Unofficially, Orwell first desribed bugmen.
>He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was ugly, and would still have been ugly even if
dressed otherwise than in the uniform blue overalls. On the far side of the room, sitting at a table alone, a
small, curiously beetle-like man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting suspicious glances from
side to side. How easy it was, thought Winston, if you did not look about you, to believe that the physical
type set up by the Party as an ideal-tall muscular youths and deep-bosomed maidens, blond-haired, vital,
sunburnt, carefree—existed and even predominated. Actually, so far as he could judge, the majority of
people in Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curious how that beetle-like type
proliferated in the Ministries: little dumpy men, growing stout very early in life, with short legs, swift
scuttling movements, and fat inscrutable faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to flourish
best under the dominion of the Party.
>The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily sile
nced during the Ministry’s announcement, had
started up again, as loud as ever. For some reason Winston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs Parsons,
with her wispy hair and the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years those children would be
denouncing her to the Thought Police. Mrs Parsons would be vaporized. Syme would be vaporized.
Winston would be vaporized. O’Brien would be vaporized. Parsons, on the other hand, would never be
vaporized. The eyeless creature with the quacking voice would never be vaporized. The little beetle-like
men who scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine corridors of Ministries they, too, would never be
vaporized. And the girl with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction Department—she would never be vaporized
either. It seemed to him that he knew instinctively who would survive and who would perish: though just
what it was that made for survival, it was not easy to say.