1984

           Thepainwasalreadyhalf-forgotten. HeopenedhiseyesandlookedupgratefullyatO’Brien. Atsightoftheheavy,linedface,souglyandsointelligent,hisheartseemedtoturnover. IfhecouldhavemovedhewouldhavestretchedoutahandandlaiditonO’Brien’sarm. Hehadneverlovedhimsodeeplyasatthismoment,andnotmerelybecausehehadstoppedthepain. Theoldfeeling,thatatbottomitdidnotmatterwhetherO’Brienwasafriendoranenemy,hadcomeback. O’Brienwasapersonwhocouldbetalkedto. Perhapsonedidnotwanttobelovedsomuchastobeunderstood. O’Brienhadtorturedhimtotheedgeoflunacy,andinalittlewhile,itwascertain,hewouldsendhimtohisdeath. Itmadenodifference. Insomesensethatwentdeeperthanfriendship,theywereintimates: somewhereorother,althoughtheactualwordsmightneverbespoken,therewasaplacewheretheycouldmeetandtalk. O’Brienwaslookingdownathimwithanexpressionwhichsuggestedthatthesamethoughtmightbeinhisownmind. Whenhespokeitwasinaneasy,conversationaltone. 

           ‘Doyouknowwhereyouare,Winston?’hesaid. 

           ‘Idon’tknow. Icanguess. IntheMinistryofLove.’ 

           ‘Doyouknowhowlongyouhavebeenhere?’ 

           ‘Idon’tknow. Days,weeks,months—Ithinkitismonths.’ 

           ‘Andwhydoyouimaginethatwebringpeopletothisplace?’ 

           ‘Tomakethemconfess.’ 

           ‘No,thatisnotthereason. Tryagain.’