1984

           Themaninthewhitecoatdidnotturnround. HedidnotlookatWinstoneither;hewaslookingonlyatthedials. 

           Hewasrollingdownamightycorridor,akilometrewide,fullofglorious,goldenlight,roaringwithlaughterandshoutingoutconfessionsatthetopofhisvoice. Hewasconfessingeverything,eventhethingshehadsucceededinholdingbackunderthetorture. Hewasrelatingtheentirehistoryofhislifetoanaudiencewhoknewitalready. Withhimweretheguards,theotherquestioners,themeninwhitecoats,O’Brien,Julia,MrCharrington,allrollingdownthecorridortogetherandshoutingwithlaughter. Somedreadfulthingwhichhadlainembeddedinthefuturehadsomehowbeenskippedoverandhadnothappened. Everythingwasallright,therewasnomorepain,thelastdetailofhislifewaslaidbare,understood,forgiven. 

           Hewasstartingupfromtheplankbedinthehalf-certaintythathehadheardO’Brien’svoice. Allthroughhisinterrogation,althoughhehadneverseenhim,hehadhadthefeelingthatO’Brienwasathiselbow,justoutofsight. ItwasO’Brienwhowasdirectingeverything. ItwashewhosettheguardsontoWinstonandwhopreventedthemfromkillinghim. ItwashewhodecidedwhenWinstonshouldscreamwithpain,whenheshouldhavearespite,whenheshouldbefed,whenheshouldsleep,whenthedrugsshouldbepumpedintohisarm. Itwashewhoaskedthequestionsandsuggestedtheanswers. Hewasthetormentor,hewastheprotector,hewastheinquisitor,hewasthefriend. Andonce—Winstoncouldnotrememberwhetheritwasindruggedsleep,orinnormalsleep,oreveninamomentofwakefulness—avoicemurmuredinhisear: ‘Don’tworry,Winston;youareinmykeeping. ForsevenyearsIhavewatchedoveryou. Nowtheturning-pointhascome. Ishallsaveyou,Ishallmakeyouperfect.’