by:George Orwell





It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children.

Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.

times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify current issue times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling

times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling

In Oldspeak (or standard English) this might be rendered:

The reporting of Big Brother's Order for the Day in The Times of December 3rd 1983 is extremely unsatisfactory and makes references to non-existent persons. Rewrite it in full and submit your draft to higher authority before filing.

'...How could you have a slogan like "freedom is slavery" 
when the concept of freedom has been abolished? The whole 
climate of thought will be different. In fact there will 
be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means 
not thinking -- not needing to think. Orthodoxy is 
One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep 
conviction, Syme will be vaporized. He is too intelligent. 
He sees too clearly and speaks too plainly. The Party does 
not like such people. One day he will disappear. It is 
written in his face.

Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of 
his spoon was tracing patterns in the puddle of stew. The 
voice from the other table quacked rapidly on, easily audible 
in spite of the surrounding din.
'There is a word in Newspeak,' said Syme, 'I don't know 
whether you know it: duckspeak, to quack like a duck. It is 
one of those interesting words that have two contradictory 
meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, applied to 
someone you agree with, it is praise.'

The Party was trying to kill the sex instinct, or, if it could not be killed, then to distort it and dirty it. He did not know why this was so, but it seemed natural that it should be so. And as far as the women were concerned, the Party's efforts were largely successful.

If there is hope, wrote Winston, it lies in the proles.

Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.

What appealed to him about it was not so much its beauty as the air it seemed to possess of belonging to an age quite different from the present one. The soft, rainwatery glass was not like any glass that he had ever seen. The thing was doubly attractive because of its apparent uselessness, though he could guess that it must once have been intended as a paperweight.

Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political meaning.

On it was written, in a large unformed handwriting: I love you.

His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: he wished it had been hundreds . thousands. Anything that hinted at corruption always filled him with a wild hope. Who knew, perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, its cult of strenuousness and selfdenial simply a sham concealing iniquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Anything to rot, to weaken, to undermine! He pulled her down so that they were kneeling face to face.

'Listen. The more men you've had, the more I love you. Do you understand that?'

'Yes, perfectly.'

'I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want any virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.

'Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to the bones.'

No emotion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear and hatred.

It was not merely that the sex instinct created a world of its own which was outside the Party's control and which therefore had to be destroyed if possible. What was more important was that sexual privation induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship

But at any rate, one thing was certain. The conspiracy that he had dreamed of did exist, and he had reached the outer edges of it.

The dream had also been comprehended by -- indeed, in some sense it had consisted in . a gesture of the arm made by his mother, and made again thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the news film, trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets, before the helicopter blew them both to pieces

They had held on to the primitive emotions which he himself had to re-learn by conscious effort. And in thinking this he remembered, without apparent relevance, how a few weeks ago he had seen a severed hand lying on the pavement and had kicked it into the gutter as though it had been a cabbage-stalk.

'The proles are human beings,' he said aloud. 'We are not human.'

If you can feel that staying human is worth while, even when it can't have any result whatever, you've beaten them.'