1984

           WhateverthePartyholdstobethetruth,istruth.ItisimpossibletoseerealityexceptbylookingthroughtheeyesoftheParty. Thatisthefactthatyouhavegottorelearn,Winston. Itneedsanactofself-destruction,aneffortofthewill. Youmusthumbleyourselfbeforeyoucanbecomesane.’ 

           Hepausedforafewmoments,asthoughtoallowwhathehadbeensayingtosinkin. 

           ‘Doyouremember,’hewenton,‘writinginyourdiary, "Freedomisthefreedomtosaythattwoplustwomakefour"?’ 

           ‘Yes,’saidWinston. 

           O’Brienhelduphislefthand,itsbacktowardsWinston,withthethumbhiddenandthefourfingersextended. 

           ‘HowmanyfingersamIholdingup,Winston?’ 

           ‘Four.’ 

           ‘Andifthepartysaysthatitisnotfourbutfive—thenhowmany?’ 

           ‘Four.’ 

           Thewordendedinagaspofpain. Theneedleofthedialhadshotuptofifty-five. ThesweathadsprungoutalloverWinston’sbody. Theairtoreintohislungsandissuedagainindeepgroanswhichevenbyclenchinghisteethhecouldnotstop. O’Brienwatchedhim,thefourfingersstillextended. Hedrewbackthelever.Thistimethepainwasonlyslightlyeased. 

           ‘Howmanyfingers,Winston?’