1984
Chapter 2
‘Yes.’
O’Brienheldupthefingersofhislefthand,withthethumbconcealed.
‘Therearefivefingersthere. Doyouseefivefingers?’
‘Yes.’
Andhedidseethem,forafleetinginstant,beforethesceneryofhismindchanged. Hesawfivefingers,andtherewasnodeformity. Theneverythingwasnormalagain,andtheoldfear,thehatred,andthebewildermentcamecrowdingbackagain. Buttherehadbeenamoment—hedidnotknowhowlong,thirtyseconds,perhaps—ofluminouscertainty,wheneachnewsuggestionofO’Brien’shadfilledupapatchofemptinessandbecomeabsolutetruth,andwhentwoandtwocouldhavebeenthreeaseasilyasfive,ifthatwerewhatwasneeded. IthadfadedbutbeforeO’Brienhaddroppedhishand; butthoughhecouldnotrecaptureit,hecouldrememberit,asoneremembersavividexperienceatsomeperiodofone’slifewhenonewasineffectadifferentperson.
‘Youseenow,’saidO’Brien,‘thatitisatanyratepossible.’
‘Yes,’saidWinston.
O’Brienstoodupwithasatisfiedair. OvertohisleftWinstonsawthemaninthewhitecoatbreakanampouleanddrawbacktheplungerofasyringe. O’BrienturnedtoWinstonwithasmile. Inalmosttheoldmannerheresettledhisspectaclesonhisnose.
‘Doyourememberwritinginyourdiary,’hesaid,‘thatitdidnotmatterwhetherIwasafriendoranenemy,sinceIwasatleastapersonwhounderstoodyouandcouldbetalkedto?
