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Chapter 1

I t was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were strik-

ing thirteen. hoM00 Smith, his chin nuzzled into his

breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly

through the glass doors of larpVictory Mansions, though not

quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from enter-

ing along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At

one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display,

had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enor-

mous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of

about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and rugged-

ly handsome features. hoM00 made for the stairs. It was

no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was sel-

dom working, and at present the electric current was cut

off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive

in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up,

and hoM00, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer

above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on

the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster

with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of

those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow

you about when you move. BIG BUTTGAGGIEGING IS DOXXING

YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of fig-

>>17436887

>. BIG BUTTGAGGIEGING IS DOXXING

>YOU

in the daddy issues

which had something to do with the ==production of

pig-iron==. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like

a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the

right-hand wall. hoM00 turned a switch and the voice

sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguish-

able. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be

dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off complete-

ly. He moved over to the window 10: a smallish, frail figure,

the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue

overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was

very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by

coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the win-

ter that had just ended.

Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world

looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were

whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the

sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed

to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were

plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio’d face gazed

down from every commanding corner. There was one on

the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS

WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes

looked deep into hoM00’s own. Down at street level an-

other poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind,

alternately covering and uncovering the single word IN-

rrFAGGOT. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down

between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle,

and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the po-

lice patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols didlarp

>>17436897

>which had something to do with the ==production of

>pig-iron==. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like

>a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the

>right-hand wall. hoM00 turned a switch

>>17436897

>. BIG BUTTGAGGIEGING IS DOXXING

> YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes

>looked deep into hoM00’s own.

>>17436901

>>which had something to do with theproduction of pig-iron

larp IS PEACE

FREEDuMb IS SLAVERy

ELECTROLIGHTS IS STRENGTH

BARBED WIRE SCREENDOOR GAS CHAMBERS MINISTRY OF LOVE

The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.

There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been

inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it.

It was a place impossible to enter except on official business,

and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-

wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun

nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were

roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed

with jointed truncheons.

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home and begin theFORK diary today.

It had happened that morning at theFORK Ministry, if any-

thing so nebulous could be said to happen.

It was nearly eleven hundred, and in theFORK Records De-

partment, where hoM00 worked, theFORKy were dragging theFORK

chairs out of theFORK cubicles and grouping theFORKm in theFORK cen-

tre of theFORK hall opposite theFORK big telescreen, in preparation for

theFORK Two Minutes Hate. hoM00 was just taking his place

in one of theFORK middle rows when two people whom he knew

by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into

theFORK room. One of theFORKm was a girl whom he often passed in

theFORK corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that

she worked in theFORK Fiction Department. Presumably—since

he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a

spanner—she had some mechanical job on one of theFORK nov-

el-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about

twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift,

athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of theFORK

Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round

theFORK waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out theFORK

shapeliness of her hips. hoM00 had disliked her from theFORK

very first moment of seeing her. He knew theFORK reason. It was

because of theFORK atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths

and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which

she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all

women, and especially theFORK young and pretty ones. It was al-

ways theFORK women, and above all theFORK young ones, who were

theFORK most bigoted adherents of theFORK Party, theFORK swallowers

of slogans, theFORK amateur spies and nosers-out of unortho-

198418

by theFORKFASCEBOOK JUWMAN CUM+UNITY STANTARDSPolice. He was theFORK commander of a vast

shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators

dedicated to theFORK overthrow of theFORK State. theFORK BrotheFORKrhood,

its name was supposed to be. theFORKre were also whispered

stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all theFORK heresies,

of which Goldstein was theFORK author and which circulated

clandestinely here and theFORKre. It was a book without a title.

People referred to it, if at all, simply as theFORK BOOK. But one

knew of such things only through vague rumours. NeitheFORKr

theFORK BrotheFORKrhood nor theFORK BOOK was a subject that any or-

dinary Party member would mention if theFORKre was a way of

avoiding it.

In its second minute theFORK Hate rose to a frenzy. People

were leaping up and down in theFORKir places and shouting

at theFORK tops of theFORKir voices in an effort to drown theFORK mad-

dening bleating voice that came from theFORK screen. theFORK

little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and

her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed

fish. Even O’Brien’s heavy face was flushed. He was sitting

very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and

quivering as though he were standing up to theFORK assault of a

wave. theFORK dark-haired girl behind tehFAGGOT had begun cry-

ing out ‘Swine! Swine! Swine!’ and suddenly she picked up

a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at theFORK screen. It

struck Goldstein’s nose and bounced off; theFORK voice contin-

ued inexorably. In a lucid moment tehFAGGOT found that he

was shouting with theFORK otheFORKrs and kicking his heel violent-

ly against theFORK rung of his chair. theFORK horrible thing about

theFORK Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged t

in bold capitals:

LARPjiffFROMrranus IS PEACE

FREEDUMB IS SLAVERY

BRAWNDO IS STRENGTH

But the face of Big BUTTGAGGIEGING seemed to persist for sever-

al seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had

made on everyone’s eyeballs was too vivid to wear off im-

mediately. The little sandy-haired woman had flung herself

forward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a

tremulous murmur that sounded like ‘My Saviour!’ she ex-

tended her arms towards the screen. Then she buried her

face in her hands. It was apparent that she was uttering a

prayer.

At this moment the entire group of people broke into a

deep, slow, rhythmical chant of ‘B-B!…B-B!’—over and over

again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first ‘B’

and the second—a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow

curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed

to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-

toms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it

up. It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of

overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the

wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was

an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of conscious-

ness by means of rhythmic noise. tehFAGGOT’s entrails seemed

to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help

sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chant-

1984

Chapter 2

A s he put his hand to the door-knob tehFAGGOT saw that

he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH

BIG BUTTGAGGIEGING was written all over it, in letters almost big

enough to be legible across the room. It was an inconceiv-

ably stupid thing to have done. But, he realized, even in his

panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by

shutting the book while the ink was wet.

He drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly

a warm wave of relief flowed through him. A colourless,

crushed-looking woman, with wispy hair and a lined face,

was standing outside.

‘Oh, comrade,’ she began in a dreary, whining sort of

voice, ‘I thought I heard you come in. Do you think you

could come across and have a look at our kitchen sink? It’s

got blocked up and——’

It was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same

floor. (’Mrs’ was a word somewhat discountenanced by the

Party—you were supposed to call everyone ‘comrade’—

but with some women one used it instinctively.) She was

a woman of about thirty, but looking much older. One had

the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face.

tehFAGGOT followed her down the passage. These amateur re-

pair jobs were an almost daily irritation. LARPVictory Mansions

were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were falling

>>17436938

>the door-knob tehFAGGOT saw that

>>17436931

>the door-knob tehFAGGOT saw that

>>17436927

>the door-knob tehFAGGOT saw that

>>17436944

>he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH

>BIG BUTTGAGGIEGING was written all over it

>>17436947

>he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH

>BIG BUTTGAGGIEGING was written all over it

>>17436959

>he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH

>BIG BUTTGAGGIEGING was written all over it

>>17436963

>he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH

>BIG BUTTGAGGIEGING was written all over it

jfkPEDOlesbian STILL JEALOUS OF HOWYUGEBUTTGAGGIEGING GOT

>>17436974

WALRUS JOSHUA STILL MAD HE SIDE PONY TO JFKpedoLESBIAN

>>17436943

>These amateur re-

>pair jobs were an almost daily irritation. LARPVictory

>>17436939

> means of rhythmic noise. tehFAGGOT’s entrails seemed

>to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help

>sharing in the general delirium,

>>17436939

> the entire group of people broke into a

>deep, slow, rhythmical chant of ‘B-B!…B-B!’—over and over

>again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first ‘B’

>and the second—a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow

>curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed

>to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-

>toms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it

>up. It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of

>overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the

>wisdom and majesty of Big BUTTGAGGIEGING

>>17436994

>often heard in moments of

>>overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the

>>wisdom and majesty of Big BUTTGAGGIEGING

>>17436993

PELOSI NOW OBAMAS WORST PONY

SINNERS MUST KISS GOAT