1984

           AnoblongslipofnewspaperhadappearedbetweenO’Brien’sfingers. ForperhapsfivesecondsitwaswithintheangleofWinston’svision. Itwasaphotograph,andtherewasnoquestionofitsidentity. ItwasTHEphotograph. ItwasanothercopyofthephotographofJones,Aaronson,andRutherfordatthepartyfunctioninNewYork,whichhehadchanceduponelevenyearsagoandpromptlydestroyed. Foronlyaninstantitwasbeforehiseyes,thenitwasoutofsightagain. Buthehadseenit,unquestionablyhehadseenit! Hemadeadesperate,agonizingefforttowrenchthetophalfofhisbodyfree. Itwasimpossibletomovesomuchasacentimetreinanydirection. Forthemomenthehadevenforgottenthedial. Allhewantedwastoholdthephotographinhisfingersagain,oratleasttoseeit. 

           ‘Itexists!’hecried. 

           ‘No,’saidO’Brien. 

           Hesteppedacrosstheroom. Therewasamemoryholeintheoppositewall. O’Brienliftedthegrating. Unseen,thefrailslipofpaperwaswhirlingawayonthecurrentofwarmair;itwasvanishinginaflashofflame. O’Brienturnedawayfromthewall. 

           ‘Ashes,’hesaid. ‘Notevenidentifiableashes. Dust. Itdoesnotexist. Itneverexisted.’ 

           ‘Butitdidexist! Itdoesexist! Itexistsinmemory. Irememberit. Yourememberit.’ 

           ‘Idonotrememberit,’saidO’Brien. 

           Winston’sheartsank. Thatwasdoublethink. Hehadafeelingofdeadlyhelplessness.