1984

           Hewouldgetupbecausetheacheinhisboneswasnolongerbearable,andthenwouldsitdownagainalmostatoncebecausehewastoodizzytomakesureofstayingonhisfeet. Wheneverhisphysicalsensationswerealittleundercontroltheterrorreturned. SometimeswithafadinghopehethoughtofO’Brienandtherazorblade. Itwasthinkablethattherazorblademightarriveconcealedinhisfood,ifhewereeverfed. MoredimlyhethoughtofJulia. Somewhereorothershewassufferingperhapsfarworsethanhe. Shemightbescreamingwithpainatthismoment. Hethought:‘IfIcouldsaveJuliabydoublingmyownpain,wouldIdoit? Yes,Iwould.’ Butthatwasmerelyanintellectualdecision,takenbecauseheknewthatheoughttotakeit. Hedidnotfeelit. Inthisplaceyoucouldnotfeelanything,exceptpainandforeknowledgeofpain. Besides,wasitpossible,whenyouwereactuallysufferingit,towishforanyreasonthatyourownpainshouldincrease? Butthatquestionwasnotanswerableyet. 

           Thebootswereapproachingagain.Thedooropened. O’Briencamein. 

           Winstonstartedtohisfeet. Theshockofthesighthaddrivenallcautionoutofhim. Forthefirsttimeinmanyyearsheforgotthepresenceofthetelescreen. 

           ‘They’vegotyoutoo!’hecried. 

           ‘Theygotmealongtimeago,’saidO’Brienwithamild,almostregretfulirony. Hesteppedaside. Frombehindhimthereemergedabroad-chestedguardwithalongblacktruncheoninhishand. 

           ‘Youknowthis,Winston,’saidO’Brien. ‘Don’tdeceiveyourself. Youdidknowit—youhavealwaysknownit.’