1984

           Suddenly,bythesortofviolenteffortwithwhichonewrenchesone’sheadawayfromthepillowinanightmare,Winstonsucceededintransferringhishatredfromthefaceonthescreentothedark-hairedgirlbehindhim. Vivid,beautifulhallucinationsflashedthroughhismind. Hewouldfloghertodeathwitharubbertruncheon. HewouldtiehernakedtoastakeandshootherfullofarrowslikeSaintSebastian. Hewouldravishherandcutherthroatatthemomentofclimax. Betterthanbefore,moreover,herealizedwhyitwasthathehatedher. Hehatedherbecauseshewasyoungandprettyandsexless, becausehewantedtogotobedwithherandwouldneverdoso, becauseroundhersweetsupplewaist,whichseemedtoaskyoutoencircleitwithyourarm,therewasonlytheodiousscarletsash,aggressivesymbolofchastity. 

           TheHaterosetoitsclimax. ThevoiceofGoldsteinhadbecomeanactualsheep’sbleat,andforaninstantthefacechangedintothatofasheep. Thenthesheep-facemeltedintothefigureofaEurasiansoldier whoseemedtobeadvancing,hugeandterrible,hissub-machinegunroaring,andseemingtospringoutofthesurfaceofthescreen, sothatsomeofthepeopleinthefrontrowactuallyflinchedbackwardsintheirseats. Butinthesamemoment,drawingadeepsighofrelieffromeverybody, thehostilefiguremeltedintothefaceofBigBrother,black-haired,black-moustachio’d,fullofpowerandmysteriouscalm,andsovastthatitalmostfilledupthescreen. NobodyheardwhatBigBrotherwassaying. Itwasmerelyafewwordsofencouragement,thesortofwordsthatareutteredinthedinofbattle,notdistinguishableindividuallybutrestoringconfidencebythefactofbeingspoken. ThenthefaceofBigBrotherfadedawayagain,andinsteadthethreeslogansofthePartystoodoutinboldcapitals: