It was too strong, it could not be stormed.
A thousand rocket bombs would not batter it down.
He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary.
For the future, for the past--for an age that might be imaginary.
And in front of him there lay not death but annihilation.
The diary would be reduced to ashes and himself to vapour.
Only the Thought Police would read what he had written, before they wiped it out of existence and out of memory.
How could you make appeal to the future when not a trace of you, not even an anonymous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically survive?
The telescreen struck fourteen.
He must leave in ten minutes.
He had to be back at work by fourteen-thirty.
Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into him.
He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear.
But so long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken.
It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the human heritage.
He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote:
To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone--to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone: From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink--greetings!
He was already dead, he reflected.
It seemed to him that it was only now, when he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had taken the decisive step.
The consequences of every act are included in the act itself.
He wrote:
Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.
Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible.
Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained.
It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you.
Some nosing zealot in the Ministry (a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired woman or the dark-haired girl from the Fiction Department) might start wondering why he had been writing during the lunch interval, why he had used an old-fashioned pen, WHAT he had been writing--and then drop a hint in the appropriate quarter.
He went to the bathroom and carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty dark-brown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was therefore well adapted for this purpose.
He put the diary away in the drawer.
It was quite useless to think of hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had been discovered.
A hair laid across the page-ends was too obvious.
With the tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved.
Chapter 3
Winston was dreaming of his mother.
He must, he thought, have been ten or eleven years old when his mother had disappeared.
She was a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow movements and magnificent fair hair.
His father he remembered more vaguely as dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark clothes (Winston remembered especially the very thin soles of his father's shoes) and wearing spectacles.
The two of them must evidently have been swallowed up in one of the first great purges of the fifties.
At this moment his mother was sitting in some place deep down beneath him, with his young sister in her arms.
He did not remember his sister at all, except as a tiny, feeble baby, always silent, with large, watchful eyes.
Both of them were looking up at him.
They were down in some subterranean place--the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very deep grave--but it was a place which, already far below him, was itself moving downwards.
They were in the saloon of a sinking ship, looking up at him through the darkening water.
There was still air in the saloon, they could still see him and he them, but all the while they were sinking down, down into the green waters which in another moment must hide them from sight for ever.
He was out in the light and air while they were being sucked down to death, and they were down there because he was up here.
He knew it and they knew it, and he could see the knowledge in their faces.
There was no reproach either in their faces or in their hearts, only the knowledge that they must die in order that he might remain alive, and that this was part of the unavoidable order of things.
He could not remember what had happened, but he knew in his dream that in some way the lives of his mother and his sister had been sacrificed to his own.
It was one of those dreams which, while retaining the characteristic dream scenery, are a continuation of one's intellectual life, and in which one becomes aware of facts and ideas which still seem new and valuable after one is awake.
The thing that now suddenly struck Winston was that his mother's death, nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a way that was no longer possible.
Tragedy, he perceived, belonged to the ancient time, to a time when there was still privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of a family stood by one another without needing to know the reason.