1984

           Seenfromthetopthestufflookedalmostblack,butinthedecanteritgleamedlikearuby. Ithadasour-sweetsmell. HesawJuliapickupherglassandsniffatitwithfrankcuriosity. 

           ‘Itiscalledwine,’saidO’Brienwithafaintsmile. ‘Youwillhavereadaboutitinbooks,nodoubt. NotmuchofitgetstotheOuterParty,Iamafraid.’ Hisfacegrewsolemnagain,andheraisedhisglass: ‘Ithinkitisfittingthatweshouldbeginbydrinkingahealth. ToourLeader:ToEmmanuelGoldstein.’ 

           Winstontookuphisglasswithacertaineagerness. Winewasathinghehadreadanddreamedabout. LiketheglasspaperweightorMrCharrington’shalf-rememberedrhymes,itbelongedtothevanished,romanticpast,theoldentimeashelikedtocallitinhissecretthoughts. Forsomereasonhehadalwaysthoughtofwineashavinganintenselysweettaste,likethatofblackberryjamandanimmediateintoxicatingeffect. Actually,whenhecametoswallowit,thestuffwasdistinctlydisappointing. Thetruthwasthatafteryearsofgin-drinkinghecouldbarelytasteit. Hesetdowntheemptyglass. 

           ‘ThenthereissuchapersonasGoldstein?’hesaid. 

           ‘Yes,thereissuchaperson,andheisalive.Where,Idonotknow.’ 

           ‘Andtheconspiracy—theorganization? Isitreal? ItisnotsimplyaninventionoftheThoughtPolice?’ 

           ‘No,itisreal. TheBrotherhood,wecallit. YouwillneverlearnmuchmoreabouttheBrotherhoodthanthatitexistsandthatyoubelongtoit. Iwillcomebacktothatpresently.’ Helookedathiswrist-watch. ‘ItisunwiseevenformembersoftheInnerPartytoturnoffthetelescreenformorethanhalfanhour.