Chapter 6 7-8

seven Winston awoke with tears in his eyes.Sleepily Julia turned over to him and murmured, "What's the matter?" "I dreamed..." He said half a sentence, then stopped immediately.This dream is too complicated to put into words.Not only did he have a dream, but he also remembered some related past events--these events came to his mind a few seconds after waking up. He closed his eyes and lay still, still immersed in the atmosphere of the dream.The dream was big and bright, and his whole life seemed to unfold before his eyes, like a scene after rain on a summer evening.All of these happened in the glass paperweight; the surface of the glass is the sky, and everything in the sky is filled with soft and clear light, which can't be seen at a glance.This dream can also be attributed to a movement of his mother's arm-in a sense, it is included in this movement of his mother.Thirty years later, he watched a newsreel, and he saw this scene again from the Jewish woman: she was protecting the children from bullets, and in the end, the helicopter would inevitably blow them to pieces.

"You know what," he said. "I used to think that I killed my mother." "Why kill her?" Julia was still asleep. "I didn't kill her. Not physically." In the dream, he remembered the last look at his mother, and when he woke up, he remembered all the relevant details.For many years, he has been deliberately driving this memory out of his consciousness.He couldn't remember the date, but when it happened, he was at least ten years old.Maybe twelve years old. His father had disappeared earlier; how much earlier, he couldn't remember.I just remember that it was noisy and turbulent at that time, and air raids were commonplace, so I had to take shelter at the subway station.There were piles of rubble everywhere, posters he didn't recognize posted on the street, young people wearing uniform shirts, a terrifying long queue in front of the bakery, and the sound of machine guns firing from time to time in the distance—he especially remembered that it was from eating Not full.He remembered that every afternoon, it would take a long time to scavenge in the trash with other children, find some rotten vegetable leaves, potato skins, and sometimes moldy bread crumbs, which need to be carefully removed. The soot was scraped off.They were still waiting for the truck to come by—the truck was on a regular route, they all knew it, and it was loaded with feed for the cows.Whenever the road surface is bad and the truck bumps, some bean cakes will be sprinkled.

When my father disappeared, my mother was not surprised or showed great distress.Suddenly, however, she seemed to be another person, and she seemed so lifeless that even Winston could see that she was waiting for something she knew must be coming.She continued to do everything she had to do—cooking, washing, mending, making the bed, sweeping the floor, mopping the fireplace—but she always did it slowly, without a single unnecessary movement, like an artist's mannequin. I moved myself.Her tall and big figure was originally charming and charming, but it seemed that she had naturally sunk into stagnation.For hours she would sit motionless by the bed, nursing Winston's little sister--a sickly, thin, silent girl of two or three years old, with a face as thin as a young ape's.Occasionally Mother would hold Winston tightly and go a long time without saying a word.He is still young and too selfish, but he still knows that this is related to that one thing, which no one has said but must happen.

He remembered the house they lived in, dark and congested, with a bed covered with a white coverlet that took up half the space.There is a gas stove in the fence, a shelf for food, and a brown ceramic pool on the outside platform, shared by several families.He remembered his mother's graceful figure, bent over the gas stove, stirring something in the pot.He especially remembered being always hungry, and always making a fuss when eating.Over and over again, he swears at his mother, thinking that there is too little food.He yelled at her and quarreled with her (he even remembered his own voice, which had already begun to change early, and sometimes it was very loud), and he pretended to be pitiful in order to eat more.My mother is quite willing to tell him to eat more and take more, thinking that "boys" should share more; the problem is that no matter how much is given to him, he always thinks it is not enough.Every time she ate, she had to beg him not to be selfish, to know that the little sister was sick and had to eat, but it was useless.As long as you don't give him more food, he will surely cry out in anger.He would snatch the pot and spoon from his mother, and he would snatch the food from his little sister's plate.He knew it was starving them both, but he couldn't help it; he even felt that he had the right to do so.My stomach is growling with hunger, isn't that a good reason?Between meals, if his mother couldn't watch him, he would always steal what was left on the food shelf.

One day, a ration of chocolate was issued.It's been weeks -- months.He remembered well how precious that little piece of chocolate was.It weighed two ounces (ounces were still used in those days), and it was to be divided between the three of them.Obviously, it should be divided into three equal parts.Suddenly Winston heard himself speaking loudly, saying that the whole bar of chocolate was to be his, as if someone else was speaking.His mother told him not to be greedy.So he rambled on and on.He snotted and burst into tears, begged and screamed, protested loudly, and begged for mercy in a low voice.The skinny little girl, with her arms around her mother, sat there like a little monkey, staring at him over her mother's shoulder with big sad eyes open.In the end, the mother broke off a large piece of chocolate and gave it to Winston, and the small piece to his little sister.The little girl stared blankly at the chocolate stick, as if she didn't know what it was.Winston stood looking at her for a while, then jumped up suddenly, snatched the chocolate from the younger sister's hand, and ran out the door.

"Winston, Winston!" his mother called after him. "Come back! Give my sister back her chocolate!" He stopped, but didn't turn back.Mom looked anxiously into his face.Now that he thought of all this, he still didn't know what happened at that time.The little girl let out a weak howl when she realized that something had been snatched away.Mom wrapped her arms around her and pressed her little face to her chest.It was this action that told him that the younger sister was going to die.He turned and fled down the steps, the chocolate sticky in his hand. He never saw his mother again.After he had devoured the chocolate, he felt a little ashamed and wandered the streets for hours.Then he was hungry and had to go home.As soon as he got home, he found that his mother had disappeared.At that time, this was already quite normal. Apart from the mother and the younger sister, there was no lack of anything in the room.They didn't take a single piece of clothing, not even mother's coat.To this day, he still can't figure out whether his mother is dead or not.In all likelihood, she had simply been sent to a forced labor camp.As for the younger sister, like Winston, she probably ended up in an orphanage—they called the orphanage a reformation center, and it was the Civil War that caused the expansion of such reformation centers.She could also have followed her mother into a forced labor camp, where she was either lost or died.

This dream is still vivid in his heart, especially the mother hugging the little sister to protect her, this action seems to contain all the meaning of the dream.He thought of another dream he had two months ago, in which his mother was sitting on a sinking ship, as if she was sitting on a bed with a dirty bed cover.The little girl hugged her mother tightly.They were far below him, still sinking slowly, looking up at him through the dark water. He told Julia about his mother's disappearance.She closed her eyes and rolled over to make herself more comfortable. "I reckon you'd be disgusting like a pig back then," she mumbled, "babies are all pigs."

"Well. But the real point of this is..." Listen to her breathing, needless to say she fell asleep again.I really want to continue talking about his mother.From what he could remember, I'm afraid there was nothing unusual about her mother, nor was she very intelligent; yet she had a kind of nobility, a kind of purity, simply because the principles in her heart belonged only to herself.Her emotion is her own, and the outside world cannot change it.She never thinks that things that are futile and useless are meaningless.If you want to love anyone, love him; if you have nothing to give him, you can always give him your love.Winston snatched the last bar of chocolate, while the mother held the little sister tight.It didn't work, it wouldn't change anything, it wouldn't make a bar of chocolate, it wouldn't save the child from dying, and it wouldn't save her from dying; yet it seemed perfectly natural for her to do it.The fleeing woman on the boat also put her arms around the child. In fact, in front of the bullet, such protection was as thin as a piece of paper.The frightening thing is that the party wants to persuade you that impulse alone is useless, and emotion alone is useless; at the same time, the party deprives you of all ability to control the material world.Once it falls into the hands of the Party, it makes no difference whether you feel it or not, whether you do something or not.Either way, you have to be wiped out, and you and your actions become unknown.In the torrent of history, you have been wiped clean long ago.But even two generations ago, people didn't think it was that important because they didn't want to revise history.Their unquestionable inner loyalty governs their actions.Human relationships are of the utmost importance to them, a useless gesture, a hug, a tear, a word to a dying person, all have their own value.It suddenly occurred to him that the proletarians still have such conditions.They don't give allegiance to the party, country and ideas, they are just loyal to each other.So for the first time in his life, he didn't despise the proletarians, didn't feel that they were just an inert force, waiting for life to burst out one day to change the world.Proletarians, they still have humanity.They did not become frosty.They had retained their primordial enthusiasm, and it took a conscious effort for him to relearn it.As he thought this, he remembered something that seemed unrelated—a few weeks ago he had seen a severed hand on the sidewalk and kicked it into the gutter like it was just a cabbage root.

"The proletarians are human beings," he exclaimed, "we are not human beings." "Why not?" Julia woke up again. He thought for a while. "Have you ever thought," he said, "that we'd better get out of here before we see each other again?" "Yes, dear, I've thought about it, several times. But I don't want to do it after all." "We're kind of lucky," he said, "but not for long. You're young, and you look normal and innocent. If you avoid people like me, you're guaranteed to live another fifty years."

"No. I've thought about it. Whatever you do, I'll do it too. Don't be so depressed. I'm pretty good at surviving!" "We'll be together for another six months - or a year, who knows. We'll end up breaking up. Don't you know, we'll be completely alone? When they get us, there's nothing we can do, There is really no way to do anything for the other party. If I confess, they will shoot you; Even five minutes' delay. We don't know whether the other side is dead or alive. We have no power any more. All that matters is that we don't betray each other—of course, it doesn't make the slightest difference."

"You say confess?" she said. "We can't help it. Everybody has to confess. No one can help. They tortured you." "I'm not saying confession. Confession is not betrayal. It doesn't matter what you say or do. Only feelings matter. If they can make me never love you again—that's true betrayal." She thought about it. "They can't do it," she said finally. "That's the only thing they can't do. They can make you say anything--anything. But they can't make you believe it. They can't get inside you." "No," he said with a little hope, "no, you're right. They can't get inside of you. If you still feel that it's worth being human, even if it doesn't work out, you're still defeated." got them." He thought of the telescreen, which was always bugging his ears.They can watch you day and night, but you can still outwit them if you stay calm.Clever as they are, they haven't mastered the knack for reading what other people think.Once it really falls into their hands, things may not be like this in general.No one knows what happened in the Ministry of Care, but you can always guess: torture, anesthesia, sophisticated instruments to measure nervous reactions, boiled eagles, trumpets, and non-stop interrogation, causing you to slowly break down.No matter what, the truth can't be hidden.They can be tracked down by interrogation, they can be extracted by torture.However, if the goal is not to survive, but to maintain humanity, what will happen differently in the end?They can't change your feelings; and, even if you wanted to, you can't.What you do, what you say, what you think, let them take care of you in every detail; but your heart (its activities are also a mystery to you!) remains indestructible. Eight They've done it, they've done it! The room in which they stood was softly lit and long and narrow.The voice from the telescreen was lowered to a whisper.The precious dark blue carpet is like stepping on velvet.O'Brien was at the far end of the room, sitting in front of a table, surrounded by piles of papers, and on which stood a lamp with a green shade.The orderly ushered in Julia and Winston without looking up. Winston's heart was pounding, and he was afraid that he would not be able to speak.All he could think of was one sentence: They did it, they did it!It would have been pure recklessness to come here, and utter foolishness to come together--though they went their separate ways and did not meet until O'Brien's door.However, it takes courage just to come to this kind of place!Seeing what an Inner Party's home looks like, or even breaking into their residential complex, is only possible on rare occasions.The general atmosphere of the apartment building, the opulence and spaciousness of everything, the unfamiliar smell of good food and smoke, the swift and silent lifts, the bustling white-coated attendants up and down—it was all scary.Even though his reasons for coming here are very good, every step he takes, he is still afraid that a black-clothed guard will appear from the corner in Meng Keli, check his ID, and drive him away.However, O'Brien's orderly let them in without saying a word.The servant was short, dark-haired, wearing a white jacket, with a diamond-shaped face and no expression at all. He looked like a Chinese.He led them into a hallway with a soft carpet on the floor, creamy white wallpaper on the walls, and white-painted siding.Everything is extremely clean and spotless.Even this could not but be alarming--Winston could not remember a corridor he had ever seen where the walls had not been scoured. O'Brien held a note in his hand, and seemed to be reading it intently.His big face was bent so low that even the outline of his nose could be seen, giving him a frightening and intelligent look.He sat motionless for a good ten or twenty seconds.Then, he pulled over the dictation device and dictated a notice in the mixed jargon common to all ministries: "One comma, five commas, seven, etc. fully approve the six proposals of the period, which is doubly absurd and close to thought crimes, cancel the period, first fully estimate the cost of the machine, and then build the period and notify it." He got up from his chair thoughtfully, and walked quietly across the carpet towards them.After speaking in Newspeak, he seemed to let go of his official airs a little bit, but his expression was even more terrifying, as if he was disturbed, and he was very unhappy.Winston, who had been frightened for a long time, felt suddenly a deflated embarrassment.He may have made a foolish misunderstanding.In fact, how could it be concluded that O'Brien was a political schemer?It was nothing more than a blink of the eye, or a vague sentence; apart from this, there was only the imagination in his heart, the imagination based on the dream.He couldn't even take a step back and say he had come to borrow the dictionary, because what about Julia's presence?Seeing O'Brien walk past the telescreen, something suddenly occurred to him.He stopped, turned and pressed a button on the wall.There was a snap and the sound from the telescreen was interrupted. Julia was taken aback and could not help crying softly.In spite of his panic, Winston slipped out in surprise: "You can close it!" "Yes," said O'Brien. "We can close it. We have the privilege." Now he was facing them.That sturdy body looked condescending in front of them; the expression on his face was really unpredictable.He was a little stern, waiting for Winston to speak first; but what to say?Even now, it is not difficult to imagine that he is very busy, disturbed by others, and he is really irritable.None of them spoke.The telescreen was switched off, and the room was dead silent.Time passed like this, it was really fatal.Winston was still looking with difficulty into O'Brien's eyes.At this moment, the stern face suddenly broke open and almost began to smile.O'Brien pushed his glasses on his nose habitually. "I said it, or did you say it?" he asked. "Let me tell," replied Winston promptly. "Is that thing really closed?" "Well, everything is closed. It's just us." "We're here because..." He stopped, and realized for the first time that his motives were vague.He did not know what kind of help he expected from O'Brien, and it was not so easy to explain why he was here.What he said sounded sure to be feeble and artificial; but he went on: "We believe in a conspiracy, that there are secret societies that are against the party, and that's what you take part in. We want to take part, we want to work for it. We are enemies of the party. We don't believe in the principles of Ingsoc. We are thought prisoners. We're adulterers again. I tell you, because we've given ourselves over to you. We're ready to do whatever else you want if you can take us in." He felt the door open, and he stopped, and glanced behind him.Sure enough, the little yellow-faced servant walked in without knocking on the door.Winston saw him carrying a tray with a decanter and glasses. "Martin is one of us," said O'Brien quietly. "Martin, bring the wine here. Put it on the round table. Are there enough chairs? Well, let's sit down and talk more comfortably. Martin, you also take a chair. It's a serious matter. For ten minutes, don't you Be a servant." The little man sat down leisurely, still had the look of a slave, but seemed to enjoy the privilege of a personal slave.Winston studied him out of the corner of his eye.It seems that this person has played one role all his life, and even if he changes his personality for a while, he will feel dangerous.O'Brien grabbed the neck of the bottle, brought the bottle over, and poured the deep red wine into the glass.This reminded Winston of something vaguely long ago, on a wall or on a billboard, a magnum made of light bulbs, kept moving up and down, pouring the wine from the bottle into the glass.Seen from above, the wine was almost dark black; but when it was stored in a bottle, it was bright red like a gemstone.He saw Julia took the wine glass and sniffed it vigorously, with a look of curiosity. "That's called wine," smiled O'Brien. "Needless to say, you must have read it in the book. However, I am afraid that it will basically not be sold to the outside party." He became solemn again, and raised his glass: "I want to have a drink first, I wish everyone health .To our leaders: Cheers to Immanuel Goldstein!" Winston raised his glass eagerly.Wine was something he had read about and dreamed about.Like the glass paperweight, and Mr. Charrington's broken ballads, it was a thing of the past, of that romantic past, which has now been destroyed.In private, he likes to call this past the old days.For some reason, he always found wine to be very sweet, taste like blackberry jam, and have the ability to make people drunk all at once.He drank it in one gulp, but felt a little disappointed.In fact, he has been drinking gin all year round, and he is not used to the taste.He put down the empty wine glass. "So, there's such a person as Goldstein?" he asked. "Yes, there is this man. He's still alive. Where, I don't know." "What about—conspiracies? Organizations? Is it all true? Isn't it just the Thought Police making things up?" "No, it's all true. We'll call it The Brotherhood. It exists, and you're a part of it—and you don't know much else. We'll talk about that later," he looked I looked at my watch. "Even the Inner Party, it's not smart enough to turn off the telescreen for more than half an hour. You shouldn't come together, you have to go separately. You, comrade," he nodded at Julia, "you can go first. We have Twenty minutes will do. You understand, I have to ask some questions first. In general, what are you going to do?" "We can do anything we can," replied Winston. O'Brien sat down in his chair and turned slightly so that he could face Winston.He almost brushed Julia aside, as if presupposing that Winston could speak for her.He lowered his eyelids slightly.So he began to ask questions, in a low, indifferent voice, as if it were nothing more than routine, a catechism, most of which he knew by heart. "Are you ready to give your life?" "yes." "Are you going to kill someone?" "yes." "Are you going to engage in sabotage, even if you kill hundreds of innocent people?" "yes." "Are you going to sell your country to a foreign country?" "yes." "Are you ready to do anything that will cause corruption and weaken the party? Are you willing to cheat, forge, extort, spoil children, distribute drugs, encourage prostitution, and spread sexually transmitted diseases?" "yes." "For example, if it would be in our interest to throw acid in the face of some child—are you going to do it?" "yes." "Are you going to give up your identity and be a waiter or a dock worker for the rest of your life?" "yes." "If we ordered you to kill yourself, are you prepared to do so?" "yes." "Are you two going to break up and never see each other again?" "No!" interrupted Julia. Winston was at a loss for words for a long time.For a moment it seemed as if he had been deprived of the ability to speak.The tongue moved and moved in the mouth, but no sound came out; what was meant to be said at first was one word, but at the end it became another.He struggled several times, and when he spoke, he didn't even know which word he would say. "No," he said finally. "It's good to be able to tell," said O'Brien. "We need to know everything." He turned to Julia, with a more emotional tone: "You have to understand that even if he survives, he may be a different person. We may need to give him another identity. The way he looks, the way he moves, the shape of his hands, the color of his hair—even his voice, all matter. It is possible to change. You yourself, I am afraid, will become another person. Our surgeons have a knack for making people unrecognizable. Sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes we even amputate people!" Winston could not help casting a furtive glance at Martin's Mongolian face.He couldn't see any scars.Julia was a little pale, and the freckles were quite distinct.She looked bravely at O'Brien, however, and murmured something as though agreeing with him. "Okay. That's it." There is a silver cigarette case on the table.O'Brien, somewhat absent-mindedly, pushed the cigarette towards them and took one himself.He got up and started pacing up and down, as if it would help him think.The cigarette was as good as hell, tightly wrapped, and the paper was thick and smooth, which was quite rare.O'Brien glanced again at his watch. "You'd better go back to the kitchen, Martin," he said. "In fifteen minutes I'm going to turn on the telescreen. Before you go, take a good look at what these two comrades look like. You'll see them again. I won't." Just like at the door just now, the little man's black eyes swept across their faces.There was no sign of friendliness in his demeanor.He was remembering what they looked like, but he didn't seem to be interested in them, at least he didn't look interested.Winston thought, an artificial face must not be able to change its expression.Without a word or greeting, Martin went out, closing the door quietly.O'Brien was pacing up and down, with one hand in the pocket of his black overalls and the other holding a cigarette. "You know," he said, "you have to fight in the dark. You are always in the dark. You receive orders, you carry out orders, but you don't ask why. Later, I will give you a book, you can Learn from it the nature of our society and our strategy for destroying it. After reading this book, you become full members of the Brotherhood. But apart from the general goal we are fighting for and the specific tasks we are currently fighting for, you have nothing Will know. I can tell you that the Brotherhood exists; but I will never tell you how many members it has, whether it has a hundred or ten million members. You will never personally know more than a dozen members .There are three or four people who will contact you, change after a while, and disappear forever. I am your first contact person, so I will keep it. The orders you receive are issued by me. If we I felt that I needed to find you, so I did it through Martin. In the end, if you were caught, you would inevitably have to confess; but you have nothing to explain except what you did. You can only sell out a small group of unimportant people. You may not be able to betray me - then I may be dead, or a different person, a different face." He continued to pace up and down the soft carpet.He was a tall man, but his movements were graceful.Even when he put his hands in his pockets, when he held a cigarette, he looked so elegant and beautiful.He gave people the impression that he surpassed Kong Wuli long ago, that is a kind of self-confidence, a kind of ironic understanding.However earnest he was, he lacked the paranoia necessary for a fanatic.When he talked about murder, suicide, venereal disease, amputation, and face-changing, there was a hint of teasing in his words. "These things are inevitable," his voice seemed to say, "and we must go on without flinching. But once life is worth living again, we will stop doing it." Winston could not help admiring O'Brien Plus, a cult even arose.For a moment he even forgot the shadow of Goldstein.One glance at O'Brien's strong shoulders, one look at his strong face, so ugly and yet so quiet, it was impossible to believe that he too would fail.All schemes cannot be hidden from his eyes; all dangers cannot escape his expectations.Even Julia, seemed infected by him.She was so absorbed in listening to him that she didn't even notice the cigarette went out.O'Brien continued: "You'll hear legends that the Brotherhood really existed. Needless to say, you all have your own image of the Brotherhood. Perhaps you'll imagine it's a bunch of underground conspirators meeting in basements, Write anti-marks on the wall, say two codes, and move your hands so that you can recognize each other. This is not the case at all. Members of fraternities cannot recognize each other. Any member will not recognize more than a few members. Personally. Even Goldstein himself, if caught by the Thought Police, would not be able to hand over the list of all the members, nor even provide information so that they could follow the clues to get them. Such a list does not exist. The Brotherhood cannot be extinguished, because there is no organization in the general sense. There is nothing to unite it but an indestructible idea. Apart from the idea, you have no power to back it up. There is no comradely feeling, There is no encouragement from comrades in arms. In the end you are caught, no one saves you, and we never save members. If it is absolutely necessary to silence, at most we will sneak a blade to the prison. You have to get used to it, your days are not As a result, there is no hope. After working for a while, they will be arrested, confessed, and then killed. You can only see so many results. In our lifetime, it is impossible for any obvious changes to occur. We are all dead. Our only real life is in the future. But when we join the future, we are left with a handful of loess and a few dry bones. However, no one knows how far this future is from us. A thousand years?--Now, there is only one Nothing else is possible except to multiply the number of sane men. We cannot act collectively. We can only pass on our knowledge, from one person to another, from one generation to the next. Facing the Thought Police, there is no There is another way to go." He stopped and looked at his watch a third time. "Comrade, you must go," he said to Julia. "Wait. There's still half a bottle left." He filled the wine glasses and took his own glass. "What's the reason this time?" There was still a hint of sarcasm in his words. "To mess with the Thought Police? For the death of Big Brother? For humanity? For the future?" "For the past," said Winston. "The past is indeed the most important thing," agreed O'Brien solemnly. When they drank their wine, Julia rose to leave.O'Brien took a small box from the top of the chest, and handed her a white tablet to hold on her tongue.He said that the most important thing is not to let people smell the alcohol, the elevator attendant, observing people is very poisonous.As soon as she closed the door, he seemed to forget about her.I saw him take a step or two back and forth, then stopped again. "There are details to be arranged," he said. "I suppose you have somewhere to hide?" Winston spoke of Mr. Charrington's upstairs room. "That's fine for now. We'll find you a place later. The important thing is to change hiding places often. In the meantime, I'll bring you a copy of that book" - Winston noted, mentioning the book , O'Brien seemed unable to help emphasizing-"You know, it's Goldstein's book. I'll do it as soon as possible. But it may take a few days to get it. As you can imagine, there are too few left. The Thought Police searched and destroyed it so quickly that it couldn't be printed. But that's all right, the book is indestructible. Even if the last copy is seized, we can reprint it almost verbatim. Do you bring a briefcase to work?" "Usually will bring." "What's it like?" "Black. Pretty old. Has two straps." "Black, with two straps, pretty old. . . well. In a few days—I can't say when—there'll be a notice in your morning worksheet. There's a word printed wrong, and you'll have to redo it." Send. Don’t bring a briefcase to work the next day. Someone will pat you on the shoulder and tell you, I think you lost your briefcase. In the bag given to you, there is a copy of Goldstein’s book. Fourteen You'll have to pay it back within days." For a while they didn't speak. "You have a few minutes to go," said O'Brien. "If we could meet again, we'd be in a..." Winston looked up at him. "A place without darkness?" he asked hesitantly. O'Brien nodded, not at all surprised. "In a place where there is no darkness," he repeated, as if he knew what he meant. "In the meantime, before you go, do you have anything else to say? Any message? Any questions?" Winston thought about it.It didn't look like there were any questions to ask, and he didn't want to say anything fake at all.He was not thinking of O'Brien and the fraternity, but of a composite image of the dark bedroom where Mama lived in her last days, Mr Charrington's upstairs cubicle, the glass paperweight, and the rosewood-framed picture. Etching.He said almost casually: "There's an old song, the first line is San Clemente Bells say, oranges and lemons, have you heard it?" O'Brien nodded again.He finished the stanza with dignity and humility: ’ said the bells of San Clemente, oranges and lemons, Says the St. Martin's bell, you owe me three coppers, Says the old Belley's bell, When will you return? Says the Shoredish Bell, When I'm rich. " "You know the last sentence!" said Winston. "Well, I know the last sentence. Now, I think you should go. Wait. Better I give you a pill too." Winston rose and O'Brien held out his hand.He squeezed it so hard that the bones in Winston's hand were about to shatter.At the door Winston turned round, but O'Brien seemed to have forgotten him.He put his hand on the telescreen switch and waited for him to leave.Winston saw behind him the green-shaded lamp on the writing-desk, the dictate-writing device, and baskets full of papers.Things are over.In thirty seconds, Winston thought, O'Brien would be returning to the important work which had just been interrupted for the Party.