Chapter 3 7-8

seven If there is hope, Winston wrote, hope lies in the proles. If there is hope, it must be in the proles.Such a dense population of people has always been looked down upon by others, but they account for eighty-five percent in Oceania.Only from them can the power to overthrow the party be gathered.The Party simply cannot be overthrown from within.If it has any enemies, they can't get together at all, and they can't even recognize each other clearly.Even if that fabled fraternity existed (even if it could be), it is impossible to imagine what could be done with more than two or three members.Rebellion--it only means a change of eyes, a change of voice, and at best, it means an occasional murmur.The proletarians, however, do not need any underground activity at all if they are to be made aware of their own strength.All they had to do was stand up and shake themselves—as a horse shakes off flies.If they would do it, they could bring down the party tomorrow morning.Sooner or later they always do, don't they?but--!

He still remembers one time when he was walking on a crowded street.At this moment, hundreds of women on the street in front roared together: "Aw! Aw--!" The voice was deep and clear, chilling, full of anger and despair, booming, buzzing, like The bells echoed.His heart suddenly beat wildly.That's it!The riots have begun!The proletarians have finally broken the chains!But when he arrived at the scene, he saw only two or three hundred women, crowded around the stalls in the street market, with miserable faces, like a group of doomed passengers on a sinking ship.At this moment, the general feeling of desperation was suddenly dispersed into the clamor of countless voices.It turned out that there was a stall selling tin pans.Those pots, for example, are some defective products that are afraid of being touched, but any kind of cooking utensils will never be available.Unexpectedly, the pot was sold out -- so those who got it were bumped and crowded by others, trying to sneak away with the pot; however, dozens of other people still quarreled around the stall and scolded the salesperson. Go through the back door and leave the pot somewhere.At this time, someone started to quarrel again—it was two women with flushed faces and disheveled hair, grabbing the same pot and trying to snatch it from each other.They rob and rob, and the handle of the pot falls off.Winston watched their quarrel with disgust.However, just at that moment, their roars showed almost terrifying power, and they were only a few hundred people!Why do they never yell at such important things?

He wrote: Only after awakening will they rebel; only after rebelling will they be awakened. He thought to himself, this looks like something copied from some party textbook.Of course, according to the party, it is freeing the proletarians from their chains.Before the revolution, the proletarians were brutally oppressed by the capitalists. They were starved and beaten, and women had to work hard in coal mines (in fact, don’t women work hard in coal mines now?), and their children were sold to factories when they were six years old.But at the same time, according to the principles of doublethink, the Party also teaches us that the proletarians are inherently inferior, and that a few simple rules must keep them in a position of domination, just like the animals.In fact, who cares what the proletarians do.It is not necessary to know more about their situation.They work, reproduce, and do so all the time, and other activities are of little importance.Leave them alone, like cattle scattered on the plains of Argentina, and they return to their natural state of existence, to their ancient ways of existence.They were born, they grew up in the slums, they went out to work at the age of twelve; their beauty, their sexuality, were as short as fleeting buds.They got married at the age of twenty, entered middle age at the age of thirty, and most of them died at the age of sixty.Working hard, raising a family, picking fights, watching movies, playing football, drinking beer, gambling, that's all they have on their minds.Controlling them is easy.Among them, a few agents of the Thought Police were always sent to spread rumors and pick out suspicious and dangerous elements to eliminate.As for the party's ideology, there is no need to indoctrinate them at all.The proles should have no strong political feelings.The party only requires them to have a simple patriotic thought, and if they need to work overtime and tighten their belts, it will be easy to take advantage of them.Sometimes they will be a little dissatisfied, but this dissatisfaction is in the end fruitless; because they do not understand general ideas, their dissatisfaction can only be directed at trivial and specific things, and the greater evil is always invisible to them.Most of the proletarians didn't have telescreens in their homes, and the police didn't bother to talk to them.London has become a stronghold of crime, thieves and robbers, prostitutes and drug dealers, and cheaters, all of whom regard London as a paradise created by nature;All moral issues, as long as they follow the old rules; the asceticism advocated by the party in sexual relations does not apply to them at all.Promiscuity cannot be punished, and divorce can be completed.If the proletarians want a religion, or want to, let them believe it.For the proletarians, there is simply no doubt about it.As the party slogan teaches: "The proles and animals are free."

Winston reached down and scratched his ankle cautiously.The place is itching again.One problem that can never be avoided is that there is no way to know what life was like before the revolution.From his drawer he produced a children's history book which he had borrowed from Mrs. Parsons.He began to copy a passage from the book into his diary: In the old society before the Great Revolution, London was not the beautiful city we see now.At that time, it was so dark and dirty that it was unbearable.People are starving, and there are millions of poor people who can't even afford shoes, or even find a decent place to sleep.When children were not yet our age, they worked twelve hours a day; if their hands and feet were slow, they were whipped by their vicious masters.All day long they ate stale crumbs and drank plain water.Everyone is so poor, but there are also some rich people who live in several tall and gorgeous buildings, and there are more than thirty servants just for serving.These rich people are called capitalists, and they are all fat, fierce, and ugly, just like the picture on the side.You see, he wears a long, black overcoat, called a frock coat, and a strange hat on his head, which is shiny and looks like a big chimney, called a top hat.This is a dress only for capitalists, and no one else is allowed to wear it.Everything in the world is owned by them, and everyone else is their slaves. Land, houses, factories, and money are all theirs.When anyone disobedient, they put him in prison, or put him out of work and starve him to death.When the common people talk to the capitalist, they must look very afraid, bow to him, take off their hats, and call him "Master".These capitalists have a leader called the king...

The long list listed below, he already knew.The book would say that bishops wear muslin sleeves, and judges wear ermine robes.There are shackles, shackles, treadmills, and whippings. The mayor holds a feast and kisses the pope's feet.There is another thing, called jus primae noctis (first night right), children's textbooks probably won't say it.What this law means is that every capitalist has the right to sleep with any woman who works in his factory. How many lies are there, who can tell?It may be true that life in general is better today than it was before the revolution.There is only one piece of evidence to the contrary, and that is the silent protest in the bones, and the instinctive feeling that the state of existence is unbearable, which should not be the case at all in another era.This made him feel that the real typical problem of daring to love the world today is not that it is too cruel and unsafe.It's a dull, dark, sluggish age, and that's the problem with it.Just look around, anyone can see that this life is nothing like the loud lies on the telescreen, and it is definitely not like the ideal that the Party is trying to realize.Even for party members, many aspects of life tend to be neutral, regardless of politics.It's about finishing a dull job with all your might, grabbing a seat on the subway, mending a pair of torn socks, begging for a saccharine tablet, and saving a cigarette butt.But the ideals established by the party are huge, terrifying, and crystal clear.It is the world of steel and concrete, the world of machine monsters, the world of terrible weapons; it is the battlefield of warriors, the temple of believers, marching in unity, uniting in thought, uniting in slogans, always working, fighting, winning and persecuting.Some of the 300 million people have the same face.And reality?The city is filthy and withered, and the people are hungry and poorly clothed, but they still run around, lingering on their last breath.One example they live in is a dilapidated house from the last century, and the other example around them is the smell of rotten cabbage and dirty latrines.Winston seemed to see the city of London, a huge ruin, filled with millions of rubbish bins; on the tragic scene of the city, a photo of Mrs. Parsons was superimposed - full of With wrinkled face and thinning hair, he struggled in vain to fix the clogged pipe.

He reached down again and scratched his ankle.The telescreen is ringing in your ears day and night, telling you with statistics that people today eat more, wear more clothes, live more spaciously, and play more happily—compared with people fifty years ago, they Live longer, work less, be taller, stronger in body, stronger in intelligence, better in life, and rich in knowledge.You have no way to prove or refute such propaganda.For example, the party says that 42 percent of adult proletarians today are literate; before the revolution, only 15 percent of adult proletarians were literate.The party also said that the infant mortality rate was only 160 per thousand today, compared to 300 per thousand before the revolution—or something like that.It's a bit like two unknown numbers forming a simple equation.Chances are that every word in the history books is purely made up, even things that people believe deeply.Who knows, perhaps there was never such a thing as jus primae noctis, no man called a capitalist, no dress called a top hat.

Everything faded away in the mist.In the past, people wiped it clean, and the act of wiping was forgotten, so the lie became the truth.Only once in his life did he have conclusive and concrete evidence of the forgery--and after the event, which was so important.The evidence stayed between his fingers for thirty seconds.That would have been 1973--he was separating from Catherine, anyway.However, the real relevant date is seven or eight years earlier. In fact, this matter began in the mid-1960s, when the great purges wiped out the veterans of the revolution.By 1970, except for Big Brother, they had all been wiped out, not a single one remained.They were exposed and turned into traitors and counter-revolutionaries.Goldstein managed to escape, and was hiding somewhere; as for the others, a few disappeared, most of them attended the public trial, confessed to the crime, and were executed.In the end, there were three people who survived, named Jones, Aronson and Rutherford.They were arrested around 1965.They disappeared, as usual, for a year or two, in silence, in doubt;They confessed that they exchanged information with the enemy (the enemy was also Eurasia at that time), embezzled public funds, and assassinated several loyal party members.They confessed that they had conspired against the leadership of Big Brother long before the revolution, and that their sabotage had killed thousands of people.Having confessed this, they were given leniency, reinstated in the Party, and appointed to posts—jobs that seemed important on the surface but were in fact purely nominal.They published lengthy reviews in The Times, dissecting the roots of the crime and promising a new life.

Winston had actually seen all three of them in the Chestnut Tree Cafe after they had been released.He still remembered that at that time he was peeking at them out of the corner of his eye, really fascinated and scared at the same time.They were much older than him, and they could be regarded as the remnants of the ancient society. They were almost the last remaining dignitaries in the heroic years of the party.In them still lingers the glamor of the underground and the Civil War.He was not very clear about the events and dates of their activities at that time, but he only felt that he had heard their names earlier than Big Brother.But they are gangsters, enemies, untouchable dangerous elements, and they are destined to be wiped out within a year or two.No one escaped such a fate in the hands of the Thought Police.They were just corpses waiting to be returned to the grave.

No one sat near them.It is never wise to be next to this group of people.They sat in silence with a glass of gin in front of them, which smelled of cloves and was the specialty of the café.Among the three, the appearance of Rutherford impressed Winston the most.This man was once a famous cartoonist. Before and during the revolution, his sharp cartoons inspired the passion of the people.Even now, his cartoons occasionally appear in The Times.These newly created comics only imitate their own early style, which is rigid, limp, and weird.The themes of the comics are always the same old tunes: what slums, starving children, street fighting in the streets, capitalists wearing top hats-such capitalists, they still wear top hats inside the barricades!It was a futile and endless struggle, and I wanted to go back to the past.This Rutherford was tall and big, with greasy and dirty gray hair, a wrinkled, baggy face, and thick lips pouting like a negro.At the beginning, he must have been strong and strong, but now this big man is crooked, bloated and puffy, as if he is about to lose his airs in all directions.He seems to collapse in front of you, like a crumbling mountain.

It was very lonely at fifteen o'clock.Winston could not remember now how he had come to the café at such an hour.The café was almost empty, and the telescreen whispered a soft tune.The three of them sat in the corner, almost motionless, and never said a word.The waiter brought up a full glass of gin without saying hello.There is a chessboard on the table next to it, the pieces are neatly placed, but no one is playing chess.In less than half a minute the telescreen changed suddenly.The frequency of the playback is changed, and the music is also changed.It was difficult to describe the new melody that was coming in. It was rough and playful, and Winston called it the yellow ditty in private.Then someone from the telescreen sang:

The shadow of the chestnut tree blurs, You sold me, and I sold you too! They lie there, we lie here, The shade of this chestnut tree is blurred! The three of them remained motionless.Winston glanced again at Rutherford's slumped face and saw that his eyes were brimming with tears.Winston realized that both Aronson's and Rutherford's noses were crooked, and his heart trembled -- but he couldn't say why his heart trembled. Not long after, the three were arrested again.It looked like they had just been released, and immediately started a new round of conspiracy.They were tried again, this time confessing to a series of new crimes, along with old ones, to be counted and punished.So they were executed, and this fate was recorded in the party history to serve as a warning to future generations.But about five years later, in 1973, a volume of papers was delivered to Winston's desk by a pneumatic tube.Unrolling the scroll he found a scrap of paper which had apparently been forgotten to be inserted there.Opening the piece of paper, he immediately saw its significance.It was a half-page clipping from The Times ten years ago. It happened to be the top half of the page, and the date was left on it.There was a photograph in the clipping of a party convention in New York.In the center of the photo, prominently at the top, were the group of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford; at least these three people were absolutely correct, and their names were included in the description below the photo. The point is that in both public trials all three of them confessed that they were on the territory of Eurasia that day.They took off from a secret airfield in Canada, arrived at some designated point in Siberia, and met with members of the Eurasian General Staff.They betrayed important military secrets to others.Winston remembered the date very well, because it was the summer solstice; and such things must be noted in countless other places.There is only one possible conclusion: their confessions must be lies. Of course, that was hardly a discovery.Even then it never occurred to Winston that the people eliminated in the purges had actually committed the crimes they were charged with.Yet this is living evidence; a fragment of the past that has been wiped out, like a fossilized bone, popping up in the wrong stratum and dismantling the theory of geology.If there is any way to publish this photo to the world and let everyone understand its significance, this heavy blow is enough to turn the party into powder. He was working then.As soon as he saw what the picture was about and what it meant, he immediately covered it with a piece of paper.Fortunately, when he opened the scroll, the photographs were upside down as seen from the telescreen. He put the pad on his lap and pushed back his chair as far as possible from the telescreen.It is not difficult to control the expression of indifference on his face; as long as he puts in a little effort, he can even control his breathing.The heartbeat, however, could not be controlled; but the telescreen was sensitive enough to feel it.He waited for about ten minutes, terrified that something should give him away, such as a sudden gust of wind over his desk, which would undo his cover-up.After that, he didn't open the paper on the table, and simply threw the photo and other waste papers into the memory hole.In another minute, the photo must have been reduced to ashes. It was ten years--eleven years earlier.Maybe now, he will keep that photo.Strangely enough, this photo, just like the facts it records, has long since only existed in memory; however, it was held between his fingers after all, and he still feels that it is extraordinary.Could evidence that a piece of paper disappeared once exist, which would make the party's rule no longer impenetrable? Today, however, even if this photo can be raised from the ashes, it is no longer evidence.Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia when he found the picture, but these three dead ghosts had betrayed their motherland to the Eurasia secret service.The rivals of Oceania had changed since then--two or three times, he could not remember how many times.Chances are, their confession has changed over and over again, and the events of the original date have long been meaningless.The past has not only been tampered with, it has been changed like this.One of the things that made him feel like a nightmare was that he never understood why he was so blatantly deceiving.The immediate benefits of tampering with the past are obvious, but the ultimate motive is mysterious.He wrote again: I know how, but I don't know why. He thought, I'm afraid he's a little out of his mind.He had thought about this countless times; perhaps a minority of individuals was insane.Once upon a time, it meant being a lunatic to believe that the earth revolved around the sun; now, it also means being a lunatic to believe that the past cannot be tampered with.Perhaps he was the only one holding on to this belief; if he was alone, he was insane.Yet the feeling that he was out of his mind was the least frightening thing for him--the horrifying thing was that he, too, might be on the wrong track. He picked up the children's history book and looked at the portrait of Big Brother on the first page.They were sleepy eyes, fixed on Winston.It's as if a huge force is pressing on you-this thing pierces your head, beats your brain, scares your courage, forces you to give up the belief in your heart, and tempts you to deny the evidence you see.In the end, the party might as well declare that two plus two equals five, and you'll just accept it.There's no getting around it, they're bound to announce it sooner or later, they're in a position to do it.Their philosophy naturally demands the denial of the validity of experience; moreover, it even denies the existence of objective reality.The greatest heresy of all heresies--that is common sense.It's not scary that they'll kill you for being different; the scary thing is that they might be right.After all, two plus two equals four, how can this be known?There is a gravitational force at work, how can this be proved?The past cannot be changed by people, how can this be clarified?If the past and the objective world only exist in common sense, if consciousness can be controlled by people—so what? However, no!He was suddenly filled with courage.It was by no apparent association that O'Brien's face came to his mind.He knew, more definitely than ever, that O'Brien was on his side.He wrote the diary for O'Brien—for O'Brien: it was like a letter, endlessly long, and no one could read it; yet it was addressed to a particular person, This makes it also vivid and colorful. The Party teaches you not to believe the evidence you see or hear.This is their final order, this is their most fundamental order!What a huge force he had to face, and how easily such an expert in the party could refute him! Those arguments were so exquisite that he could not understand them, let alone refute them.Thinking of these, his heart couldn't help sinking.And yet -- he was right after all.They were wrong, but he alone was right.Prominence, simplicity, truth, all these must be defended.Self-evidence is the truth, and this must be insisted on.After all, the material world exists, and the laws of the world must not be changed.Stones are hard after all, water is wet after all, and suspended objects fall to the center of the earth after all.He felt that he was speaking to O'Brien, and that he was illustrating an important axiom, and he wrote: Freedom is the freedom to declare that two plus two equals four.Acknowledge this and everything else will fall into place. Eight Somewhere in the depths of an alley, the smell of roasted coffee wafted into the street—real coffee, not Victory Coffee.Winston stopped involuntarily.For maybe two seconds, he returned to his childhood, which he had mostly forgotten.Then, a door slammed, cutting off the scent suddenly, as if it wasn't a smell, but a sound. He walked several kilometers on the pavement, and the varicose veins began to itch again.Twice in the past three weeks he had not attended the evenings at the Street Center; it was an imprudence to do so, for attendance must be carefully recorded.In principle, there is no leisure in the life of a party member; except for going to bed, it is absolutely impossible to be alone.On this principle, it seems that you either have to work, or eat, or sleep, or have to participate in some group activity; as long as you seem to like to stay out of the company, or even go for a walk by yourself, there is always some danger.There's even a word for this in Newspeak, and it's called solitude—which means individualism, eccentricity.But tonight, when he came out of the ministry, the fragrance of the April sky made him ecstatic.Since this year, he has never seen a day that was so warm and blue.So suddenly, he couldn't bear to go to the activity center any longer, to spend a long and noisy night, playing some boring and difficult games, listening to some reports, and relying on heavy drinking to maintain a tense gay relationship.Impulsively, he left the bus stop and wandered into the maze-like city of London.He first turned south, then east, then south again, and finally lost his way in the strange streets. He once wrote in his diary: "If there is hope, it is in the proletarians." He often thinks of this sentence, which expresses a mysterious truth and an obvious paradox.Now he came to a dingy slum, northeast of the former St. Pancras station.He was walking down a cobbled street, on either side of which were small two-story buildings with battered doors opening onto the sidewalk--strangely enough, the broken doors always reminded one of a rat-hole.Among the cobblestones, there are patches of dirty water.People, dense crowds everywhere, so many people are stunned, squeezed in and out of the dark building door, squeezed in the alleys on both sides of the building.The girl is as beautiful as a flower, her lips are bright red; the young man is chasing the girl greedily; With his back hunched over, he dragged his splayed legs and moved slowly.The children were playing barefoot in rags and rags, playing wildly in the dirty puddle. The mother scolded and scattered.About one out of every four or five yuan of window panes in this street was smashed and boarded up again.Nobody paid much attention to Winston, only a few looked at him with guarded and curious eyes.The two women were tall and big, with their red arms crossed on their chests, covering their aprons, standing at the door of a house chatting.Winston approached and heard them say: "I just told her, yes, I said it's pretty good, but if you were me, you would be the same! It's easy to talk, and I said, but you have nothing to do with me!" "Well," said another, "it's true. That's what it is!" The piercing voice stopped immediately.As he passed by, the two women silently examined him with hostility.But strictly speaking, this is not hostility, but a kind of vigilance, a kind of momentary dullness, like some strange animal passing by.The blue overalls of the party members are a rarity in such a street.Nothing to say, whoever sees you coming to this kind of place, then you are really stupid, unless you have some mission.If you run into a patrolman, they will definitely stop you: "Please show your ID, comrade. What are you doing here? What time do you leave work? Do you usually go home this way?"--such questions are always inevitable.There's no rule, you're not allowed to go the other way home; but if the Thought Police hear about it, you'll have a number with them. Suddenly, the whole street became chaotic.Sirens screamed in all directions, and people ran like rabbits for the door.Right before Winston's eyes a young woman sprang out of a door, snatched up a child playing in a mud puddle, wrapped her apron around her, and sprang back in a split second.At the same moment a man, dressed in black like barbed wire, burst out of an alley and ran straight towards Winston, pointing excitedly at the sky. "The steamer is coming!" he cried. "Watch out, Chief! There's a bomb on top of my head! Get down!" For some unknown reason, the proletarians nicknamed the rocket "the steamship."Winston dropped to the ground immediately - if the proletarians warned you that, they were probably right.They seem to have a kind of intuition that when the rocket is coming, they have the ability to feel it several seconds in advance-even though the rocket flies faster than the sound.Winston had just put his arms around his head when there was a crash that seemed to blow the pavement and something rained down on his back.He stood up and looked, and it turned out that the shattered glass from the window beside him had splashed all over him. He went on.Two hundred meters away, some houses were left in ruins by the bombs.A cloud of black smoke shot straight into the sky, and a large cloud of dust rose up near the ground. The crowd had already surrounded the piece of rubble.There was also a small pile of dust on the sidewalk in front of him, and he saw a bright red streak in the dust.When he approached it, it turned out to be a human hand, which exploded down to the wrist.Only the wrist was blood-stained, and the rest of the hand was completely pale, like a cast made of plaster. He kicked the thing into the gutter, avoided the crowd, and turned into an alley on the right.In less than three or four minutes, he left the bombed place, and the streets were still crowded, and everything was as usual, as if nothing had happened.It was almost twenty o'clock, and the small tavern (they called it a "public shop") where the proletarians frequented was already full of customers.The swing door was dirty and kept being opened and closed by people. The smell coming out of the door was smelly, damp, and smelled like beer.There was a house with a protruding door, and three people crowded tightly at the corner. The middle one held a folded newspaper, and the two around him stared over his shoulders.Before Winston approached, he couldn't see their expressions clearly, but they could still see how focused they were.Needless to say, they were huddling over something important.He was still a few steps away from them, and the three of them separated suddenly, and two of them quarreled loudly.After a while, they were ready to move their fists. "Can't you fucking listen to me? Tell you, the last seven hasn't won in fourteen months!" "Win!" "No! I wrote down the numbers for two full years on paper! I memorized them all, as accurate as a clock! Let me tell you, the last number is never seven..." "Why not, seven means I won! I can tell you the dick number. Four, zero, seven, isn't the last number seven? It's about February, the second week of February." "Fuck you February! I wrote it all down, in black and white. I tell you, there was never a number..." "Fuck, shut up!" the third said. They were talking about the lottery.After walking twenty meters, Winston looked back and saw that they were still arguing and arguing with excitement on their faces. This lottery draws prizes once a week, and the prize money is quite large. Such activities attract the attention of the proletarians.There are thousands of proletarians in Oceania, and I am afraid that the lottery ticket is not the only purpose of the rest of their lives, at least it is the most important purpose in their eyes.The lottery, that is their pleasure, that is their debauchery, soothes their pain, stimulates their brains.That kind of people may be illiterate, but when it comes to lottery tickets, they can be counted as good, and they can remember the spirit.There are a large group of people who make a living by selling betting tips, predicting winning numbers, and selling lucky charms.Winston had not participated in the lottery, which was entirely managed by the Ministry of Plenty.Yet he knew (everyone in the party knew) that bonuses were largely absent.In fact, all the final prizes were paid, and the winners of the high prizes were nothing but non-existent figures.There was no real communication between the various parts of Oceania, and such an arrangement was easy. But if there is hope, it lies in the proles.This must be persisted.Put it into words, and it sounds plausible; look at the people walking past you on the sidewalk, and it becomes belief.The street he turned into was downhill. He felt that he had been here before, and there should be an avenue not far away.Somewhere ahead, someone was shouting at the top of their lungs.The street turned a corner and came to an end, where a few steps led to a low-lying alley, where a few vendors were selling faded vegetables.At that moment Winston remembered this place—the alley led to a high street, and after another turn, it was a four or five minute walk to the second-hand shop where he had bought the blank diary-book. .There was also a small stationery store nearby, where he used to buy pen holders and ink. He stood for a moment on the steps.Across the alley there was a dingy little hotel with dusty windows that looked as if they had been frosted.A very old, very old man, with his waist bowed, but his movements are quite flexible, and his white beard is straight in front of him, like the long whiskers of a prawn.He pushed open the swing door and walked into the hotel.Winston stood there just looking, thinking: This old man is at least eighty years old, and he was already middle-aged at the time of the revolution.Men like him had long been rare; now that the capitalist world had been wiped out, they were the last link to that lost world.In the party, there are very few people who formed ideas before the revolution.The great purges in the 1950s and 1960s almost wiped out the older generation; but the small group that survived were frightened and completely surrendered ideologically.If anyone survives and can tell you the truth about the situation at the beginning of the century, he must be a proletarian.Suddenly, Winston recalled the passage he had copied into his diary from the history book, and felt a mad impulse.He had to go into that hotel and talk to the old man and ask him questions.He had to say to the old man, "Tell me about your childhood. How was it? Compared with now, was it better or worse?" He hurried down the steps and walked through the narrow alley, fearing that if he moved slowly, he would feel afraid.Nothing to say, such an approach is pure madness.一般说来，还没有什么具体规定，不准跟无产者说说话，不准常去他们的酒店；然而这样的事情简直不同凡响，没法不给人注意。若是碰见巡警，不妨跟他们辩解，说自己觉得头晕要昏倒，不过恐怕他们不会信。他推开房门，扑面就是股酸啤酒味儿，臭哄哄的像乳酪。他一走进去，嗡嗡营营的声音便低了下来，他只觉得在身后，人人都在盯着他的工作服。房间另一头，正玩着一场投镖赛，也给打断了那么几十秒钟。他随着进来的那老头儿站在了柜台前，跟服务员正吵着什么。服务员岁数不大，长得高高壮壮，鹰钩鼻，粗胳膊。一伙人围在他们身边，端着酒杯看热闹。 "我够客气啦，咹？"老头儿挺直腰杆，一副好斗的架势。"你敢说这他妈的店里，找不着个一品脱的杯子？" "什么叫他妈的一品脱？"服务员拿手指尖抵着柜台，往前探出身子。 "你们听听！还服务员哩，生不知道一品脱！跟你说，一品脱就是半夸特，四夸特就是一加仑。快教你念ABC啦。" "没听说过，"服务员干脆地说。"一公升，半公升--我们就这么卖。喏，杯子在那儿，你眼前那架子上。" "我要一品脱，"老头儿挺执拗。"倒一品脱，多省事儿。我年轻那会儿，可没他妈的公升。" "你年轻那会儿？我们全住树梢哩，"服务员朝旁的顾客瞥了一眼。 他们哄堂大笑，温斯顿闯进来闹出的不安仿佛也早烟消云散。老头儿胡子拉茬的脸涨得通红。他转过身，自顾自地叨叨咕咕，一头撞在温斯顿身上。温斯顿轻轻扶住了他。 "能请你喝一杯么？"他说。 "你真够绅士，"老头儿又挺直了腰杆。他仿佛看也不看温斯顿的工作服。"一品脱！"他凶巴巴地向那服务员说。"一品脱咕噜!" 服务员取了两个厚玻璃杯，在柜台下面的桶里涮了涮，打上半公升黑乎乎的啤酒。无产者店里，只喝得到啤酒，杜松子酒照说不准他们喝--其实他们要搞到手，才容易得很哩。投镖赛重新热闹起来，柜台前的那伙人又聊起他们的彩票。有那么一会儿，没人记得有个温斯顿还在这儿。窗下有一张松木桌，他跟老头儿在那儿聊，就不用怕给谁偷听到。这样做固然是万分危险；然而还说什么？这屋里竟然没有电幕！刚一进屋，这一点他就弄清啦。 "他就是能给我一品脱，"老头儿放下酒杯坐下来，嘟囔道。"半个公升不够喝，喝不足性。一个公升又忒多，勾我撒尿。钱哩又贵！" "从年轻那会儿起，你准见好多事情都变啦，"温斯顿试试探探地说。 老头儿那浅蓝色的眼睛，从投镖板瞅到柜台，又从柜台瞅到男便所，仿佛就等着酒店变它个样子。 "那会儿啤酒才好哩！"他终于说道。"还便宜呢！那会儿我还年轻，我们管淡啤酒就叫咕噜。一品脱才四便士！那是在战前，当然啦。" "哪次战前呀?"温斯顿问。 "管它哪次，"老头儿含含糊糊地说。他拿起酒杯，又挺起了腰杆。"祝你健康！" 他瘦瘦的脖子上，喉节一阵上下乱动，快得惊人，啤酒便给解决了。温斯顿到柜台去，又带回两个半公升来。老头儿仿佛忘了他烦透了喝一公升啦。 "你比我大好多，"温斯顿道。"我还没生下来，你就长大啦。你该记得从前，革命前，是个什么样子。我们年轻人，对那会儿真是一点儿不知道。我们光从书上读到过，谁知道书上讲的对不对。我想听听你说。历史书说，革命前生活跟现在一点儿不一样。那会儿人人吃苦受穷，简直怕人--糟糕得想都想不出来。我们伦敦城，好多人一辈子就没吃到过饱饭。一半的人穿不起鞋。他们一天干十二小时活儿，他们九岁就失了学，他们一个屋子要住十个人。可是同时，还有那么几千个人，叫做资本家，却是有钱有势。所有好东西都得归他们。他们住着好房子，三十个仆人伺候着，坐的是汽车跟四驾马车。他们喝的是香槟酒，戴的是高礼帽……" 那老头儿突然活跃起来。 "高礼帽！"他说道。"好玩，你说高礼帽啦。昨儿我还想它哩，也不知为了啥。我只是想，有多少年没见过高礼帽啦。全过时啦！我最后那次戴高礼帽，还是给嫂子办葬礼。那可是--嘿，我也说不清哪年啦。准有五十年啦！不用说，我可是租来戴的，你知道。" "倒不是高礼帽多要紧，"温斯顿耐着性子说。"问题是那帮资本家当家作主，连靠他们活着的律师牧师什么的也是。什么都得为他们好才行。像你这样，一般人，工人，就只是他们的奴隶。他们想怎么对你，就怎么对你。他们拿你当牲口，把你运到加拿大。要是高兴，他们就跟你闺女睡觉。他们叫人拿什么九尾鞭揍你们。每个资本家，全带一帮子走狗……" 老头儿一下又活跃了起来。 "走狗！"他说。"这词儿有日子没听过啦。走狗！这叫我想起从前来，可不是？想当年，可有年头啦，有时候我赶在礼拜天下午，就去海德公园儿听人家讲话。救世军啦，天主徒啦，犹太人啦，印度人啦，全都有哩！有个家伙，我也记不住他名儿，讲得可真有劲儿！一点儿面子也不给！他就说，走狗！资产阶级的走狗！统治阶段的奴才！他还叫他们寄生虫哩！还有鬣狗--他就管他们叫鬣狗！他叫的是工党，当然啦，你知道。" 温斯顿觉出来，他们的话题简直满拧。 "我想知道的是这样，"他说。"你觉得如今你的自由，是不是比那会儿多？旁人待你是不是更像人？从前，那些有钱人，上等人……" "上议院，"老头儿依依地说。 "就上议院好啦，要是你愿意说。我想问问，是不是那些人，拿你低人一等，光是因为他们有钱，你没钱？比方说，要是碰见他们，你得叫声先生，还得摘帽子？" 老头儿仿佛沉思起来。他喝了一大口啤酒，才答道： "是啊，他们愿意看你朝他们摘帽子。这是尊敬么。我倒不喜欢，可我也常这么做。该说，谁也得做呀。" "我得说句历史书的话--那伙人，还有他们的仆人，常把你们从人行道推进阳沟么？" "有个家伙倒推了我一次，"老头儿说。"我还记得起来哩，就跟昨天的事儿似的。那晚有划艇赛，我么，在沙夫茨伯里街上，就撞了个小伙子。碰上划艇赛，他们晚上全闹得吓死人！他倒是个绅士，穿衬衫，戴礼帽，还有黑大衣什么的。他在人行道上，走得歪歪扭扭的，我一下撞着了他。他就说，走路怎么不看着点儿？他就说。我说，你当这他妈人行道给你开的?他说，你再要横，打你个满脸花！我说，你醉啦。有你半分钟，送你见老警！我说。爱信不信，他举手推我胸口，差点儿送我公共汽车轱辘下边！那会儿我年轻，就想还他一拳，可是……" 温斯顿只觉得无可奈何。老头儿的记忆，全是些细节琐事堆成的垃圾。问他一天，也问不出个正事儿来。党的历史依然有可能正确；甚至，这历史很可能全然正确。他最后试了一次。 "可能我没说清楚，"他说。"我再跟你说说。你活得很久了，一半儿日子在革命前过的。比方一九二五年，你已经挺大啦。按你记得的，还能不能说得出，一九二五年的日子，比当今好还是不好？要是你能选，你会在那会儿过，还是在现在过？" 老头儿直盯着投镖板，沉思起来。他放慢速度，喝光了杯里的啤酒。仿佛这啤酒让他觉得通泰舒服，等他再开口，那神情一派隐忍达观。 "我知道你想我说什么，"他说，"你想我说，我想要返老还童。大多数的人，你去问罢，准保想返老还童。年轻人嘛，身体也好，劲头儿也大。到我这把年纪，就全不成啦。腿脚净是毛病，膀胱也有毛病哩。一个晚上，起夜总得起个六七次。另一面说啦，当老头儿也有不少好处。从前的愁事儿，不用再犯愁啦。不搞娘儿们，这才是大事哩！我有三十年没碰个娘儿们，你爱信不信！而且，我也不想啦。" 温斯顿挺起身，靠在窗台上。再问下去，也没什么用啦。他打算再去买点啤酒，那老头儿却突然站起身，拖着脚急忙便走--他是到房间对面臭哄哄的茅房去，可见那多喝的半公升，早在他身上起了作用。温斯顿坐了一两分钟，盯着自己的空酒杯，不注意他的双腿，又重新送他回到了街上。他心里想，过上二十年，这简单而又重要的问题，"革命前的生活是不是比现在好？"，就再得不到答案啦。诚然即便如今，其实这也无法回答，因为古代世界屈指可数的幸存者，他们早已做不到在两个时代做比较。他们还记得一百万件无用的琐事：跟同事拌嘴啦，寻找气管子啦，妹妹尸体的表情啦，七十年前一早刮风扬起的尘土啦。然而所有要紧的事情，他们却视而不见。他们非常像蚂蚁，看得见小东西，却看不见大的。脑子记不住，记录篡改过--一旦如此，党要宣布改善了人民生活，你便只能够接受了事，因为能够检验真伪的标准并不存在，而且永远不会存在。 就在这时，他的思绪突然间停顿了下来。他驻足抬头看，原来走到了一条窄窄的街巷，一片公寓当中，点缀着几家黑魆魆的小店。就在他的头顶，挂了三个褪色的铁球，依稀看得出曾经镀成了金色。这地方他好像认得--没错！就是那家旧货店，他买过那本日记簿的地方。 温斯顿心里一阵恐惧。当初买那本子，已经够冒失啦，他也曾发誓再不来这边。然而他刚刚听任思绪信马由缰，他的腿竟然把他带回了这里。他还巴望靠写日记，便阻止得了自己诸如此类自杀般的冲动哩。与此同时，他发现那家店铺，虽然快到二十一点，却还没打烊。他想还是进去罢，这总比在人行道上瞎转悠更少惹人疑，于是走进了店门。要是谁问，他或许可以回答，他想来买几片刀片。 店主刚点起了一盏煤油吊灯。吊灯的味儿不算干净，可却有那么点和气可亲。店主有六十岁，体弱背驼，长长的鼻子带着种慈祥，目光温和，戴副厚厚的眼镜。他的头发几乎全白，眉毛却依然很浓很黑。那眼镜，那轻柔琐屑的动作，再加上他那件破旧的黑绒夹克，分明给了他种文质彬彬的感觉，一如他是个什么文学家，什么音乐家。他说话的声音轻柔得很，好像哑了嗓子，而他的口音，也不像多数无产者那样难听。 "你还在人行道上，我就认出你啦，"他立时说道。"你买了那年轻太太的纪念簿。那本子的纸张，可真叫漂亮。奶油直纹纸--就是这样的名字。这样的纸，早不生产啦--嗯，我敢说足有五十年啦，"他从眼镜上面盯着温斯顿瞧，"我能卖你点什么？还是只想随便瞧瞧？" "我路过这儿，"温斯顿含糊地说。"我只想看看。还不想买什么。" "好罢，"店主说。"我想也没什么能够满足你，"他软软的手做个道歉的动作。"你也知道；瞧，这店都空啦。咱们俩说说，买卖旧货--就要完啦。谁也不需要，货也没有啦。家具，瓷器，玻璃容器--一天天都在坏下去。当然啦，金属的东西，多半也给回了炉。我多少年都没见过黄铜烛台啦。" 其实，这小店塞得满满吞吞，然而大多实在没什么价值。小店固然空间有限，因为四壁周遭堆满了蓬头垢面的画框，橱窗里又满是些杂七杂八的垃圾废物--一盘一盘的螺丝螺母，烂凿子，破旋刀，黑乎乎的钟表显然早就停了摆。只有墙角一张小桌子，上面零零星星还有点稀罕物儿--漆器鼻烟盒、玛瑙胸针之类，仿佛还找得到点有趣的东西。温斯顿信步走过去，便注意到一个浑圆光滑的东西，在灯光下轻柔地闪着微光，他便把它拣了起来。 这是块挺重的玻璃，一面弯曲，另一面平滑，形状像个半球。玻璃的颜色跟质地全都极其柔和，一如雨水一般。玻璃球的中央，给那弧形的表面放大了一些，里面是一个粉红色的怪东西，卷卷曲曲，像玫瑰，又像海葵。 "这是什么?"温斯顿简直给迷住了。 "这？是珊瑚，"老头儿说。"该是从印度洋上搞来的东西。他们常把珊瑚镶到玻璃里边。少说也有一百年啦。瞧，准还要久些哩。" "真漂亮，"温斯顿说道。 "真漂亮，"店主感激地赞叹道。"不过如今，肯说这话的人太少啦，"他咳了一声，"你要是想买，算你四块钱好啦。我还记得--从前这样的东西值八镑，八镑--唉，我也算不出个价，总归不少钱罢。这全是货真价实的古董呀--如今还有几个人识货?" 温斯顿马上付了四块钱，那渴慕的东西便藏进他的口袋。真正吸引他的，倒还不是那东西美丽无比，而是它的氛围，分明与当今时世绝不相同。那柔和的玻璃宛如雨水一样，他以前从来没有见到过；更叫他感兴趣的，是那东西显然毫无用处--诚然他猜，它倒满可以当块镇纸用。放在口袋里，这东西沉甸甸的，不过幸好，还不至于显得鼓鼓囊囊。只消是旧货，看上去再有那么点漂亮，往往会招来莫名其妙的怀疑。老头儿收了他四块钱，显然更加愉快--温斯顿觉出，给他两三块钱，这东西他也会卖。 "楼上还有间屋子，你或许乐意看一看，"他说。"屋里也没多少东西。就剩几件啦。要上楼，我就点个灯。" 他又点了盏灯，便弓着背慢吞吞在前面引路。爬上磨得光溜溜的楼梯，穿过窄窄的走廊，便来到一个房间。这房间不临街，窗外是个鹅卵石铺路的小院，还看得见树林一般密匝匝的烟囱。温斯顿发现，房里摆着家具，好像还要住人一样。地上铺了块地毯，墙上挂了一两幅画，壁炉旁边还摆了张扶手椅，椅面深陷，邋邋遢遢。炉架上是一座老式玻璃钟，还是十二小时制的，正嘀嘀嗒嗒走个不停。窗户下面，有一张硕大无朋的床，差不多占了房间一小半，床垫还铺在上面呢。 "老伴儿死前，我们一直住这儿，"老头儿的声音有点歉意。"我一点点把家具全卖啦。就剩这张床，红木的，挺漂亮，当然啦，得先把臭虫弄干净。不过我敢说，你准觉得它太累赘。" 他把吊灯举高，便照亮了整个房间。灯光暗暗的，暖暖的；怪得很，房间给照得说不出的诱人。温斯顿不由得掠过一丝念头：兴许，一个星期出上几块钱，很容易就会把这房间租下来哩。当然，这得要他敢冒这险才成。这样的念头纯属异想天开，必得马上丢个干净；然而这样的房间，却唤醒了他的思乡病，唤醒了他古老的回忆。仿佛他全然知道，坐在这样的房里会有怎样的感觉--熊熊的炉火旁边，坐在扶手椅里，双腿放在围栏上，水壶吊在炉架上；孑然一身，安然无虞，没有眼睛盯着你，没有声音逼着你，除去水壶的低吟，和座钟友善的呢喃，你的身边万籁俱寂。 "这里没电幕！"他不禁喃喃说道。 "哦，"老头儿说。"我从来没安过那东西。太贵啦。反正，我也没觉得有这份必要。那边角落里，还有张折叠桌，挺好的。当然啦，要用折板，就得换个新折叶啦。" 房间的另一个角落，还有个小书柜，温斯顿早饶有兴致地走了过去。除去破烂，柜子里什么也没有。无产者区，就跟大洋国旁的地方一样，搜书焚书早搞了个完全彻底。在大洋国，只消一九六○年以前印行的书，根本就不可能存在。老头儿还举着吊灯，照亮了一幅檀木框的画--它就挂在壁炉的另一边，正对着那张大床。 "要是你对这些旧图片感兴趣的话……"他开始轻轻地说。 温斯顿走过来，端详这幅画。它是幅蚀刻钢板画，画面是一幢椭圆形的建筑，有长方形的窗户，前面还有座小尖塔。建筑周围是一圈栏杆，后面仿佛有一座塑像。温斯顿盯着画面看了一会儿，似乎有些面熟，可那塑像，他却再记不起来了。 "画框镶在了墙上，"老头说，"不过我敢说，我可以帮你卸下来的。" "这房子我知道呀，"温斯顿终于说道。"早倒啦。就在正义宫外面当街那边呀。" "是呀。就在法院外边。给炸掉啦--唉，都多少年啦。从前它是个教堂呢。就叫圣克莱门特丹麦人，"他抱歉地微笑，仿佛意识到自己的话有点滑稽。"圣克莱门特钟声说，橘子和柠檬！" "你说什么？"温斯顿问。 "哦……圣克莱门特钟声说，橘子和柠檬，我小时候唱的歌儿。我都记不住啦，不过还知道最后一句，一根蜡烛照你睡，一把砍刀砍你头！是个舞蹈。大伙儿伸着胳膊让你钻过去，唱到一把砍刀砍你头，就放下手来抓住你。歌里唱的，全是些教堂名儿。伦敦城所有的教堂全给唱了出来--所有主要的，当然啦。" 温斯顿的思绪朦朦胧胧，闹不清这教堂属于何年何月。伦敦的那些建筑，要定个年代总是难乎其难。随便什么高大雄伟的房子，只要外表还算光鲜，就自动自觉地归功给革命以后；要是看上去时间太早，索性就判给那暗无天日的什么中世纪。资本主义那几百年，据说就没造出过有价值的东西。建筑上固然学不到历史，正如书本跟历史毫不相干一个样。塑像，铭文，纪念碑，街道名--所有的一切，只要能借以搞清过去，就全给有计划地改变得面目全非。 "我还不知道它从前是个教堂，"他说。 "剩下的还不少哩，其实，"老头儿说道。"可全给派了别的用场。那歌儿怎么唱来着?哈！我想起来啦！ 圣克莱门特钟声说，橘子和柠檬， 圣马丁的钟声说，你欠我仨铜板…… 嗐，我就记着这么多啦。一个铜板，是个小小的铜币，样子挺像一分钱呢。 " "圣马丁在哪儿？"温斯顿问。 "圣马丁？它还在呀。就在胜利广场，画廊的旁边。那房子的门廊三角形，前边是柱子，台阶高得很哩。" 这地方温斯顿挺熟悉。这是座博物馆，展出着各色各样的宣传品--火箭跟浮堡的模型啦，表现敌人暴行的蜡像啦，如此等等。 "那会儿它是叫原野上的圣马丁，"老头儿加了一句，"可我早想不起，那边有什么原野啦。" 温斯顿没买那幅画。有这么个东西，比那玻璃镇纸还要不妥当；而且，要不是从画框上面取下来，又怎能把它带回家？然而，他还是多耽了一会儿，跟那老头儿说话。他发现，光看门口的招牌，准保以为老头儿名叫威克斯--可实际上，他的名字却是查林顿。这查林顿先生六十三岁，早死了老伴儿，在这店里已经住了三十年。他老想改掉橱窗上的名字，却老是不曾做起来。他们谈着天，温斯顿的脑里把那忘了一半儿的歌谣转了又转。圣克莱门特钟声说，橘子和柠檬；圣马丁的钟声说，你欠我仨铜板！真怪，这样一念叨，就仿佛真真听到了钟声，那早失落掉的伦敦钟声--那声音固然不绝如缕，然而伪装了面孔，忘到了脑后。他仿佛听到那钟声的轰鸣，从一个鬼魂般的尖塔传到另一个。可从他记事以来，他还从来没真正听过教堂的钟声。 他离开查林顿先生的小店独自下楼，省得老头看见他出门前，要偷偷把大街瞄上几眼。他已经打定主意，隔上一段时间，比方一个月罢，他还要冒险到这小店来一趟。比起不参加街道中心的活动，这未见得危险多少。顶傻顶蠢的倒是，他买了那日记簿倒也罢了，然而还不知道店主是不是可靠，竟要再到小店来！然而……！ 他又想，是的，他还要再来。他还要买些美不胜收的奢侈品的残渣余孽。他要那幅圣克莱门特丹麦人，从画框上面卸下来，塞在工作服下带回家。他要从查林顿先生的记忆当中，把那歌谣的余下几句挖出来。甚至那疯狂的想头，要租下楼上房间的想头，他也蓦地又想了起来。或许总有五秒钟，他得意到放松了警惕，也不朝窗外先瞟一眼，便一头闯到了人行道上。他甚至编个曲调，哼了起来-- 圣克莱门特钟声说，橘子和柠檬， 圣马丁的钟声说，你欠我…… 他的心陡然一冷，险乎惊了个屎尿横流。有个人身穿蓝工作服，沿着人行道走下来，离他还不到十米远。便是那黑发姑娘，小说总局那个姑娘。灯光暗淡，然而也不难认出她的模样。她径直看着他的脸，而后便迅疾走开，仿佛根本没有见到他。 一时间，温斯顿给吓得动也动不了。然后他转向右边，拖着沉重的脚步往前走，有那么一会儿，连走错了方向也没注意。无论如何，有个疑问，已经不成问题--那姑娘铁定是在监视他。她准是跟着他到这里，因为跟他同一个晚上，走到同一条偏僻的胡同--这条胡同离任何党员居住区，全有好几公里远！--却纯粹出于偶然，这样的巧合根本就不可能。她真是思想警察的特务也罢，单是好管闲事的业余特务也罢，这一点原本就无所谓。她在监视他，这便足够啦。或许她也见他进了那家小酒店。 连走路也得费点子力气。那块玻璃，放在他口袋里的，走一步便撞一下他的腿，他几乎要把它掏出来扔掉。最要命的，是他的肚子一阵疼。有那么几分钟，他觉得不马上找个厕所，简直憋不住啦。然而这样的地方，根本就没什么公厕。而后，那一阵痉挛平息了，剩下的惟有隐隐的痛楚。 这条街竟然是条死胡同。温斯顿停下脚步站了几秒钟，迷迷糊糊不知该做什么。而后，他掉转身来，开始往回走。就在转身的当儿，他想起那姑娘离开他才不过三分钟，他跑上几步，还满可以追上她。他不妨跟着她，到个僻静的所在，拿块石头砸烂她的脑袋瓜。他口袋里那块玻璃挺沉，干这勾当倒也很合适。然而，他立时放弃了这念头，单是想想这样做，也早就叫他没法忍下去。他不能跑，他也不能揍谁一下子。更何况，她是年轻力壮，准会自卫的。他又想，快快赶到街道活动中心，耽到关门为止，好算个他晚间在场的佐证。然而，这同样根本行不通。他的全身，只觉得死一般的困乏无力。快回家罢，坐下来安静一会儿--他满心想的就只有这句话。 等他回到公寓，时间早过了二十二点。到二十二点三十分，电灯就要拉闸啦。他到厨房里，生灌了足有一茶杯的胜利牌杜松子酒。而后，他到壁龛里的桌前坐下来，从抽屉里取出了日记本。然而，他沉了一会儿，没有打开来。电幕上一个女人，粗喉咙大嗓门嚎着什么爱国歌曲。他坐在那里，盯着日记本的云石纸封面，徒然想把这声音从他的意识当中赶出去。 他们会在夜间来抓你。总是在夜里的。该在给他们抓住之前便自杀。毫无疑问，有些人便这样做了。许多失踪的人，其实就是杀死了自己。然而这样的世界，完全搞不到枪支，或者随便什么迅速有效的毒药，自杀也需要天大的勇气。惊人的是，那些痛苦和恐惧，却无法督促你的肉体下决心；而人的肉体，又如此毫不长进--一旦需要它特别做点事，它一准木呆呆地束手无策。要是他动作足够快，满可以杀那黑发姑娘来灭口；然而那极端的危险，反叫他失却了行动的能力。敢情面对危险，要对付的根本不是外在的敌人，倒永远是你自己的身体。如今，灌了杜松子酒，肚子却依然隐隐发疼，害得他没法有条有理想个问题。就是那般俨然的英雄场合、悲壮时刻，其实还不是一个样。战场也罢，刑房也罢，沉船也罢，谁也记不得自己的奋斗所为何来，因为你的肉体膨胀开来，添满了宇宙。你可以不至于吓得木呆呆、疼得嗷嗷叫，生命却依然只算场一瞬间到另一瞬间的斗争，斗争的对象，不过是饥饿、寒冷和失眠，不过是腹痛或牙痛。That's all. 他把日记本打开来。写点什么罢，这毕竟十分要紧。电幕上那女人开始唱一支新歌曲，声音活像玻璃碴儿，生生刺进他的大脑里。他试着去想奥勃良，这日记便是为他写--便是给他写的呀。然而头一件，他想的却是，一旦思想警察逮住他，接下来会出些什么事。马上杀掉你--这倒没什么关系。送掉性命，纯属意料之中。然而送命以前，照例要熬过坦白交代这一关--爬着尖声叫讨饶，打断骨头揍掉牙，满头满脑血淋淋。这一切，任谁都是三缄其口，然而早已是铁定的常识。若是结局没什么不同，何必要忍受严刑拷打？没有人逃得了提审，也没人扛住不坦白。只要死心投靠了思想罪，早晚必得掉脑袋。既然这样的恐怖早已是无所改变，往后干吗还得经受这一关？ 他还在试着回想奥勃良的模样，这回才算勉强想起了一点。"我们会在个没有黑暗的地方再见面，"奥勃良这样对他讲过。他知道这话的意思--起码他觉得自己知道。没有黑暗的地方--便是想象的未来，没有办法见到，然而凭借着先知先觉，却能够分享这未来。这真是件神秘莫测的事情。然而电幕那声音在他的耳边直聒噪，害得他没法循着这个思路想下去。他把支香烟放在嘴里，一半的烟丝登时掉到舌头上--那东西苦得很，吐也吐不净。他的脑际浮现出老大哥的脸孔，盖住了奥勃良的形象。像几天前那样，他从口袋里掏出枚硬币盯着瞧。那脸孔朝上盯着他，孔武有力，神色平静，叫人心里安宁。然而，那一口黑胡髭呀，它背后藏的是怎样的笑容？于是，那几句口号，又在他的耳畔想起，一如闷雷般的丧钟声： war is peace freedom is slavery ignorance is power