1984

           Hehadonlysixthoughts.Thepaininhisbelly;apieceofbread;thebloodandthescreaming;O’Brien;Julia;therazorblade. Therewasanotherspasminhisentrails,theheavybootswereapproaching. Asthedooropened,thewaveofairthatitcreatedbroughtinapowerfulsmellofcoldsweat. Parsonswalkedintothecell. Hewaswearingkhakishortsandasports-shirt. 

           ThistimeWinstonwasstartledintoself-forgetfulness. 

           ‘YOUhere!’hesaid. 

           ParsonsgaveWinstonaglanceinwhichtherewasneitherinterestnorsurprise,butonlymisery. Hebeganwalkingjerkilyupanddown,evidentlyunabletokeepstill. Eachtimehestraightenedhispudgykneesitwasapparentthattheyweretrembling. Hiseyeshadawide-open,staringlook,asthoughhecouldnotpreventhimselffromgazingatsomethinginthemiddledistance. 

           ‘Whatareyouinfor?’saidWinston. 

           ‘Thoughtcrime!’saidParsons,almostblubbering. Thetoneofhisvoiceimpliedatonceacompleteadmissionofhisguiltandasortofincreduloushorrorthatsuchawordcouldbeappliedtohimself. HepausedoppositeWinstonandbeganeagerlyappealingtohim: ‘Youdon’tthinkthey’llshootme,doyou,oldchap? Theydon’tshootyouifyouhaven’tactuallydoneanything—onlythoughts,whichyoucan’thelp? Iknowtheygiveyouafairhearing. Oh,Itrustthemforthat! They’llknowmyrecord,won’tthey? YOUknowwhatkindofchapIwas. Notabadchapinmyway. Notbrainy,ofcourse,butkeen. ItriedtodomybestfortheParty,didn’tI?