Chapter 9 Part Three 1-2

one He doesn't know where he is.Maybe it was in the maintenance department, but there was no way to find out.The cell where he stayed had a high ceiling, no windows, and shiny white tiles on the walls.The electric lamp was hidden and cast a cold light.There was a constant low hum in the room, which must have been the exhaust fan.There is a circle of benches along the wall—in fact, a wooden frame is more suitable, wide enough to sit on, and it is not interrupted until the door.Opposite the door is a toilet with no seat on it.There were four telescreens in the room, one on each wall. He felt a little stomach ache.He's been having a stomach ache ever since they tied him up and put him in a police car.He was hungry too, very hungry.He hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours, maybe thirty-six hours.He still couldn't tell whether it was morning or night when he was caught.Maybe I can't figure it out anymore.He hadn't eaten since his arrest anyway.

He sat on the narrow stool as quietly as possible, with his hands folded on his knees.He had learned to sit still, and if he made any movement they would call at you from the telescreen.But he was more and more eager to eat.I really want to eat a piece of bread.There seemed to be some bread crumbs in the pocket of the overalls.It was quite possible, because something kept rubbing against his leg.Maybe there's still a big piece.In the end, the temptation overcame his fear, and he sneaked his hand into his pocket. "Smith!" cried a voice from the telescreen. "Number 6079, Smith! Keep your hands in your pockets in cell!"

He had to sit still, with his hands folded on his knees.Before being brought here, he was taken to another place, which must have been a general detention center, or a makeshift detention facility for patrolmen.It was unclear how long he had been there, hours at least--without a clock or sunlight, it was difficult to set a time.The place was messy and smelly.The prison he stayed in was similar to the current one, but it was dirty everywhere, and often locked up a dozen or twenty people.Most of them are criminals, only a few political prisoners.He sat against the wall without making a sound, surrounded by filthy bodies, fearful in his heart and pain in his stomach, so he didn't pay much attention to his surroundings.However, he still noticed that the behavior of party members and other prisoners was strikingly different.Party members and criminals are always silent and scared to death, but criminals like that don't take anyone seriously.They yelled and cursed at the guards, scrambled back when their belongings were confiscated, scribbled obscenities on the ground, and ate hidden food out of their clothes.Even when the telescreen called them to be quiet, they cursed back.But in addition, they have a very good relationship with the guards, call them nicknames, and cheat cigarettes from the surveillance holes in the doors.The guards are also very tolerant towards criminals, even if they are violent, they will not kill them.They often talked about forced labor camps, where most of these prisoners had to be sent.He could tell that it was "nothing" in the circle, as long as you have acquaintances, you are willing to make trouble.Some are bribes and bribes of all kinds, favoritism, extortion; some are sodomy and womanizing.Even illegal alcohol made from potatoes can be obtained.The jobs trusted by the government are all done by criminals, especially bandit murderers, who are the nobles in the circle.All the dirty work is given to political prisoners.

All kinds of criminals are constantly coming in and out: drug dealers, thieves, gangsters, profiteers, drunkards, prostitutes.When some alcoholics start to make troubles, it takes other criminals to work together to suppress them.A big woman, who looked to be in her sixties, with dangling tits and disheveled white hair, struggled desperately, kicking and shouting, and asked four guards to grab her hands and feet.She stretched out her legs to kick them, and they took off her shoes and threw her on Winston's lap, nearly breaking his bones.The mother-in-law sat up awkwardly and yelled at the back of their ass: "Fuck you mothers!" Then, realizing that the place where they were sitting was uneven, she slid up from Winston's lap and sat on the bench.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said. "How can I sit on you! I blame those bastards for putting me here. Such a lady, they dare!" She stopped, patted her chest, and hiccupped. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm so sorry!" She leaned over and vomited all over the floor. "It's better," she said, leaning back and closing her eyes. "I can't help but throw up right away, I always say that. Just pour it out as soon as it reaches the stomach." She regained her vigor, and turned to look at Winston, who seemed instantly smitten with him.She put her thick arms around his shoulders and pulled him towards him, the beer and vomit coming straight into his face.

"What's your name, dear?" she asked. "Smith," said Winston. "Smith?" said the woman. "Hey, that's fun! My name is Smith too! Ha," she added mournfully, "I might be your mother!" Maybe, she really is a mother.They were about the same age, and their body types were similar; after spending twenty years in a forced labor camp, they must have changed their appearance. No one else spoke to him.Surprisingly, criminals ignore political prisoners.They called them "politicians," with an uninteresting disdain.As for party members, it seems that they are afraid to tell others, especially other party members.Only once, when two female party members were sitting close together on the bench, he heard them say something hastily in a low voice amidst the noise of the crowd, especially when they mentioned "room 101", and it was unclear what they meant.

In two or three hours he was brought here.His stomach has never been without pain, but sometimes it is lighter and sometimes heavier, and his thoughts are sometimes relaxed and sometimes confused.When his stomach hurts badly, he just wants to feel hungry; when his stomach gets better, he feels frightened.Sometimes he thought of what was going to happen to him, and it felt so real that his breath stopped and his heart skipped a beat.It was as if a rubber club had hit his elbow, and a leather boot with an iron palm had kicked his calf.It was as if he were lying on the ground, his teeth smashed out, screaming for life.As for Julia, he hardly thought of it.Couldn't concentrate on thinking about her.He loved her and would not betray her; but it was just a fact, and he knew it like he knew the laws of arithmetic.But right now he didn't love her, and he hardly thought about what happened to her.He thought of O'Brien more often, with a faint hope.O'Brien was sure to know that he was caught.He said the Brotherhood never saved; but there were blades, and they would send them in.Before the guards rushed into the cell, five seconds would be enough.The blade will cut into the body, and it feels hot and a little cold. If you hold it with your fingers, it will cut to the bone.He could think of everything sickly, even the tiniest pain would make him shrink back in fright.Even if he is given a chance, he is not sure whether he will dare to use the blade.It would be more natural to muddle along, even if you live for another ten minutes -- although you know that you will definitely be beaten in the end.

Sometimes, he just wanted to count the number of tiles on the cell wall.This should be simple enough, but counting, he always forgets how many pieces he has counted.It's more about where you are and what time it is.Suddenly he believed that it must be daytime outside, but immediately he was sure that it must be pitch black outside.He knew intuitively that the lights would never be turned off in a place like this.This is where there is no darkness; no wonder O'Brien seemed to understand the metaphor.The Department of Care building has no windows.His prison number may be in the center of the building, or it may be against the outer wall of the building; it may be on the tenth floor underground, or it may be on the 30th floor above ground.In his heart, he moved himself layer by layer, trying to judge by the sensation of his body, whether he was lifted up to the sky or buried underground.

There were footsteps outside.The iron door slammed open, and a young officer stepped in gracefully.He was wearing a neat black uniform, his shiny leather boots reflected his whole body, and his knife-sharpened face was pale, like a wax mask.He called the guards and brought in the prisoners.So the poet Ampleforth staggered into the cell.The door slammed shut. Umpforth moved left and right hesitantly, as if he felt that there was still a door for him to go out.Then, he started walking back and forth in the number.Winston was in the room, and he did not notice it at all.The fellow's eyes were full of sorrow, fixed on the wall a meter above Winston's head.He had no shoes on, and his dirty big toe was sticking out of the hole in his sock.He had a stubble beard and hadn't shaved in days, and his mustache covered his cheeks and made him look like a hooligan.But he was tall and weak, and his movements were nervous, which gave people a really weird feeling.

Winston pulled himself together from his lethargic state.He would have to talk to Umpforth, even if he might be scolded by the telescreen.Perhaps it was Ampleforth who sent him the blade. "Ampleforth," he said. He was not scolded on the telescreen.Umpforth stopped, a little startled.Slowly his eyes fell on Winston. "Ah, Smith!" he said. "You're here too!" "What did you do?" "To tell you the truth..." He sat awkwardly on the bench opposite Winston. "There's only one sin, isn't there?" he said. "You committed this crime?"

"It looks like it is!" He put one hand on his forehead and pressed his temples for a moment, as if trying to remember something. "That's the thing," he said vaguely. "I'm reminded of an example - it's possible. If you don't say it, you're not careful! We're doing a final edition of Kipling's poems. I've saved the last line, the word God. I No way!" He added angrily. "I can't change this sentence. It rhymes with rod (rod)! Didn't know that there are only twelve words that rhyme with rod? For several days, I thought and thought, but there is no other word !" The expression on his face changed too.The troubles were swept away, and for a while, there was joy.This disheveled guy, however, flashed a kind of brilliance of wisdom, which is often the expression of a nerd who discovers some useless facts. "Have you ever thought," he said, "that the whole history of English poetry depends on the lack of rhyme in the English language?" No, it never occurred to Winston.Besides, on such occasions, it didn't matter to him or interest him. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked. Ampleforth was a little surprised again. "Can't think of it at all. They arrested me—must have been two days ago. Or, three days ago." He rolled his eyes over the wall, as if hoping to find a window somewhere. "Day and night don't matter here. Who can tell the time." They talked ramblingly for several minutes.Then the telescreen yelled for no reason and told them not to speak.Winston folded his arms and fell silent.Umpforth was so tall that he couldn't sit comfortably on the narrow bench, and twisted his body to and fro, with his long hands now on one knee and then on the other.The telescreen shouted, telling him to sit still.Time passed like this.Twenty minutes, an hour--who can tell how long.Then, the sound of leather boots came in again, and Winston's internal organs shrank into a ball again.Soon, soon, maybe five minutes, maybe now, the sound of boots might mean—his turn. The door opened.The icy young officer stepped into the cell.With a slight movement of his hand he pointed to Ampleforth. "Room 101," he said. Umpforth, caught between two guards, made his way out with difficulty.There was a vague uneasiness in his face, but Winston could not see it. A long time passed.Winston's stomach ached again.His thoughts went round and round and sank in the same way, like a ball always going down the same trough.He had only six thoughts: a stomach ache, a slice of bread, bleeding and screaming, O'Brien, Julia, and a blade.Then his internal organs began to convulse again, and the sound of heavy footsteps came again.The door opened, and a strong smell of sweat came in with the wind.Parsons walked into the cell, still wearing khaki shorts and a sweatshirt. This time it was Winston who was so startled that he forgot himself. "Even you are coming!" he said. Parsons glanced at Winston, neither concerned nor surprised, just miserable.He walked up and down the room quickly, obviously unable to calm down.As long as he straightened his legs, he could see the twitching of those fat knees.His eyes were wide open and glazed, as if he couldn't help staring at something not far in front of him. "What are you for?" asked Winston. "Thought crime!" Parsons said with a tear in his voice.From the tone of his voice, it was obvious that he fully admitted his crime, and was quite suspicious and frightened, fearing that the word would fall on him.He stopped, stood in front of Winston, and begged him earnestly: "You said, they won't shoot me, right, buddy? If you didn't do anything--just thought, but you Can't stop, they won't shoot you, will they? I know, they'll give me a fair trial. Oh, they must! They know how I behave, don't you? You know what I am. I Not so bad. I'm brainless, of course, but I can do it! I really want to do the best for the party, don't I? I'll do five years, what do you think? Ten years? I'm like that He's useful in a labor camp! I just made a mistake by accident. They won't just shoot me, will they?" "Are you guilty?" asked Winston. "Of course there is!" cried Parsons, with a servile glance at the telescreen. "You still think that the party will arrest people who are innocent?" His frog face calmed down, and his expression was a bit hypocritical. "Thought crime is a hell of a lot, man," he said with a dignified look. "It's insidious. Before you know it, it's got you! Know how to get me? While I'm sleeping! Hey, really! I'm a man who works hard and does his job-- who would think I also have bad thoughts in my head! Asleep, I will tell you! Do you know what they heard me say?" He lowered his voice as if he had to swear for medical purposes. "Down with Big Brother! Hey, I said it! It looks like I said it more than once. I'm just telling you, man, I'm so glad they caught me before I could slide down again! To Court, guess what I'll say? I'll just say, thank you, thank you for saving me in time!" "Who exposed you?" asked Winston. "My little girl," said Parsons, with a little mournful pride, "she heard it in the keyhole. Take what I say, and called the patrol the next day. The little one's only seven years old, and quite clever." Don't I? I don't hate her. I'm so proud of her! See how well I've raised her!" He jerked up and down a few more times, staring helplessly at the toilet.Suddenly, he took off his shorts. "I'm sorry, man," he said. "I can't hold back anymore. Wait for a long time." He sat down on the toilet with his big ass.Winston covered his face with his hands. "Smith!" cried the voice from the telescreen. "Number 6079, Win Smith! No covering your face. No covering your face in the number!" Winston put his hand down.That Parsons pulled the bucket so loudly that the water switch didn't work.So the number stinks for hours. After Parsons was taken away, some mysterious people came and went.A woman was taken to "room one hundred and one"; Winston noticed that at the word she changed color and seemed to shrink into a ball.Then there was a time--if it had been morning when he had been brought, it would have been afternoon; if he had been brought in afternoon, it would have been midnight.At this time, there were six prisoners in the cell, including men and women.Everyone sat very still.Opposite Winston sat a man with bared teeth and no chin visible, who looked like a large, tame rat.His fat cheeks were freckled and baggy, and it was impossible not to believe that he was hiding food.A pair of gray eyes stared timidly at others, and turned away as soon as they met someone's gaze. The door opened, and another prisoner was brought in.Seeing him like that gave Winston a chill.He was average-looking, mean, mean, and must have been an engineer, or a technician.What's scary is that his face is so thin and thin, it's like a skeleton.With such a thin face, the mouth and eyes are surprisingly large, and the eyes look full of murderous intent, as if there is an uncontrollable hatred for something. The man sat on a bench not far from Winston.Winston did not look at him again, but the skeletal, tormented face was as vivid in his mind as if it were still standing before his eyes.Suddenly, he understood—that person is about to starve to death.Obviously, everyone in the cell seems to have thought of this at the same time.There was a very slight restlessness on the bench.The chinless man kept looking at the skull, and immediately looked away with a sense of guilt, and then turned back involuntarily.He couldn't sit still anymore, and finally stood up, staggering towards the cell.He reached into the pocket of his overalls, and with a little embarrassment, he took out a piece of dirty bread and handed it to the skull. There was a deafening roar from the telescreen.The chinless man was startled, and the skull quickly put his hands behind his back, as if to show the world that he didn't want that gift. "Bunstead!" the voice roared. "Number 2713, Bunsteady! Put the bread on the floor!" The chinless man put the bread on the ground. "Stay where you are," the voice said again. "Face to the door! Don't move!" The chinless man obediently obeyed, his puffy face trembling uncontrollably.The door slammed open and the young officer stepped in.He stepped back, and behind him appeared a stocky guard with thick arms and broad shoulders.He stood in front of the chinless man, and when the officer nodded, he punched the chinless man hard with all his might.His strength was so great that he nearly knocked the chinless man off the ground.His body fell straight to the other side of the cell and fell under the toilet.He lay there dizzy, bleeding from his nose and mouth, and could not help but let out a few soft sobs.He turned over, propped up on his hands and knees, staggering and trying to get up.From his mouth, there was a stream of blood and saliva, as well as a row of false teeth smashed in half. The prisoners sat motionless, with their hands folded on their knees.The chinless man crawled back into his seat, half his face starting to bruise, his mouth swollen into a bright red mass with a black hole in the middle.Blood dripped onto the chest of the overalls.His gray eyes continued to stare at the others, with an added layer of guilt, as if trying to figure out how they would look down on him after being so humiliated. The door opened again.The officer waved his hand lightly, pointing to the skull. "Room 101," he said. Around Winston, there was a panic and a gasp.The skull fell to the ground, kneeling on its knees, clasping its hands together. "Comrade! Commander!" he cried. "Don't send me away! I've told you everything! What else do you want to know? I'll tell you everything! Tell me what you want me to say, and I'll tell you everything! Write it down and I'll sign it!--everything." Alright! Don't go to Room 101!" "Room 101," said the officer. The man's pale face changed color.It was a color Winston could hardly believe--certainly, a green. "Anything is fine with me!" he cried. "You have been starving me for weeks, and to the end, let me die. Crush me! Hang me! Sentence me to twenty-five years! Who else do you want me to hand over? Tell me, I will Trick! Whoever he is, whoever you do with him! I have a wife, and I have three children! The oldest is less than six years old! Capture them all, wipe their necks in front of me, and I'll be there Look here! Don't go to Room 101!" "Room 101," said the officer. The man frantically turned his face to look at the other criminals, as if he had made up his mind to catch a scapegoat.His eyes fell on the shattered face of the chinless man.He raised his lean arms. "It's time to send him, not me!" he yelled. "You didn't hear me. I punched him in the face, and he said what he said! Forgive me, I'll expose everything he said to you! He is the anti-party, not me!" At this moment the guard took a step, and the People almost screamed. "You didn't hear what he said!" he yelled again. "There's something wrong with the telescreen! It's him you want! Take him, not me!" Two burly guards bent over and grabbed his arms.At that moment he flung himself on the cell floor, clutching the iron legs of the bench, howling like a wild animal.The guards grabbed him and tried to wrestle him away, but he clung to him with incredible strength.They dragged him for more than 20 seconds. The prisoners all sat quietly, staring straight ahead.The howling stopped, and the man was still pulling the leg of the chair, and he was out of breath.Suddenly there was another howl, but the sound was different - it turned out that a guard lifted his leg and kicked his finger.They finally pulled him up. "Room 101," said the officer. The man was taken out, staggering about, with his head down, holding his bad hand--all that fighting spirit gone. A long time passed.If it was midnight when the skull was taken away, it would be morning; if it was taken in the morning, it would be afternoon.Winston was alone again, and so had been for several hours.He was always in pain from sitting on the narrow bench, so he got up and walked around, but the telescreen didn't scold him.The piece of bread was still where the chinless man left it.At first it takes a lot of effort not to look at it, and then the hunger is worse than the thirst.Mouth was dry and had a bad smell.The buzzing sound and the constant light made people feel dizzy, and their minds went blank.The pain in his bones was unbearable, so he stood up, but had to sit down immediately, because he was so dizzy that he could hardly stand.Just as my body felt a little better, I felt a burst of fear again.Sometimes, with vague hopes, he thought of O'Brien and the blade.Think about it, I brought him food, and there really was a blade hidden in it!He thought of Julia more dimly, too.Maybe she was suffering there too, maybe even more than him.Right now, I'm afraid, she's screaming in pain.He thought to himself, "If I could save Julia if I suffered twice as much, wouldn't I? Well, I would." But it was only a mental decision, because he knew it had to be done.But he didn't feel that way.In such a place, all other sensations except the pain and the anticipation of the pain disappear.And, when you suffer, for whatever reason, can you really hope that the pain will increase?But this question, he still can't get the answer for a while. The footsteps came again.The door opened, and in came O'Brien! Winston jumped to his feet, too startled to be on his guard.For the first time in years he forgot even the telescreen. "I've got you too!" he yelled. "I was arrested a long time ago," said O'Brien, with a mild, almost apologetic sarcasm.He moved away, and behind him appeared a broad-chested and thick-armed guard with a long black rubber stick in his hand. "You understand everything, Winston," said O'Brien. "Don't lie to yourself. You know--you always knew!" Yes, he knew, he had always known.How can there be time to think about these?All he could see was the rubber stick in the guard's hand.It hits anywhere: on the head, at the tip of the ear, on the arm, at the elbow... elbow!This blow made him fall to his knees, clutching his injured arm with one hand, and almost lost consciousness.There was a yellow light in front of my eyes, and everything was blown to pieces.Unexpectedly, unexpectedly, this stroke hurts so much!The yellow light disappeared, and he saw the two men looking down at him, and the guards were laughing at his distorted face.Not to mention, that question has an answer!No one wishes to increase suffering, whatever the reason.With pain, you just wish it was over.There is nothing in the world that is more difficult than physical pain.In the face of pain, there are no heroes, no heroes!He rolled around on the ground, holding his immobile left arm in vain, thinking this over and over again. two He appeared to be lying on a cot, but high off the ground.His body seemed bound and he could not move.The light was brighter than usual, shining on his face.O'Brien stood aside, looking down at him intently.On the other side of him, there was a man in a white coat with a syringe in his hand. Even with his eyes open, he could only slowly make out the appearance of his surroundings.It felt as if he had swum into this room from a completely different world, from a deep, deep underwater world.It is unclear how long he was down there.Since his arrest, he has not seen day and night.Moreover, his memory is always intermittent.His consciousness, even in sleep, sometimes stopped abruptly, and after a blank interval began again.But whether this interval is a few days, a few weeks, or even a few seconds, he doesn't know how. Since that elbow hit, the nightmare has come.Later, he realized that everything after Ganqing was just a warm-up, and it was all routine for interrogation, and almost every prisoner could not escape.Everyone routinely confessed to a long list of crimes--spying, sabotage, and the like.Confession is just a formality, but torture is real.He could not remember how many times he had been beaten, or how long it had been.There are always five or six in black uniforms, all rushing towards him together.They beat him with their fists, kicked him with leather boots, beat him with steel bars, and whipped him with rubber clubs.He was shameless like an animal, rolling on the ground in pain, curled up and dodging, trying in vain to avoid kicks, but only to provoke another round of kicks, hitting his ribs, stomach, hands. Elbows, calves, lower abdomen, testicles, spine.They beat and beat, which made him feel cruel, hateful and unbearable. It wasn't the guards who were beating him, but him, who couldn't make him pass out by himself!Sometimes he broke down and begged for mercy before he was beaten, and when he saw the blow of his fist, he would pour out confessions of crimes, real and false.Sometimes he has to bear it to death, determined not to confess anything, and only speaks when the pain is unbearable.Either play weakly and compromise, saying to yourself, "I want to confess, but it's not time yet. I'll talk about it when I can't stand the pain. Three more kicks! Two more kicks! Then I'll confess." Or give If they couldn't stand the beating, they were thrown on the flagstone floor of the cell like a bag of potatoes, and after a few hours of recovery, they were dragged out and beaten.Sometimes even ask him to rest for a long time.He remembered vaguely, either falling asleep or groggy.I remember that there was a prison cell with a wooden bed, shelves on the wall, and a tin basin. They ate hot soup, bread, and sometimes coffee.He remembered a rough barber who came to shave and cut his hair; a grim, rigid man in a white coat felt his pulse, tested his reflexes, rolled his eyelids, He poked around all over his body to see if his bones were broken, and gave him an injection in his arm to make him sleep. Torture was less frequent.It was mostly a threat, a bullying, that if he didn't answer them well enough, they were going to send him to be beaten.The interrogators who interrogated him were no longer thugs in black uniforms, but a group of talented party members. One case was short and thick, wearing glasses, and fast-moving. Several shifts took turns to deal with him. Each shift should last more than ten hours, but he also did this. Not sure.Those who interrogated him like this intended to make him suffer a little bit, but they mainly didn't want him to suffer.They slapped his mouth, twisted his ears, pulled his hair, forced him to stand on one leg, told him to hold his urine, and shone brightly on his face, causing tears to flow from his eyes.But they did it only to insult him, to ruin his ability to argue and reason.The real weapon was their ruthless interrogation, time after time, hour after hour, making him slip up, fall into the trap, distort his every word, catch his contradictions and lies.In the end, he often cried bitterly, not because he felt embarrassed, but because his nerves were too tired.Once interrogated, he would cry five or six times.Mostly they shouted insults at him, hesitated a little, and threatened to hand him back to the guards to be beaten.Sometimes, however, they would suddenly change their tune, call him Comrade, ask him, in the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother, to ask him falsely if he was still loyal enough to the Party, and if he wanted to change his ways.A few hours of interrogation has already broken him down, such soft words will always make him burst into tears.In the end, the nagging broke him down more than the guards' punches and kicks.He becomes a mouth that can promise, and a finger that can sign. As long as he is asked to do it, he will obey.All he cared about was finding out what it was they wanted him to confess, so he could do it quickly before he got beat up.He confessed to assassinating party leaders, distributing seditious pamphlets, embezzling public funds, betraying intelligence, and all kinds of sabotage activities.He confessed that in 1968 he had been bought by East Asia as a spy.He confessed that he was religious, a womanizer, and a capitalist admirer.He confessed to killing his wife -- although he knew, and his interrogators knew, that his wife was still alive.He confessed that he had been friends with Goldstein for many years and was a black member of an underground organization-as for that organization, it included almost everyone he knew.It's so much easier to confess everything and implicate everyone.Besides, in a sense, this is also true.In fact, he is really the enemy of the party; and in the eyes of the party, what is the difference between thought and action? He also remembered something else.They are not related to each other in his mind, like a picture, wrapped in darkness. He is in a cell.The prison cell might be dark or bright, but he could only see a pair of eyes and nothing else.What instrument was at hand, beeping slowly and regularly.The eyes grew bigger and brighter.Suddenly, he floated up, jumped into the eyes, and was swallowed clean. He is tied to a chair.There are instruments all around, and the lights are blindingly bright.A white coat is looking at the instrument.There were heavy footsteps outside.The door slammed open and the wax-faced officer stepped in, followed by two guards. "Room 101," said the officer. The white coat didn't turn around.He was merely looking at the instrumentation, without even glancing at Winston. He was shoved into a wide corridor.This corridor is a kilometer wide, golden and shining.He let go of his voice and laughed heartily, yelling for a confession, everything, even what he had concealed during the torture.He told this person everything about his life, but that person already knew everything.Around him were the guards, his interrogators, the white coats, O'Brien, Julia, Charrington, and they all floated down the corridor laughing.Something horrific, embedded in the future, was skipped over and never happened.Everything was peaceful, he no longer felt pain, the details of his life were all on the table, he was understood and forgiven. He tried to sit up on the plank bed, wondering if he heard O'Brien's voice.He had never seen O'Brien during the whole interrogation, but he felt that he was always there, just out of sight.O'Brien, he directed it all.It was he who sent the guards to beat Winston, and it was he who did not tell them to kill him.It was he who decided when Winston should cry out in pain, when he should breathe a sigh of relief, when he should eat, when he should sleep, when he should have an injection in his arm.It is he who asks him questions, and it is he who gives him hints on how to answer them.O'Brien tortured him and protected him; interrogator and friend.On one occasion, he couldn't remember whether it was while he was asleep with anesthetic, without anesthetic, or when he was temporarily awake--Winston heard someone whisper in his ear: "Don't worry, Winston; I'm watching You. I have observed you for seven years, and it is time for a turning point. I want to save you and make you a perfect man!" I don't know whether O'Brien was talking; but seven years ago, I told him in a dream." We will meet again in a place where there is no darkness", but it is the same person. He didn't remember that the interrogation was over.It was pitch black for a while, and then the cell and the room he stayed in gradually became real around him.He was lying on his back, unable to move.Everything that could move was tied up, and even the back of the head was gripped by something.O'Brien looked down at him gravely, even sadly.Seen from below, his face was rough and haggard, with bags under the eyes and lines above the cheeks.He was much older than Winston had thought, forty-eight or fifty.Underneath the hand is a gauge with a hand lever and numbers on the face. "I told you," said O'Brien, "that we shall be here when we meet again." "Yes," said Winston. O'Brien moved his hand slightly without warning, and Winston felt a pain all over his body.The pain was so scary, he didn't know what happened at all, he just felt that the injury was really fatal.It's not clear if this is really the case or if the electric shock caused it, but his body is stretched apart and his joints are slowly being torn apart.He was sweating profusely from the pain, and worst of all, feared that his spine would be snapped.He clenched his teeth, panting heavily through his nose, and tried his best not to make a sound. "You are afraid," said O'Brien, staring into his face, "that something is going to break in a moment. You are most afraid that it is your backbone. In your heart you can see it tearing open and the spinal cord dripping." Come out. That's what you think, don't you, Winston?" Winston made no answer.O'Brien pulled back the lever on the instrument, and the pain subsided as quickly as it had come. "It's still forty," said O'Brien. "瞧，仪表上的数字能到一百。在我们谈话过程中，不管什么时候，想叫你多疼，我就能叫你多疼。记住了么？要是你对我说谎，企图搪塞我，或者比你平常的智力水平低，你就会疼得叫起来，马上就会！懂了么？" "懂，"温斯顿说。 奥勃良的态度和气了一些。他沉思着整一整眼镜，来回踱了一两步。等他再开口，那声音就变得温和耐心，像医生，像老师，甚至像牧师，仿佛一心要解释说服，根本就不想惩罚他。 "我很担心你，温斯顿，"他说。"因为你值得担心。你很明白，自己出了什么问题。好多年以前你就明白，可你就是不承认。你精神有了错乱。你记忆有了缺陷。真实的事情你记不住，偏叫自己记些从没发生过的事。幸亏这还可以治好！你从来不想自己治，你自己不愿这样做。这只消意志上做点小努力，可你就是不想这样做。就是现在，我也知道，你依然死死抓着这毛病，还当它是美德！举个例子罢。大洋国如今在跟谁打仗？" "我被捕的时候，还是在跟东亚国。" "跟东亚国。很好。大洋国一直在跟东亚国打着仗，是么？" 温斯顿抽了一口气。他张开嘴巴要说话，可又住了口。他的眼睛没法离开那仪表。 "请讲真话，温斯顿。你的真话。跟我说说，你觉得还记得的东西。" "我记得，我被捕之前一星期，我们还没跟东亚国打仗。它还是我们的盟友呢。那会儿是跟欧亚国打仗。这仗打了四年。再以前……" 奥勃良摆摆手，叫他住口。 "下一个例子，"他说。"几年前你有过一次非常严重的幻觉。有三个人，三个从前的党员，叫琼斯、艾伦森跟卢瑟福的，被指控背叛和破坏。他们彻底坦白了，被处决了。可你不相信他们犯了被指控的罪。你相信看到了铁证，可以证明他们的坦白是假的。你有种幻觉，仿佛得到了一张照片。你相信手里真的拿过它。那照片就像这一张。" 奥勃良的手指间，就出现一张长方形的剪报，让温斯顿看了五秒钟。那是张照片--至于是什么照片，没有问题！就是那张照片，是它的复本。照片上琼斯、艾伦森跟卢瑟福正在参加纽约的一次党会议，十一年前他曾有幸得到它，又当即销毁了的。它在他眼前仅仅停了一瞬间，便给拿开了。然而他看到啦，确定无疑看到啦！他不顾一切拼命挣扎着想要坐起来。然而朝哪个方向，他都没法动上一点点。一时间他甚至忘掉了那仪表，只想再把那照片抓回来，起码再叫他看一眼。 "它存在的！"他叫道。 "不存在，"奥勃良说。 他走到房间另一边。对面墙上就有个记忆洞，奥勃良揭开了盖子。温斯顿看不见，可那薄薄的纸片，就被一阵热风卷开去，火光一闪，无影无踪。奥勃良从墙那边转回来。 "灰烬，"他说。"无法辨认的灰烬。尘埃。它并不存在。它从来就不存在。" "可它存在过！它确实存在过！它存在于记忆里面。我就记得它。你也记得它！" "我才不记得它，"奥勃良说。 温斯顿心一沉。这便是双重思想，真叫一点办法也没有。要是他能够确定奥勃良在说谎，事情就简单了。然而很可能，奥勃良真的忘了那照片。这样的话，他便忘掉了他拒不承认记得这照片，连忘却的过程也忘个一干二净。何以确定这仅仅是个小把戏？兴许，头脑里真就这样疯癫癫地一片乱糟糟，就是这样的思想，才打败了他。 奥勃良沉思着低头打量他。他比方才更像个老师，苦心孤诣地教导一个任性却有出息的孩子。 "党有句口号，说的是控制过去，"他说。"请重复一遍。" "控制了过去，就控制了未来；控制了现在，就控制了过去，"温斯顿顺从地重复道。 "控制了现在，就控制了过去，"奥勃良慢慢点头，表示赞同。"温斯顿，按你的想法，过去是不是真的存在？" 温斯顿又是觉出一阵徒劳无益。他眼睛盯着仪表，非但不知道答"是"还是"否"，才能救他不受痛，甚至不知道，他相信的哪个答案才正确。 奥勃良微微笑了起来。"你还算不上玄学家，温斯顿，"他说。"直到今天，你还不想想存在意味着什么。我来让它明确点儿罢。过去，它是不是具体有形地存在于空间里？有没有这个空间，那个空间，固态客体的世界，让过去还在那里活动着？" "No." "那末，过去到底存在于哪里？" "在记录里。过去给写下来啦。" "在记录里。还有么？" "在思想里。在人的记忆里。" "在记忆里。很好。那末，我们，党，控制了所有的记录，控制了所有的记忆。于是，我们控制了过去，不是么？" "可你们怎么叫人不去记事情？"温斯顿嚷起来，一时又忘了仪表。"记忆是不自觉的。它是在人的内心。你们怎么控制得了记忆？你就没有控制我的！" 奥勃良重又严厉起来。他把手放到了仪表上。 "完全相反，"他说，"是你才没控制记忆。所以才把你带到这里来。你到了这里，因为你狂妄自大，不知自律。你不愿拿服从做代价，换来心智健全。你宁愿做个疯子，做单个儿人的少数派。只有纪律严明的头脑，才看得见现实。你以为现实客观，外在，自行存在；你也以为现实的性质不言而喻。你欺骗自己，认为看见了什么东西；你觉着旁人跟你一样，也看见了这些东西。可我告诉你，温斯顿，现实才不是外在的东西。现实存在于人的思想里，而不是别处。它不在个人的思想里，因为个人能犯错，又会很快死亡。现实，它只在党的思想里，党才是集体的，永恒的。不管什么，只要党说是真理，它就是真理。不通过党的眼睛，就没法看见现实。事实上，你得重新学习啦，温斯顿。需要把自己毁灭，这是种意志的努力。要心智健全，得先做到卑躬屈膝！" 他停了片刻，仿佛让温斯顿把他的话吸收一下。 "你还记得么，"他接着说，"你在日记里写，自由乃是宣称二加二等于四的自由？" "记得，"温斯顿说。 奥勃良举起左手，手背朝着温斯顿，把拇指弯下去，其它四指伸开来。 "我举的几个手指，温斯顿？" "四个。" "要是党说是五个不是四个--那，是几个？" "四个。" 话没说完，他就疼得喘起来。仪表的指针指到五十五。温斯顿全身大汗淋漓，拼命喘息，高声呻吟着，咬紧牙关也忍不住。奥勃良看着他，还是伸着四个手指。他拉回手杆，可这次，痛楚只减轻了一点点。 "几个手指，温斯顿？" "四个。" 指针指到了六十。 "几个手指，温斯顿？" "四个！四个！我还能说几？四个呀！" 指针肯定在上升，可他看不见。满眼只见到那粗犷严厉的大脸，和那四个手指头。手指头在他的眼前像石柱，粗大朦胧，微微颤动，可绝无疑问是四个。 "几个手指，温斯顿？" "四个！别这样，别这样呀！别再这样啦！四个呀！四个呀！" "几个手指，温斯顿？" "五个！五个！五个呀！" "不行，温斯顿，这没用。你在撒谎。你还觉着是四个。几个手指，快说！" "四个！啊五个！四个！爱几就几！别这样呀，别叫我疼啦！" 突然间，他是坐在奥勃良的臂弯里。想来他昏了过去几秒钟，绑他身体的带子便给松了开来。他觉得冷，禁不住发抖，牙齿格格打颤，眼泪流了满脸。一时间，他像婴孩一样抱着奥勃良，直感到那粗壮的胳膊围着他的肩膀，出奇地舒服。他觉得奥勃良便是他的保护人，痛苦全来自外边，来自别处，惟有奥勃良才会救他逃出这痛楚。 "你学得真慢，温斯顿，"奥勃良温和地说道。 "我有啥办法？"他抽泣着说，"我怎能看不见眼前有什么？二加二就等于四嘛。" "有时候是四，温斯顿。有时候是五。有时候又是三。还有的时候，它是四是五又是三。得再加把劲儿啦。变成个心智健全的人，可不容易哟。" 他把温斯顿放回床上躺下来。四肢的带子又绑紧，不过现在他不疼又不抖，只觉得全身虚弱发冷。奥勃良朝一个白大褂点点头，方才那人一直站在旁边没有动。白大褂弯下腰，仔细看看温斯顿的眼睛，探探他的脉搏，俯下耳朵听听他的心脏，敲敲这儿拍拍那儿，向奥勃良点点头。 "再来，"奥勃良说。 温斯顿全身又是一阵疼。指针准到了七十、七十五。他闭上眼睛，明知道手指依然在，依然是四个。要紧的是痉挛过去之前可别死过去。他也无暇顾及会不会叫出来。痛楚又减退了下来。他睁开眼，见奥勃良把手杆拉了回来。 "几个手指，温斯顿？" "四个。我想，就是四个。我倒想看见五个。我真想看见五个。" "你想怎么样？骗我说你见了五个？还是真要看见五个？" "真要看见五个。" "再来，"奥勃良说。 恐怕指针到了八十--不，九十。温斯顿只能断断续续记起来，他怎么这样疼。他把眼睛闭得紧紧的；在眼皮外边，手指的森林跳着什么舞，进进出出，时隐时现。他心里打算数一数，却无法记起为什么数。他只知道数数几根压根儿不可能，因为五和四神神秘秘的是一体。疼痛又减退了下来。他张开眼，发现他看到的依然没有变。数不清的手指，像移动的树，朝四面八方胡乱动，时隐时现。他便又闭起了眼睛。 "我伸了几个手指，温斯顿？" "不知道。不知道。再这么干，我就要死啦。四个，五个，六个--实说，我不知道。" "好点儿啦，"奥勃良说。 一根针刺进温斯顿的胳膊。几乎同时，一种狂喜般的暖流涌遍了全身，痛楚顿时变得朦朦胧胧。他张开眼睛，感激地看着奥勃良。看那粗犷的线条，深深的皱纹，丑陋无比然而聪颖绝伦，他的心不禁一阵翻腾。要是他能够动一动，他会伸出手，抓住奥勃良的胳膊。他从没像现在这样，爱他爱得这样深，这也不仅仅因为，奥勃良为他止住了痛楚。他想起了那个老问题--不知道奥勃良是朋友，还是敌人；可是说到底，这样的问题就无关宏旨。奥勃良能跟他谈话呀。或许，一个人可以没人爱，但绝不可以没人懂。奥勃良把他折磨得要发疯，有段时间简直要了他的命。可这没关系！他们是知己--如果说知己的意义比友谊更深刻，他们便是这样。总有个地方，他们可以见见面，谈谈心，虽然没人说过在哪里。奥勃良低头看着他，看那神情，他心里想的一模一样。等他再开口，那语气变成了平静的聊天口吻。 "知道你在哪儿么，温斯顿？"他问。 "不知道。我猜，爱护部罢。" "你知道在这儿多长时间了？" "不知道。几天？几星期？几个月？--我想，有几个月啦。" "你想我们为什么把人带到这儿来？" "叫他们坦白。" "不，不对。再说。" "惩罚他们。" "不对！"奥勃良叫了起来。他声音大变，脸色顿时变得严厉激动。"不对！不光要你们坦白，不光要惩罚你们。告诉你，为什么我们要把你们带到这里来？要给你们治病！要叫你们心智健全！要知道，温斯顿，到这儿来的人，走的时候没有治不好的！你那些蠢兮兮的罪，我们不感兴趣。党不关心表面的行为，我们关注的是思想！我们不只是消灭敌人，我们要改造他们！懂我的意思吗？" 他弯腰向着温斯顿，那面孔离得太近啦，看上去大得要命，从下面看，又丑得怕人。而且，他的脸上一片兴奋，一片疯狂。温斯顿又是心里一紧，恨不得缩到床里面去。没说的，奥勃良逞起性子，会扳动手杆的。可就在这时，奥勃良转过身去，踱了一两步。他平静一点，接着说下去： "头一点你要明白，在这个地方，就不存在殉道的问题。你一定读过从前的宗教迫害。中世纪，就有过宗教法庭。那是场失败！它是要根除歪理邪说，到头来却使之长存不朽。一个异端烧死了，千百个异端站起来。为什么会这样？因为宗教法庭公开杀死敌人，杀死的时候他们还没有悔悟：其实，杀死他们，就是因为他们不悔悟。人们被杀死，因为他们不肯放弃自己真正的信仰。自然啦，一切光荣便要归给牺牲者，一切羞辱却得归给烧死他们的宗教法庭。后来，到了二十世纪，出了批所谓的极权主义者。这就是德国的纳粹，和俄国的共产党。俄国人迫害异端，比宗教法庭还残酷。他们觉得，从过去的错误吸取了教训；他们知道，不管怎样，绝不应该制造殉道者。把牺牲者送去公审前，先成心消灭他们的尊严。用严刑拷打，用单独囚禁，把他们变成卑鄙畏缩的可怜虫，叫他们交代什么，他们就交代什么。他们给自己身上泼脏水，骂别人，护自己，哭哭泣泣求饶恕。可是没过几年，同样的事情又发生啦。死人变成了殉道者，他们的下场，给忘个干干净净。这又是为什么？首先，他们的交代显然是假的，伪造的。我们才不犯这样的错！这里所有的坦白交代全是真的。我们要它们是真的！况且，我们绝不允许死人站起来反对我们。别指望后世会为你辩护，温斯顿。后世根本不知有你这个人。历史长河里，你早被擦得干干净净。我们会把你变成气儿，把你注入到太空里。你什么全都留不下；档案里没有名，记忆里没有影。在过去，在未来，你都给消灭个干净。你将从来没有存在过！" 那干吗还要费神拷打我？温斯顿不由得心里抱怨。奥勃良停下脚，倒好像温斯顿把他的想头大声说了出来。他把丑陋的大脸凑近温斯顿，眯起了眼睛。 "你在想，"他说，"既然我们是要把你彻底消灭掉，叫你的所作所为一律无足轻重--这样，为什么我们先要费神拷问你？你就是这样想，是吧？" "是，"温斯顿说。 奥勃良微微一笑。"你是模型上的裂缝，温斯顿。你是个污点，非把你擦掉不可。方才我不是说过，我们不同于以往的迫害？我们不满足于消极的服从，甚至最卑下的屈服也不满足。你投降我们，必得出自你的自由意志。我们不因为异端与我们对抗，而把他消灭；只要他顽抗下去，我们就绝不消灭他。我们要改造他，争取他的内心，叫他脱胎换骨，重新做人。我们要烧掉他心里的一切邪恶和幻想；我们要把他拉到我们的阵营，不是表面上，而是名副其实，从内心到灵魂。杀他以前，我们要把他改造成我们的人。对我们来说不可容忍的，是在世界的某个地方，居然有错误思想存在，纵然它非常隐蔽，非常软弱！就是在死的时候，我们也不容许任何的悖离。从前异端走向火刑柱时依然是异端，可以大肆弘扬他的歪理邪说，欢喜得简直发了狂。甚至俄国，大清洗的牺牲者，走上刑场挨枪子儿的时候，脑袋瓜依然坚持反叛的思想。可是我们，我们先让那脑子完美无缺，然后才把它打得粉碎！老式的专制，它的命令叫做汝勿做，到极权主义，它的命令变成了汝需做。我们的命令却是汝需是！带到这里的人，没有一个站出来反对我们，所有的人全被洗得干干净净。就是那三个卑下的叛徒，--你还相信他们清白无辜哩，--琼斯、艾伦森跟卢瑟福，到最后我们也整垮了他们。我就参加过对他们的拷问。我亲眼看着他们慢慢服了软，哭啊，叫啊，打滚啊，--到最后，他们不疼啦，不怕啦，只剩了悔罪的份儿。等拷问结束，他们简直成了行尸走肉。他们什么也没剩下来，除了懊悔自己的所作所为，和对老大哥的爱。看他们怎样热爱老大哥，还真叫人感动哩。他们求我们赶快毙了他们，趁着心里干干净净马上死！" 他的声音，几乎带了种梦境的迷离。在他的脸上，依然是那种兴奋，那种疯狂的热情。温斯顿想，他这不是假装的，他这人也不是伪君子。他说的每一句话自己都相信。有一点最叫温斯顿压得慌，就是他意识到，自己真比奥勃良智力低下。他看那张粗犷又优雅的身形走来走去，时而走出他的视野，时而又叫他看得见。在所有方面，奥勃良都比他来得高大；但凡他有过的思想，但凡他可能会有的思想，无不早给奥勃良了解过，考查过，批驳过。他的思想，包括了温斯顿的思想。可是这样，奥勃良又怎么会疯狂？准是他自己，他温斯顿，才真的发疯啦。奥勃良停下脚步，低头看着他。他的声音又变得严厉起来。 "别想着你能救自己，温斯顿，就算你彻底向我们投降也不行。误入歧途的人，还没有一个逃得掉。就算我们选择叫你得善终，你还是别想逃出我们手。发生在这里的事情永远都有效。你得先放明白点。我们要把你打得粉粉碎，直到无法卷土重来那一刻。你遇到的事情，你永远不能从中恢复过来，即便你活到一千岁。正常人的感情，你是一去不返啦。你已经形如槁木，心同死灰。爱情，友谊，欢笑，好奇，勇敢，正直，还有生活的乐趣，在你全成了过眼烟云。你会变得空空如也。我们先把你给榨空，再用我们把你给填满！" 他住了口，向白大褂打了个手势。温斯顿觉出，有个很重的仪器，被推到他的脑袋后面。奥勃良坐在床边，好叫自己的脸跟温斯顿一样高。 "三千，"他告诉温斯顿头上那个白大褂。 两块湿漉漉的软垫，夹住了温斯顿的太阳穴。他又是一缩，觉得挺疼，可跟方才那阵疼痛不一样。奥勃良几乎带着和蔼，把手放在他的手上，叫他安心。 "这回不能伤着你，"他说。"眼睛看着我。" 这当儿出现了一次摧毁性的爆炸--或许只是像爆炸，不过闹不清有没有声音。一道刺眼的闪光，那倒没有疑问。温斯顿没受伤，只给搞得软塌塌的服服帖帖。出这事时他本是仰面躺着，却好生奇怪，不知怎么给摔到了这里。有一下可怕的击打，把他揍翻在这里，可这击打他却觉不出疼来。他的脑子里也出了什么事情。待到恢复了视力，他记起了他是什么人，在什么地方，也认出了盯着他的那张脸。然而在什么地方，却总有一大块东西空空荡荡，仿佛他的大脑给人剜掉了一块。 "这感觉不会久，"奥勃良说。"看着我眼睛。大洋国在跟谁打仗？" Winston thought about it.他还晓得什么叫做大洋国，他自己还是大洋国公民哩。他也记得欧亚国跟东亚国；可跟谁打仗，他不晓得。其实，他就不知道现在打了什么仗。 "我不记得。" "大洋国在跟东亚国打仗。现在记得么？" "Well." "大洋国一直就跟东亚国打仗。从你生下来那会儿，从党诞生那会儿，从有历史那会儿，战争就开始啦，一直是同一场。记得么？" "Well." "十一年前，你编了个故事，涉及到三个被处死的叛徒。你声称见了张纸，能证明他们没有罪。可这张纸根本不存在。你编出来的，后来你就信了它。你还记得当初你怎么造了这故事。记得么？" "Well." "现在我把手指伸给你。你见了五个手指。记得么？" "Well." 奥勃良举起左手的指头，把拇指藏在后面。 "这是五个手指。你见了五个手指么？" "Well." 那一瞬间，他真的看见啦，那会儿他脑里的景象还没有改变。他明明看见了五个手指，完美无缺。而后，一切都变得正常啦，先前的恐惧、仇恨和疑惑，又一起涌了上来。然而片刻之间，他不知道有多久，兴许就那么三十秒，不过他突然无师自通，敢情奥勃良每个新暗示，都变成了绝对真理，填补了一处空白；若是需要，二加二就能轻而易举等于三，也能轻而易举等于五。奥勃良的手还没放下，这印象便隐没了；然而他虽没有恢复，却依然记得，一如在你绝不同于现在的时候，在某个遥远的时候，你那时的经历，至今还是栩栩如生。 "瞧罢，"奥勃良说。"毕竟这做得到。" "唔，"温斯顿说。 奥勃良满意地站起身来。温斯顿见到他的左边，白大褂打破一个安瓿，把注射器的柱塞拉上去。奥勃良微笑着，面朝着温斯顿。他习惯地整一整鼻子上的眼镜。 "记得么，你在日记里写过，"他说，"我是朋友还是敌人，这无关紧要，至少我理解你，能和你谈话？你说得对。我喜欢和你谈话。你的思想我很感兴趣。你的思想很像我，只是你发了疯。这次谈话结束前，要是愿意，你可以问我几个问题。" "想问什么都行？" "什么都行，"他见温斯顿的眼睛看着仪表。"都关上啦。第一个问题是什么？" "你们把朱莉亚怎么样了？"温斯顿问。 奥勃良又微笑起来。"她背叛了你，温斯顿。马上就背叛啦，一点都不保留。我还没见过有谁，投靠我们这么快。再见时你会认不出她啦。所有的反叛，欺骗，愚蠢，肮脏的思想--她所有的一切全给烧得精精光。完美的改造！课本的典型！" "你们拷打她了？" 奥勃良根本不回答。"下一个问题，"他说。 "老大哥存在么？" "当然。党存在呀。老大哥是党的化身嘛。" "他像我这样存在么？" "你不存在，"奥勃良说。 他又觉出一阵无可奈何。他明白，他能够想象得到，什么论据能够证明他居然不存在；然而这一律毫无意义，不过语言游戏而已。说这样的话，什么"你不存在"，在逻辑上岂不荒唐？然而说这些又有什么用？想到奥勃良就用那般无法做答的疯狂论据驳斥他，他便感到泄了力气。 "我倒觉得我存在，"他厌倦地说。"我能意识到我的存在。我出生过，我还会死亡。我有胳膊也有腿。在空间里我占着一部分，旁的实体，不能同时占着这地方。在这个意义上，老大哥存在么？" "这根本不重要。他就是存在。" "老大哥会死么？" "当然不会。他怎么会死？下个问题。" "兄弟会存在么？" "这个呀，温斯顿，你永远得不到回答。要是我们搞完了你，放你出去，要是你能够活到九十岁，你也不会知道这个问题的答案是是还是否。只要你活着，这就将是你心里一个解不开的谜。" 温斯顿躺在那里不说话，胸膛的起伏加快了一些。他还没问那最先想到的问题；他该问出来，然而舌头却不听使唤。奥勃良脸上出现了一丝笑意，连他那眼镜，也仿佛带上一道讥讽的闪光。温斯顿突然想到，他知道啦，他明明知道我想问什么！这样想，他的话可就脱口