changes in political alliances, because of wrong predictions made by Big Brother, and still be filed with the original date, and no other edition to contradict it.Likewise, books are repeatedly recycled, rewritten, and republished without acknowledging any changes.Even in the written instructions Winston received, he was never explicitly asked to forge documents, nor even implied.It always said that in order to be accurate it was necessary to correct errors, errors, mistypes, and misquotes—even such instructions, which he destroyed as soon as they had been dealt with.

Winston set about revising the Ministry of Plenty figures.In fact, it was a forgery—one pointless deed for another.Most of the material you've dealt with has nothing to do with the real world—really, even blunt lies have something to do with reality.In terms of whimsy, the old statistics are indistinguishable from the revised version.Most of them simply take it for granted.For example, the Ministry of Plenty expects to produce 145 million pairs of shoes this quarter.In reality, however, only sixty-two million pairs of shoes had been made--and Winston, for his part, had revised the Ministry of Plenty's forecast to fifty-seven million pairs in order to declare, as usual, that the plan had been overfulfilled.But really, 62 million is definitely no closer to reality than 57 million or 145 million.Chances are, a pair of shoes was never produced.More likely, no one knows how many are produced, so who cares about such shit.All that is known is that, on paper, countless shoes are made each season, but half the population of Oceania must be barefoot.All the things recorded, big and small, are all like this.Everything gradually faded into phantasm until, in the end, you couldn't even tell what year it was or what month it was.

Winston glanced across the hall.In the office opposite him over there, there was a guy working non-stop.His name was Tillotson, and he was a small, stark-looking man with a dark chin.He had a roll of newspapers on his knees, and his mouth was pressed against the receiver of the dictation device. It seemed that apart from the telescreen and himself, he was afraid that others would listen to what he said.He looked up, and Winston saw his spectacles flicker in this direction, which seemed to be full of hostility. Winston was always confused about this Tillotson, and had no idea what he was doing.Those who keep records of the General Administration always prefer to keep silent about their work.This long and narrow hall has no windows, and there are two rows of office rooms in a row. The rustling of papers and the whispering of speaking to the dictation device have never stopped.There were, however, a dozen or more whom Winston could not even name, though they were often seen bustling up and down the corridors, waving and clapping at the Two Minute Hate.He knew the little brown-haired woman in the office next door who worked hard all day just scouring the papers for names that evaporated and then deleted—because people like that never existed. .It was a good job for her, and her husband evaporated two or three years ago.A few rooms away, there was a man named Ampforth, with hairy ears, a dazed expression, a docile disposition, procrastinating, capable of rhyming heel and meter, but his talent was astonishing.Some poems are disgusting and harmful in terms of ideology, but for some reason they still need to be kept in the poetry anthology. His job is to delete these poems and compile them into the so-called final version.Look at this hall, there are fifty people working, but when it comes to the huge body of the General Administration of Records, it is just a department, a small cell.Upstairs and downstairs, in front of you and behind you, there is a large group of buzzing people. Their jobs are so varied that you can't think of them.There was a huge printing workshop, staffed with editorial staff, typographers, and a well-equipped darkroom dedicated to the forgery of photographs.There is a TV show staffed with engineers, producers, and a specially selected group of actors who specialize in imitating the voices of others.There is also a large group of data clerks who specialize in cataloging the books and periodicals that should be recovered.Add to that the vast archives of corrected documents, the boilers hidden in the shadows to destroy the originals -- not to mention a group of anonymous leaders hiding here and there, coordinating the whole effort, deciding the policy course, determining how this part of history should be Keep it, that part should be tampered with, and which part should be deleted without leaving a word.

Ultimately, however, the Directorate General of Records is nothing more than a department of the Ministry of Truth.The main work of the Ministry of Truth is not to remake the past, but to provide newspapers, movies, textbooks, TV films, dramas and novels to the citizens of Oceania-as long as you want information, education and entertainment. From lyrics to slogans, from lyric poetry to treatises on biology, from children's spelling books to Newspeak dictionaries, all are within the purview of the Ministry of Truth.Moreover, the Ministry not only had to meet the various needs of the party, but also had to do the same to create a set of low-level goods for the enjoyment of the proletarians.This requires another whole set of departments producing proletarian literature, music, drama and general entertainment.Its products include trashy tabloids, such as sports lace, violent crime, and horoscopes; thrilling cheap novels, sensual movies, and sentimental, obscene ditties—the kind of ditties to which the music is written. A machine that puts together a kaleidoscope of tunes is called a composer.There is even a department, the Newspeak so-called pornography department, which specializes in producing the most vulgar pornographic novels, which are sealed and sent. Except for the staff of the pornography department, other party members are not allowed to read them.

While Winston worked, three more instructions were sent from the pneumatic tube.However, these tasks are very simple, and he finished them before the two minutes of hatred interrupted the work.After the animosity, he hurried back to the office, took the Newspeak dictionary off the shelf, pushed the dictation aside, cleaned his spectacles, and set to work on his main work of the morning. Winston's greatest joy in life was work.Most of his work is routine and very boring; however, there are also a few tasks that are extremely difficult and complicated, as forgettable as facing a mathematical problem.These were delicate bogus jobs, and apart from an understanding of the principles of Ingsoc and an estimate of the language that would fit the Party's demands, you couldn't find any guidance.Winston was so adept at such work that he was sometimes asked to correct editorials in The Times, which were written entirely in Newspeak.He unfolded the instructions he had put aside earlier, which read:

The Times reported on 3.12.83 that bb ordered double plus non-good mention and non-person all to be written separately and re-examined before archiving. In old Chinese (that is, standard English), it can be translated into: "The Times" December 1983 The coverage of the 3rd Big Brother order is extremely inappropriate because it refers to people who do not exist.Rewrite it all, and send a draft to superiors for review before archiving. Winston read through the taboo article.Big Brother's order that day was mainly to praise the work of an organization.The organization, called the FFCC, was tasked with supplying cigarettes and other consumer goods to sailors in the floating fort.A senior member of the Inner Party, Comrade Weizes, gave Big Brother special praise and awarded him a second-class medal for meritorious service.

After three months, FFCC was suddenly disbanded for no reason.Weathers and his cohort must have fallen out of favor by now, but the newspapers and telescreens never reported anything.This was to be expected, since there are usually no public trials of political prisoners.The purges of tens of thousands of people, the public trial of traitorous thought criminals, making them pitifully confess their guilt, and then their executions, special exhibits like this only come out once every two or three years.More often than not, such haters simply disappear without a trace.What happened to them, can't find the slightest clue.Sometimes, these people may not have died at all.About thirty people whom Winston knew were missing, not counting their parents.

Winston stroked the tip of his nose with the paper clip.In the opposite office, Comrade Tillotson was still mysteriously speaking on the dictation device.He raised his head suddenly - the glasses flashed hostilely again.Perhaps Comrade Tillotson's work was no different from his, Winston's, and why not.Such work is too complicated and delicate to be entrusted to a single person.On the other hand, wouldn't simply handing it over to some committee amount to a public admission of falsification?It is more likely that more than a dozen people will revise what Big Brother said at the same time, and then some leader of the Inner Party will select one of these versions to re-edit, and there will be complicated comparison and verification. Go down in history and become truth. Winston did not know the reasons why Weathers had fallen out of favor.He may be corrupt, or he may be incompetent.Maybe, it's just that the big brother thinks that this subordinate is too popular, so it's better to get rid of it.More likely, simply because purges and evaporations are an integral part of the machinery of government.The only real clue is the sentence "Tifeiren", which shows that Viezes has died unexpectedly.Such inferences are rarely made when someone is arrested.Sometimes they were released and lived on the loose for a year or two before being executed.Occasionally, someone who everyone thought had died long ago reappeared like a ghost, confessed to hundreds of people in a public trial, and then disappeared, and this time he did not appear again.However, Wei Zesi, he is already a non-human.He does not exist and never has.So Winston decided that simply changing Big Brother's tendency to speak would not solve the problem.It would be best to change the topic of the speech so that it has nothing to do with it before. He could, of course, change his speech to the usual criticism of traitorous thought-criminals, but it seemed a little too obvious.He could also weave a front-line victory, a glorious increase in production in the Ninth Three-Year Plan, which again would complicate the record.It seems that he should come here for an out-and-out fantasy.Then, Comrade Ogilvy popped up in his mind, as if the comrade had been waiting for him there.This comrade has just lost his life in battle, in a heroic struggle.Sometimes Big Brother thinks that the life and death of any humble ordinary party member is a good example for others to learn from, and he will commend it in the order.Comrade Ogilvy deserves his praise today.True, there's no such thing as Comrade Ogilvy anywhere, but just print a few lines, make a few pictures of him, and the guy exists in no time. Winston thought for a moment, then drew the dictation device close to him, and began dictating in the familiar tone of Big Brother.His tone is pugnacious and pedantic, and his style is an example of self-answering ("Comrades, what lesson do we learn from this incident? This lesson, which is also one of the founding principles of Ingsoc, is, " blah blah blah), imitating it is as easy as pie. At the age of three, Comrade Ogilvy wanted nothing but a drum, a light machine gun, and a model helicopter.At the age of six, he joined the reconnaissance team, a year earlier than the other children, which was a special relaxation of the rules for him.At the age of nine, he became the captain of the reconnaissance team.At the age of eleven, he denounced his uncle to the Thought Police when he overheard his uncle's apparently criminal tendencies.At the age of seventeen, he became the district captain of the Anti-Sex Youth League; at the age of nineteen, a hand grenade he designed was accepted by the Ministry of Peace, and when he dropped one in the first test, he killed thirty-one Eurasian countries. prisoner of war.At the age of twenty-three, he lost his life in combat action.At that time, he was carrying important documents and was flying over the Indian Ocean when he was pursued by enemy jets.He took the machine gun with him, jumped out of the helicopter, and sank to the bottom of the sea with the documents.Big Brother said, such an ending, one can't help but envy after thinking about it.Big Brother also briefly mentioned Comrade Ogilvy's pure and loyal life.He doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, and has no other recreational activities except for an hour in the gym every day.He took a vow of abstinence, feeling that being married and raising a family was contrary to the need to devote himself to his duties around the clock.He spoke only of the principles of Ingsoc; he lived only for the defeat of the enemies of Eurasia, for spies, saboteurs, traitors and thought-criminals. Winston pondered whether to give Comrade Ogilvy a medal of merit.In the end he decided not to give it, which would have caused some unnecessary checks. He glanced at his opponent in the opposite office again.Somehow, he knew that Tillotson was busy with exactly the same job as himself.There was no way of knowing whose version was used in the end, but he was confident that his version would be selected.Comrade Ogilvy, who had not even thought about it an hour ago, was now a fact of life.It's strange that you can make a dead person, but you can't make a living person.Comrade Ogilvy, who does not exist in the present, can exist in the past.When his falsifications are forgotten, Comrade Ogilvy will really exist—reliable on the same evidence as Charlemagne and Julius Caesar. Fives The location of the cafeteria is quite deep underground.The ceiling here is low, the flow of people is surging, noisy and noisy, and the long queue for buying lunch is moving forward slowly.The steam of the stew was coming out from between the iron bars of the counter, a sour smell of metal, and there was an irrepressible and irrepressible smell of Victory gin.A hole had been cut in the opposite wall, and it was supposed to be a little bar, where gin could be bought for a dime for a tall glass. "Hey! I was looking for you," said someone behind Winston. He turned and saw that it was his friend Syme, who worked in the research department. The word "friend" is probably not strictly speaking the right word at all.No one has any friends now, only comrades; but it is more pleasant to associate with some comrades than with others.Syme was a linguist and an expert on Newspeak.Now a group of experts is compiling the eleventh edition of the Newspeak dictionary, and he is one of this large group of experts.He was pitifully small, even thinner than Winston, with black hair and large eyes, protruding sadly and mockingly, with eyes that seemed to search your face when he was talking to someone. "I was just about to ask you if you still had the blade," he said. "No!" said Winston anxiously, feeling guilty. "I've been looking everywhere. There's nothing there." Everyone comes to you and asks about the blade.In fact, he also hid two pieces to no avail.Blades had been out of stock for months; and no matter what time of the day, there were always some essentials that were out of stock at the party store.Today it's buttons, tomorrow it's needles and thread, the day after tomorrow it's shoelaces -- and now it's the blades that are out of stock.To get these things, I had to sneak to the "free" market to buy some. "I've had this one for six weeks," he added insincerely. The long queue for buying food moved forward a bit, and stopped again.He turned again to face Syme.They each took one from a pile of greasy iron trays by the counter. "Was there yesterday to see the hangings?" asked Syme. "I want to work," replied Winston, rather dryly. "You can always see it in the movies." "That's pretty close," said Syme. His mocking eyes turned to and fro on Winston's face. "I know you very well," those eyes seemed to say, "I see you through! I know very well, why don't you go and see the hanging of prisoners of war!" Syme's orthodoxy was simply vicious in intellectual terms.Speaking of helicopter raids on enemy villages, interrogations and confessions of thought criminals, and executions in the basement of the Ministry of Love, he was so contented that it was annoying.If you wanted to talk to him, you had to try to distract him from the subject, to entice him with Newspeak technical questions, for which he was authoritative and interesting.Winston turned his head a little to avoid staring into his large black eyes. "Beautifully hanging," said Syme reminiscently. "But I think it's too bad to tie their feet. I just love to see them kick their legs. Also, at the end, the tongue sticks out too, and it's green--green. It's such a nice detail!" "Next!" cried the proletarian, wearing a white apron and holding a long spoon in his hand. Winston and Syme pushed the tray under the bars.So, a quick lunch was piled up on the tray-a plate of grey-red stew, a piece of bread, a small piece of cheese, a cup of black Victory coffee, and a small tablet of saccharin. "There's the table over there, under the telescreen," said Syme. "Let's get a drink." The gin was served in Chinese glasses without handles.They found their way through the crowd and put the tray on the tin table.Someone spilled a pile of stew at the corner of the table, the soup and vegetables were dirty, as if spit out.Winston picked up his glass, paused to brace himself, and swallowed the oily thing in one gulp.He blinked to make the tears flow--and at that moment he felt suddenly hungry.So he started to eat the stew spoonful by spoonful. The stew was usually sticky, with a few pieces of red and soft stuff inside, which might be made of meat.They didn't speak, and silently ate up the stew on the plate.At a table to Winston's left, not far behind him, a rapid chatter, in a rapid and rude voice like the quacking of a duck, was piercing in the midst of the commotion of the room. "How is the dictionary going?" Winston said, amplifying his voice so as to drown out the uproar that filled the room. "It's slow," said Syme. "I'm messing with adjectives. Charming!" The mention of Newspeak revived Symdon.Pushing away the tray, picking up the bread with one delicate hand and the cheese with the other, he bent over the table so he didn't have to shout. "The eleventh edition is the final version," he said, "and we're going to set the language to its final form—a form in which no one speaks in any other way. When we're done, people like you will have to start over." Learn! I dare say, you must think, we are mainly inventing new words there. Wrong! We are killing words-dozens, hundreds, hundreds, every day! We cut down the language Bones. None of the words in the eleventh edition will be obsolete before 2050!" He wolfed down the bread, gulped down several mouthfuls, and went on with a renewed pedantic enthusiasm.The dark and thin face was burning with energy, and the eyes were no longer full of sarcasm, almost a kind of dreamy blur. "It's wonderful to eliminate words. Of course, verbs and adjectives are the greatest waste. But there are hundreds of nouns, and they can be completely eliminated. Synonyms can be used, and antonyms can be used. In fact, a word alone is The opposite of another word, why is there any reason to exist? A word has already included the reverse. Let’s just say it, there are good characters, why do you need a bad character? It’s good enough-in fact, it’s even better , because good is really the opposite of good, bad is nothing. Also, you want to say something better than good, why use a bunch of vague and useless words, what is excellent, what is outstanding? Plus good--these The meaning is all inclusive. If you want to be strong, you can double plus. Of course, we are already using these, but in the last edition of Newspeak, the form of side does not exist. In the end, to say good and bad, All in six words--one word, actually. Look Winston, isn't that wonderful! Of course, it was BB's idea at first,' he added on second thought. When Big Brother was mentioned, Winston's face flitted with a longing expression.Syme felt at once that there was a lack of enthusiasm in his expression. "You don't know Newspeak, Winston," he said, almost mournfully. "You write in Newspeak and think in Oldspeak. I've seen some of your articles in The Times. They're good, but translations. At heart, you still like Oldspeak, vague as it may be. No matter that kind of subtlety is useless, you still like old words. You don't understand how wonderful it is to eliminate vocabulary! You know, among the languages ​​in the world, the vocabulary is decreasing every year, but Newspeak is the only one. ah." Of course Winston did not know.He didn't dare to answer, just smiled, hoping that the smile would show some approval.Syme took another bite of the dark bread, chewed a few times, and went on: "Can't you see that the whole purpose of Newspeak is to narrow the field of thought? In the end, we can no longer commit thought crimes, because there is no vocabulary to express it. All necessary concepts are strictly one word To express, the meaning of the word is strictly limited. What about the secondary meaning? Eliminated, forgotten. In the eleventh edition, we are not far from this, but this process will be very long, and it will continue for a long time after you and I die. Every year Fewer words and the scope of consciousness gets smaller and smaller. Of course, even now, there is no reason or excuse for thinking crime. It's just a matter of self-discipline, reality control. But in the end, none of this is needed Once the language is perfected, the revolution will be complete. Newspeak is Ingsoc, and Ingsoc is Newspeak," he said, with a kind of mysterious complacency. "Winston, why didn't you think that by the year 2050, at the latest, there will be no living person who can understand our conversation?" "Except . . . " said Winston incredulously, and then stopped. The word that came to the tip of his tongue was "get rid of the proletarians," but he stopped himself because he wasn't sure if that was a bit unorthodox.Syme, however, had guessed what he was going to say. "Proletarians are not human beings," he said casually. "By the year 2050, and probably sooner, all knowledge of the Old Words will be gone, and all the literature of the past will be destroyed. What Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron--only in the new words It exists in the version, not only has it become another set of things, but it has become completely opposite to itself. Even the party’s literature has to change. Even the slogans have to change. Even the concept of freedom has been abolished. What freedom is slavery? The whole atmosphere of thinking will be different. In fact, the thinking we understand today will no longer exist. Orthodoxy means not to think—no need to think. Is orthodoxy equal to unconsciousness?" Winston suddenly became convinced that one day Syme would evaporate.He is too smart, sees too clearly, and speaks too straightforwardly. Such a person will never be liked by the party.One day, he'll disappear -- it's written all over his face. Winston finished his bread and cheese, leaned halfway in his chair, and began to drink his cup of coffee.The harsh guy at the table on the left is still making endless noise.A young girl, presumably his secretary, sat with her back to Winston listening to him, and looked as if she enthusiastically agreed with everything he said.Sometimes Winston would hear a fragment of her saying: "That's true, I agree wholeheartedly," in a young, silly, womanly voice.But the man's voice didn't stop, even when the girl was talking.Winston had met the man before, and knew only that he held some important office in the Fiction Directorate.He was thirty years old, with a well-developed throat and a flexible mouth.His head was thrown back a little, and Winston could not see his eyes because of the angle at which he sat so that the reflection from his glasses was just a pair of empty discs.What's a little scary is that the voices pouring out of those two lips can hardly distinguish a word.Only once did Winston hear a phrase--"The complete and utter elimination of Goldsteinism"--rumbled on to him so rapidly that it almost became a single lump, like a line of typefaces.In addition, there is a lot of noise, a lot of clacking and clamoring.In fact, you may not be able to hear what he is saying, but there is no need to doubt the general meaning of what he said.Perhaps he was criticizing Goldstein, calling for tougher treatment of thought criminals and saboteurs.Maybe he was denouncing the atrocities of the Eurasian army, maybe he was celebrating Big Brother, or the heroes of the Malabar front – but it made no difference.No matter what he said, it could be concluded that every word and sentence was pure orthodox, pure Ingsoc.Looking at the eyeless face, with its mouth busy opening and closing, Winston had a strange feeling that it was not a real person at all, but a mannequin.His brain didn't speak, it was his larynx.The nonsense he uttered was words, but not words: it was just unconscious noises, like ducks quacking. Syme was silent for a moment, scratching in the stew paste with his spoon.The voice from the neighboring table went on rapidly, and despite the noise surrounding it, it was still clearly audible. "There's a word in Newspeak," said Syme. "I don't know if you've heard of it, but it's called duck talk, which means quacking like a duck. This kind of word is very interesting. It has two contradictory meanings. When used on an enemy, it's scolding him; To use someone you support is to praise him." Syme was really going to evaporate, and that was absolutely all right.Thinking of this, Winston felt a kind of sadness, although he knew that Syme despised him, didn't like him very much, and if he saw some reason, he would definitely expose him as a thought prisoner.There was something subtly wrong with Syme, however.There's something he doesn't have, and that's prudence, avoiding trouble, a kind of stupidity that saves people from disaster.No one can say that he is unorthodox.He believed in the principles of Ingsoc, he worshiped Big Brother, he rejoiced in victory, he hated heresy, and all this was not only sincere, but also with a kind of irrepressible enthusiasm.At the same time, he knows the latest information, which is beyond the reach of ordinary party members.However, he always had a bit of a bad reputation.He was fond of queer things that he kept silent, he read too much, and he liked to hang out at the Chestnut Tree Cafe, where painters and musicians hang out.There was no law against frequenting the Chestnut Tree Cafe, not even an unwritten law, and yet the place was a bit sinister.The old leaders of the party, now discredited, used to gather in this café before they were finally purged.I heard people say that Goldstein sometimes showed up here, but that was more than ten years ago.As for Syme, his fate was not difficult to predict, but in fact, if Syme caught him even for three seconds in Winston's secret thought, he would report it to the Thought Police at once.This was true of everybody, needless to say, but Syme was most probable.Fanaticism alone won't solve the problem.Does orthodoxy equal unconsciousness? Syme lifted his head. "Look, here comes Parsons," he said. Judging from his tone, it seemed as if he wanted to add, "That damned fool".Sure enough, Parsons, the neighbor of Winston's Victory Building, was walking across the house towards this direction.The kid was of medium build, with a stocky build, blond hair, and a frog face.He was thirty-five years old, and his neck and waist were surrounded by rings of fat, but his every move was still lively and childish.Look at his whole appearance, he looks like a big boy, which makes him feel like he should wear the blue shorts of the reconnaissance team, a gray shirt, and a red scarf even though he has a standard uniform.Thinking about him, one must have such a dignified appearance in his mind: his knees are fat out of the dimples, his cuffs are rolled up high, and his short, round forearms are exposed.Indeed, whenever possible, he would change into a pair of shorts for a picnic or other sporting event.Now he greeted them both with a cheery "Hey! Hey!" and sat down at the table, sending a strong smell of sweat.Look at his rosy face, with beads of sweat everywhere.This kid's ability to sweat is quite special; in the street activity center, seeing the wet top of the ping pong racket, everyone knows that he has just played ping pong.Syme then produced a sheet of paper with a long list of words on it, which he studied with an ink-pencil. "Hey! Look at him working while he's eating," said Parsons, elbowing Winston. "Positive, huh? What do you do, man? Show me, it must be too hard. I gotta tell you, man Smith, I've been looking for you all over the world. Donate, you forgot to give me. " "捐什么款？"温斯顿问着，一面自动去掏钱。每人的工资，总有四分之一得留给各色志愿捐款，名目多到叫你记也记不住。 "给仇恨周呀。你不是知道么，按户交。咱们这片儿钱归我管。咱得尽心尽力--做个大贡献给别人看看！告诉你呗，要是胜利大厦挂不出咱那条街最大的旗，可怨不着我。你说过交两块钱。" 温斯顿找了两张皱巴巴脏兮兮的票子交上去。那帕森斯便拿个文盲特有的齐整字儿，记到一个小本本上面。 "对啦伙计，"他说，"听说我那个小家伙昨个儿飞你一弹弓。我给了他好一顿揍。我跟他说，再这么干，我就把他的弹弓给没收！" "我想，他是没看上处决，心里不高兴呢，"温斯顿说。 "嘿，是么--我怎么说来着？这叫人家精神可嘉，是吧？这俩小家伙淘得要命，可显起积极呀，嘿！成天价想着侦察队呀，打仗什么的。上星期六，我那小女孩儿到柏坎斯坦去野游，猜她干了什么事儿？她带着两个女孩儿溜出队伍，跟踪个陌生人，跟了一个下午！她们跟了他俩小时，穿过树林儿，到了阿默山，把他交给巡警啦！" "她们咋这么做?"温斯顿有点惊愕。帕森斯一脸胜利的神色： "我那小孩儿断定，他是个敌人的特务--跳伞来的什么的。伙计，这就出彩儿啦。你知道么，起初她觉得，那家伙哪里可疑？她发现，那家伙穿的鞋子好奇怪--她说，还没见过有谁，穿双那么怪的鞋。这家伙八成是个外国人。七岁小孩儿吔，有点子聪明，嗯哼？" "后来那人呢?"温斯顿问。 "那人？说不上，当然啦。不过咋样我都不吃惊，比方……"帕森斯做个步枪瞄准的姿势，嘴里学着开枪吧勾一响。 "好呀，"赛姆还看着纸条儿，头也不抬，一面心不在焉地说了一句。 "当然啦，我们不能抱侥幸心理，"温斯顿顺从地同意。 "我就说么！现在还打着仗，"帕森斯道。 就像要证实他的话一样，他们头顶的电幕响起一阵喇叭声。不过，这还不是宣布战场上的胜利，只是要宣读富裕部的一个公告。 "同志们！"一个年轻的嗓子热情洋溢地叫道。"同志们注意啦！报告大家一个好消息！我们在生产战线上赢得了一个大胜利！此前各类消费品的完成情况显示，过去的一年，生活水平提高了百分之二十以上。今天上午，整个大洋国群情沸腾，到处举行了自发的游行。工人们走出工厂和办公室，高举彩旗，在街头游行，表示感谢老大哥的英明领导带给他们的幸福新生活。下面播报已经统计完成的部分数字。粮食产量……" 电幕上说了好几次"我们的幸福新生活"，富裕部最近挺爱用这词儿。帕森斯的注意力给喇叭声吸引过来，便坐在那里听广播，张着嘴巴带了种严肃劲儿，还有点大彻大悟般的厌烦。他脑子转得不如数字快，不过他也清楚，它们总该叫人心满意足才是。他拽出个脏兮兮的大烟斗，里面装着半管黑糊糊的烟叶儿。烟草每个星期才能供应一百克，想装满烟斗几乎就没法办到。温斯顿掏出支胜利牌香烟，小心翼翼地横向拿在手里。下一份供应量要到明天才能买，他的烟卷儿可只剩四支啦。这会儿他迫使自己不听身前身后的喧闹，专心听听电幕上的播报。瞧罢，还有人游行时，要感谢老大哥把巧克力的供应量增加到每星期二十克哩。就在昨天，刚宣布供应量要减少到每个星期二十克。才过了二十四小时，他们竟忘得一干二净？帕森斯自然容易忘掉呀，他笨得像只动物一个样。邻座没眼睛那家伙也会忘掉呀，而且会忘得狂热盲目，一片热情，谁要是敢说上星期还要供应三十克，他一准强烈地盼着把这大胆的家伙挖出来，揭出来，蒸发干净。赛姆呢，他也忘掉啦--不过他挺复杂，他有的是双重思想。赛姆也忘掉了--而他，只有他一个人还保持着记忆？ 电幕上神话般的数字不断奔涌出来。和去年同期相比，今年是食物多啦，衣服多啦，房屋多啦，家具多啦，锅多啦，船多啦，书也多啦，燃料多啦，婴儿多啦，直升机也多啦--除了疾病犯罪跟发疯，什么都比去年多。一年又一月，一分又一秒，任是什么人，任是什么物，全都撒了欢儿地大跃进。温斯顿像方才赛姆一样，拿汤匙蘸着桌上那滩灰不溜丢的菜汁，把一条长线划成个图形。他满心忿忿不平，左思右想着生活的物质方面。这一切，难道一直如此？他吃的饭，难道一直这么个味儿？他转脸看了看食堂。这叫什么屋子？天棚低矮，拥挤不堪，墙壁给数不清的人摸得魆黑，铁桌铁椅东倒西歪，一个贴着一个，害得你要坐下，就必得碰着旁人的胳膊肘。汤匙歪歪扭扭，托盘坑坑洼洼，酒杯粗粗拉拉。所有的表面全是油腻腻，所有的缝隙全是脏兮兮，到处一股子酸臭味儿，活像把孬酒精、破咖啡、烂炖菜跟脏衣服混在了一道。脑子和皮肤永远在抗议，直让你觉得你有权拥有的东西给人骗了去。不错，他不记得有什么截然不同的东西。只要他还记得清，他脑海里的图景就别无二致：食物总是不够吃，袜子内衣总是有窟窿，家具总是碎糟糟，房间总是冷飕飕，地铁拥挤不堪，房屋歪七扭八，面包黑糊糊，茶叶没处找，咖啡像脏水，烟卷儿像宝贝--除去人造杜松子酒，就没有什么稀烂便宜，又敞开供应。当然啦，你一天天变老，这生活也一天天变糟；可这样的难受，这样的肮脏，这样的缺东少西，没完没了的严冬，稀脏粘脚的袜子，总不开动的电梯，冰冷的水，硌人的肥皂，自动断裂的香烟，恶臭难闻的食物--要是有谁对这一切心怀厌恶，这岂不意味着，这并非事物的自然规律？除非还记得从前的事情，明知道那时的状况截然不同，又怎能觉得，如今的一切无法忍受？ 他再看一看这间食堂。差不多人人都丑陋不堪，就算不穿那身工作服，依然免不了难看透顶。就在房间的一头，这小个子独个儿坐在桌前喝咖啡，他怪兮兮的像甲虫，一双小眼睛疑神疑鬼，东张西望。要是闭上眼睛不看身边，任谁也会相信，党树立的典型体格--小伙子人高马大，大姑娘胸脯高耸，头发金黄，肤色健康，生气勃勃，无忧无虑--这样体格的人儿到处都是，多得数不过来。可其实，照他看来，一号机场的人们多半矮小黧黑，其貌不扬。怪得很，各部里满是些甲虫一样的小人儿。他们短粗矮小，早早变得胖墩墩，拖着两条小短腿儿，快手快脚，跑东跑西，肉嘟嘟的肥脸木然一团，还有双小而又小的眼睛。靠党的领导，如今这样的品种简直是繁荣昌盛呀。 等到念完了富裕部的公告，电幕上又是一阵喇叭叫，而后播放起一段软绵绵的音乐。这一串数字的狂轰滥炸，叫帕森斯糊里糊涂变得挺激动，便把烟斗从嘴里掏了出来。 "富裕部今年还真能干，"他会意地摇摇脑袋，"对啦，史密斯老伙计，你准有刀片给我用用？" "没啦，"温斯顿道。"我这刀片都用了六个星期啦。" "哟，是么……我就是问问，伙计。" "真对不起，"温斯顿道。 邻桌那个鸭嗓子，在念富裕部公告的当儿停了片刻，如今又聒噪起来，声音还是那样响。温斯顿突然觉出，不知怎的，他在想帕森斯太太，想她稀疏的头发，跟脸上皱纹里的灰泥。不出两年，她的孩子准向思想警察揭发她。帕森斯太太便会给蒸发。赛姆也得给蒸发。他温斯顿会给蒸发。奥勃良同样会给蒸发。可帕森斯，他却不会给蒸发。那没眼睛的鸭子嗓也不会给蒸发。部里那般在迷宫也似走廊里窜来窜去的甲虫，他们同样不会给蒸发。还有那黑发姑娘，小说总局那个姑娘，她也绝对不会给蒸发。看上去，他本能地摸得准，谁能活下去，谁会给消灭--虽然靠什么才能活下去，他却说不出。 就在这时，他猛然从沉思当中惊醒了过来。邻桌有个姑娘，微微斜着身子，在盯着他看。这便是那个黑发姑娘。她乜斜着目光看着他，那眼神怪得很，颇有些专注。刚碰到他的目光，她便把眼睛转了开去。 温斯顿的后背立时变得汗津津，一阵子毛骨悚然的恐惧，涌遍了全身。这恐惧瞬息即逝，却留下种不安的感觉，挥之不去。她干吗要盯着他？她干吗老是跟着他？不幸的是他记不得，他来的时候她是不是早坐在那桌上，还是在他之后才坐到了那里。可昨天，两分钟仇恨那会儿，她可明明就坐在他身后，哪怕这看上去毫无必要。很有可能，她真正的目的是要偷听他的话，要搞清他是不是叫得不够响。 方才他怎么想来着？或许她还不真是个思想警察，可真正讲来，数业余的特务最危险。鬼知道她盯了他多久。也许总会有五分钟罢--很可能就在这当儿，他脸上的表情没有控制好。耽在公共场所，或者在电幕的范围内，听任自己的思绪信马由缰，这简直是种骇人的危险。最细致的地方，才最能戳穿了你。神经质的抽搐，无意识的忧虑，自言自语的习惯--只要是有那么点行为反常，遮遮掩掩，总归是危险的信号。不消说，脸上的表情不妥当，这本身就活该挨收拾；比方说，人家明明在宣布胜利的喜讯，怎么能显得满肚子怀疑？新话还有个词儿，叫脸罪，说的便是这样的情形。 那姑娘再次把脸转过来。没准儿她还不是真的跟踪他，没准儿全是碰巧，她接连两天跟他挨着坐。香烟早已灭了火，他小心翼翼把它放到桌边上。要是烟丝没给他弄掉，下班后他还能把这截烟屁股吸完哩。很可能，邻座那娘们是个思想警察的特务；很可能，不出三天，他便会落到爱护部的地下室里去。然而不管怎样，烟屁股可是别浪费。这当儿，赛姆叠起他那张纸条，放到口袋里。帕森斯可是又说开啦。 "我还没说哩，伙计，"他叼着烟斗，一面说道。"有次我那俩小家伙，在市场把个老太太裙子给点着啦！那老家伙？她拿BB的像片包香肠！他们就偷偷跟着他，拿一盒的火柴烧她裙子。嘿，准烧得她够呛！那俩小家伙，哈？真叫小积极分子儿！这会儿在侦察队，他们受的全是这种一等一的训练。比我小时候还好哩！猜，侦察队最新给了他们什么玩意儿？耳机，能插到钥匙孔里偷听说话！我那小丫头，有天晚上带回了一个--就捅到起居室门上啦。她说，比直接从钥匙孔听，声音足足大上一倍哩！不用你说，这当然是个玩具--可主意倒不坏，咹？" 就在这时，电幕上一声刺耳的哨音响。这告诉他们，该回去上班啦。三个人全跳将起来，跟着大伙一窝蜂地抢电梯，温斯顿香烟剩下的烟丝全掉了出来。 six 温斯顿在日记上写道： 那是三年以前。一个晦暗的夜晚，大火车站附近一条狭窄的横街。她挨墙站着，身边是一处房门，头顶是一盏路灯，可是黑古隆冬。她长得挺年轻，浓妆艳抹的。正是抹的粉让我注意，那粉雪白雪白，活像个面具，再加上鲜红鲜红的嘴唇。党的女人，是不兴涂脂抹粉的。街上没有别人，也没有电幕。她说，要两块钱。I…… 他一时觉得很难写下去。他闭上眼睛，还用手指头按住眼皮--这情形总是出现在眼前，他一心要把它赶开去。他险险乎按捺不住，要用尽力气高声骂娘。要么，就拿脑袋撞墙，就把桌子踢倒，就用墨水瓶砸窗户--狂暴罢，吵闹罢，疼痛罢，只要能把那折磨人的记忆消灭掉! 他心里想，一个人最要命的敌人，是自己的神经系统。你内心的紧张，随时可能转变成什么一目了然的症候。他想起几个星期以前，在街上遇见一个人。这党员倒是长得挺平庸，三四十岁，高高瘦瘦，还提了个公文包。那会儿他们相差不过几米远，那人的左脸突然抽搐一下，害得那张脸横七扭八的。等他俩擦身而过，那人竟又抽搐了一下--不过是小小的抽动，不过是轻轻的颤抖，迅疾得犹如照像机的快门咔哒一响。然而谁都看得出，这是他的一个习惯动作。温斯顿记得，他当时便想到，这可怜虫完蛋啦。怕人的是，十有八九这动作他根本就没觉察。最最危险的，是睡觉的时候说梦话--据他看来，这般糟糕事儿根本就是个防不胜防。 他吸了口气，接着写道： 我跟着她走进门，穿过后院，进了地下室的一个厨房。靠墙有张床，桌上是一盏灯，灯光捻得暗暗的。she…… 他只感到一阵恼怒，恨不得吐口唾沫才好。在地下厨房里跟那婆娘搞在一起，他想起的是凯瑟琳--他的老婆。温斯顿还结了婚哩--换句话讲，是结过婚的：没准儿他还算个结了婚的人，据他所知，他老婆还没死呢。他仿佛又呼吸到地下厨房那种暖烘烘的味儿，那种脏衣服、贱香水外带臭虫味儿。那香水味儿直叫人作呕，然而不乏诱人的地方，因为党的女人绝不用香水，简直没法想象她们也会用香水。只有无产者才兴用香水--在他心里，香水味总如影随形地混杂了另一件事，那便是私通。 这两年以来，他头一遭行为失检，便是搞了这个婆娘。不用说，他们禁止搞妓女，但诸如此类的规矩，有时大可放胆破它一次。这挺危险，但绝对算不上生死攸关。搞妓女若是抓了现行，得强劳营里干上个五年；要是不犯旁的事儿，这就顶了天啦。而且逃起来也容易，谁会在搞事儿的时候给人当场擒拿？贫民区准备卖身的婆娘多而又多，有时只消一瓶杜松子酒，她便会卖了自个儿。对卖淫这类勾当，党嘴上不说，其实是颇有些鼓励的，人们的本能不好一并压抑净尽，总该找上个发泄的出口。一时的放纵算不得大事，只要能做得偷偷摸摸，毫无乐趣，只要搞的是无产阶级下层一文不值的婆娘。党员彼此胡搞，这才真真是不可饶恕。然而--纵然大清洗的被告们一例坦白犯了这样的罪行，真正做出这样的事来，还是叫人觉得无法想象。 说起党的目的，那还不光是防止男人和女人相互忠诚，这样的关系没准儿他们没办法控制。还有那么个秘而不宜的真正目的，便是让性行为变得索然无味。婚姻之内也罢，婚姻之外也罢，真正的敌人不是爱情，倒是性欲。所有党员间的婚姻，必得经过个什么特设委员会批准；要是打算结婚的男女显得爱慕对方的肉体，那申请一准给拒绝--当然啦，其原则从不给说得明明白白。结婚的目的，能承认的惟有一个，便是生育些孩子，好为党服务。性交，那给看成一种小小的手术，像灌肠一样只会惹人厌。当然啦，谁也没有径直说过这一点，然而靠一种曲曲折折的方式，从孩提时开始，它便灌进了每个党员的心里。他们甚至成立些组织，像反性青年团之类，专门倡导男人跟女人完全禁欲。孩子么，可以靠人工授精的办法来生育(新话还有个词儿，就叫人授)，交给公家来养活。温斯顿晓得，这一切还没有全部当真干起来，然而它却跟党的意识形态严丝合缝。党是企图扼杀性本能；若是无法扼杀，便去歪曲它，玷污它。他还不晓得为何这样做，只觉得他们的做法真是太自然不过。起码从女人那面讲，党的努力大抵上大获成功。 他又想起了凯瑟琳。他们分手总该有九年，十年--快十一年啦。真怪，他竟然很少想到她。有时候，他甚至整天整天忘了自己曾经结过婚。他们只在一起，过了十五个月。党根本不准离婚，然而若是没有孩子，却会倡导分居。 凯瑟琳个子高高，头发金黄，身形挺直，动作优美。她的面孔轮廓分明，活像只老鹰。要是谁不曾发现，这张面孔的背后几乎空洞无物，任谁都会称赞一句：瞧这张面孔，有多么高尚！刚刚结婚不久，温斯顿便一口断定，他还没见过比她更加愚蠢庸俗空虚的人--当然啦，或许这全怪他对她的了解最切近。她那脑袋瓜里，就没有哪个思想不是口号，任何愚不可及的事情，只要是党交给了她，她一律盲目接受。在心里他给她个绰号，就叫"人体录音带"。然而，若不是为了那件事，他还可以忍住跟她过下去--那事情便是性生活。 只消他碰到她，她便一阵畏缩，全身僵硬。若是拥抱她，那感觉活像拥抱一块木疙瘩。真怪，有时她把他往自个儿怀里拥，他却只觉得她正拼着力气把他推开去。她的肌肉变得绷绷紧，叫他不能不有这样的感觉。她总是闭眼往那里一躺，不反抗，不合作，只是忍受了事。这样的反应真叫人难堪；久而久之，简直叫人觉得可怕。即便这样，他倒可以忍着和她一起过，只消同意禁欲就是啦。可怪的是凯瑟琳居然不同意。她说，只要做得到，他们总该生个孩子才是。于是每个星期，诸如此类的事情准演上一次。她把这事搞得挺有规律，只要不是做不到，她便总要遵守时间。甚至那天的早晨，她便会提醒他一句，一如晚上有什么任务必得完成，万不可忘记。她有两个词儿来叫这件事。一个叫做"生他个小孩"，还有一个叫做"咱们为党尽义务"(她还真用了这个词儿！)。要不了多久，只要将到指定的日子，他便真真觉得灾难临了头。幸好没怀上孩子，到头来她也同意，不再试下去了。很快，他们便开始分居。 温斯顿悄没声儿地叹口气。他又拿起笔，接着写下去： 她一头躺倒在床上，等不到任何准备动作，就撩起了裙子。那动作粗俗之极，怕人之极，让你无法想象。I…… 他看见自己站在那儿，灯光黑沉沉，满鼻子全是臭虫加上贱香水味儿。在心里，他只觉得挫折，只觉得忿忿不平--尽管在那时，他的思绪掺杂着对凯瑟琳白皙肉体的想望，可那肉体早给党催眠的力量闹得冰冷僵硬。干吗老是这样？干吗他没法有个自己的女人，只能隔三差五搞搞这种破烂货？然而名副其实的做爱，几乎就无法想象。党的女人，一律是如出一辙。禁欲的思想，如同对党的忠诚，早已在她们的心里根深蒂固。小时候周密地训练她们，学校、侦察队和青年团里不断絮叨给她们，再加上竞赛，冷水浴，讲座，游行，歌曲，口号，军乐，自然的情感早就被扫荡一空。理智告诉他，例外一定会有；然而他的心里就是不相信。她们全都是坚不可摧，完全按党的要求干。他希望得到的，早不是有个人爱他，而是打破那贞洁的围墙，哪怕平生只遇到一次。性交一旦成功，那便是反叛。情欲就是思想罪。若他还能够唤起凯瑟琳的欲望，便构成了一次诱奸--哪怕她还是他老婆。 然而剩下的故事必得写下去。他便写道： 我捻亮了灯。我就着灯光看她…… 在黑暗里耽过之后，煤油灯昏暗的灯光显得格外亮。他第一次可以仔细把那婆娘打量一眼。他朝她走了一步，又停了下来，满心交织着肉欲和恐惧。他痛苦地意识到来这儿的风险。没准儿他一出门，巡警便会把他给擒住；没准儿这会儿，他们就等在门外边！然而他倒是到这儿干吗来！若是他还没干成就走呀--！ 这得写下来，这得老实交代。灯光下他突然看出来，那婆娘敢情很老。她脸上的脂粉异常地厚，活像个裂缝累累的纸板面具。头发已经有了银丝；然而真正吓人的，倒是她的嘴巴，稍一张开，露出的竟是个漆黑的窟窿。她一颗牙齿也没有。 他用涂鸦般的字体，忙忙乱乱写下去： 我就着灯光看她，原来是个老太太，少说也有五十岁。然而我走上前去，照干不误。 他又把指头按在眼皮上。他到底把它写了下来，然而依然没什么两样。这个疗法治不了他。那一种冲动，放开嗓子破口大骂的冲动，比什么时候都强烈。