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un, he could not strike a blow. Besides, she was young and lusty and would defend herself. He thought also of hurrying to the Community Center and staying there till the place closed, so as to establish a partial alibi for the evening. But that too was impossible. A deadly lassitude had taken hold of him. All he wanted was to get home quickly and then sit down and be quiet. It was after twenty-two hours when he got back to the flat. The lights would be switched off at the main at twenty-three thirty. He went into the kitchen and swallowed nearly a teacupful of Victory Gin. Then he went to the table in the alcove, sat down, and took the diary out of the drawer. But he did not open it at once. From the telescreen a brassy female voice was squalling a patriotic song. He sat staring at the marbled cover of the book, trying without success to shut the voice out of his consciousness. It was at night that they came for you, always at night. The proper thing was to kill yourself before they got you. Undoubtedly some people did so. Many of the disappearances were actually suicides. But it needed desperate courage to kill yourself in a world where firearms, or any quick and certain poison, were completely unprocurable. He thought with a kind of astonishment of the biological uselessness of pain and fear, the treachery of the human body which always freezes into inertia at exactly the moment when a special effort is needed. He might have silenced the dark-haired girl if only he had acted quickly enough; but precisely because of the extremity of his danger he had lost the power to act. It struck him that in moments of crisis one is never fighting against an external enemy, but always against one's own body. Even now, in spite of the gin, the dull ache in his belly made consecutive thought impossible. And it is the same, he perceived, in all seemingly heroic or tragic situations. On the battlefield, in the torture chamber, on a sinking ship, the issues that you are fighting for are always forgotten, because the body swells up until it fills the universe, and even when you are not paralyzed by fright or screaming with pain, life is a moment-to-moment struggle against hunger or cold or sleeplessness, against a sour stomach or an aching tooth. He opened the diary. It was important to write something down. The woman on the telescreen had started a new song. Her voice seemed to stick into his brain like jagged splinters of glass. He tried to think of O'Brien, for whom, or to whom, the diary was written, but instead he began thinking of the things that would happen to him after the Thought Police took him away. It would not matter if they killed you at once. To be killed was what you expected. But before death (nobody spoke of such things, yet everybody knew of them) there was the routine of confession that had to be gone through: the groveling on the floor and screaming for mercy, the crack of broken bones, the smashed teeth, and bloody clots of hair. Why did you have to endure it, since the end was always the same? Why was it not possible to cut a few days or weeks out of your life? Nobody ever escaped detection, and nobody ever failed to confess. When once you had succumbed to thoughtcrime it was certain that by a given date you would be dead. Why then did that horror, which altered nothing, have to lie embedded in future time? He tried with a little more success than before to summon up the image of O'Brien. "We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness," O'Brien had said to him. He knew what it meant, or thought he knew. The place where there is no darkness was the imagined future, which one would never see, but which, by foreknowledge, one could mystically share in. But with the voice from the telescreen
nagging at his ears he could not follow the train of thought further. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Half the tobacco promptly fell out onto his tongue, a bitter dust which was difficult to spit out again. The face of Big Brother swam into his mind, displacing that of O'Brien. Just as he had done a few days earlier, he slid a coin out of his pocket and looked at it. The face gazed up at him, heavy, calm, protecting, but what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark mustache? Like a leaden knell the words came back at him: WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERY IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.
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Animal Farm and 1984 George Orwell
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HARCOURT, INC. Orlando Austin New Y
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Introduction THE TWO NOVELS THAT yo
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The original title of the novel was
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Eastern Europe, and of those who le
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1 MR. JONES, OF THE Manor Farm, had
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your four confinements and all your
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On the day that sets us free. For t
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Moses, who was Mr. Jones's especial
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eproached her sharply, and they wen
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3 HOW THEY TOILED and sweated to ge
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As for the pigs, they could already
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4 BY THE LATE SUMMER the news of wh
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All the men were gone except one. B
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his own following, and there were s
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can run, but the dogs were close on
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6 ALL THAT YEAR THE animals worked
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Every Monday Mr. Whymper visited th
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avenge himself for his ignominious
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through one of the other pigs, usua
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Comrade Napoleon. Do you not rememb
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that it was their own farm, every i
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8 A FEW DAYS LATER, when the terror
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were only conducted through Whymper
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The very next morning the attack ca
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fired in all—and heard the speech
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9 BOXER'S SPLIT HOOF was a long tim
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There was only one candidate, Napol
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The animals crowded round the van.
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10 YEARS PASSED. The seasons came a
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from the yard. Startled, the animal
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on Animal Farm did more work and re
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One IT WAS A BRIGHT cold day in Apr
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Winston turned round abruptly. He h
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was trying to burrow right into her
Page 72 and 73: Eurasia, he was advocating freedom
Page 74 and 75: At this moment the entire group of
Page 76 and 77: wanted to smudge the creamy paper b
Page 78 and 79: "Want to see the hanging! Want to s
Page 80 and 81: wrappings of a cigarette packet—e
Page 82 and 83: was never fully certain whether or
Page 84 and 85: satisfactorily under control. Offic
Page 86 and 87: the disposal of wastepaper. Similar
Page 88 and 89: ecome uncertain. Winston glanced ac
Page 90 and 91: was still crouching secretively ove
Page 92 and 93: "Not one!" said Winston with a sort
Page 94 and 95: Oldspeak, with all its vagueness an
Page 96 and 97: Syme looked up. "Here comes Parsons
Page 98 and 99: Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, al
Page 100 and 101: Parsons had begun talking again. "D
Page 102 and 103: divorce, but it rather encouraged s
Page 104 and 105: women crowding round the stalls of
Page 106 and 107: The ideal set up by the Party was s
Page 108 and 109: the very moment of their re-lease.
Page 110 and 111: Freedom is the freedom to say that
Page 112 and 113: "Can't you bleeding well listen to
Page 114 and 115: "You're a gent," said the other, st
Page 116 and 117: "One of 'em pushed me once," said t
Page 118 and 119: thing that gleamed softly in the la
Page 120 and 121: were in it—all the principal ones
Page 124 and 125: Two IT WAS THE MIDDLE of the mornin
Page 126 and 127: it the imbecile Parsons flopped dow
Page 128 and 129: flat face and tiny, suspicious eyes
Page 130 and 131: "Yes." "Can you get Sunday afternoo
Page 132 and 133: she turned round and looked at him
Page 134 and 135: The first whiff of its scent had st
Page 136 and 137: had imagined it, she had torn her c
Page 138 and 139: As it happened, they never went bac
Page 140 and 141: wondered vaguely how many others li
Page 142 and 143: "Yes, dear, you would have. I would
Page 144 and 145: The tune had been haunting London f
Page 146 and 147: "There's been a lot of tea about la
Page 148 and 149: "Dearest! You've gone quite pale. W
Page 150 and 151: The weather was baking hot. In the
Page 152 and 153: would hold indefinitely, and they w
Page 154 and 155: "It was no good, because I threw it
Page 156 and 157: "I am usually at home in the evenin
Page 158 and 159: with rage when she stopped ladling,
Page 160 and 161: "We've been lucky," he said "but it
Page 162 and 163: "Yes," said O'Brien, "we can turn i
Page 164 and 165: "Yes." "To betray your country to f
Page 166 and 167: Goldstein. When you looked at O'Bri
Page 168 and 169: "Oranges and lemons, say the bells
Page 170 and 171: the political literature of five ye
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so for the past twenty-five years.
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overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and dis
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emaining activities in which the in
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as Obliteration of the Self. The ci
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They did not return to the subject
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of machine production, however, the
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also useful in keying up public mor
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the contradictions inherent in Ings
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circumstances, and were overthrown,
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outlived the "Hate Song." Julia wok
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"You are the dead," repeated the ir
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the Thought Police.
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forced-labor camps to which most of
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from the telescreen. It was even co
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"Of course I'm guilty!" cried Parso
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There was a gasp and a flurry at Wi
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II HE WAS LYING ON something that f
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The man in the white coat did not t
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"Another example," he said. "Some y
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He paused for a few moments, as tho
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count them, he could not remember w
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"Yes," said Winston. O'Brien smiled
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O'Brien held up the fingers of his
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As always, Winston was lying flat o
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"We are the priests of power," he s
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the love of Big Brother. There will
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he had enrolled himself in the Brot
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O'Brien looked down at him thoughtf
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into his head. He wrote first in la
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the wrong, but he preferred to be i
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"In your case," said O'Brien, "the
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VI THE CHESTNUT TREE was almost emp
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Park, on a vile, biting day in Marc
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and teacup placed beside the bed ov
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He gazed up at the enormous face. F
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The A. vocabulary. The A vocabulary
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Some of the B words had highly subt
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The intention was to make speech, a
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writers, such as Shakespeare, Milto
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