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outlived the "Hate Song." Julia woke at the sound, stretched herself luxuriously, and got out of bed. "I'm hungry," she said. "Let's make some more coffee. Damn! The stove's gone out and the water's cold." She picked the stove up and shook it. "There's no oil in it." "We can get some from old Charrington, I expect." "The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I'm going to put my clothes on," she added. "It seems to have got colder." Winston also got up and dressed himself. The indefatigable voice sang on: "They sye that time 'eals all things, They sye you can always forget; But the smiles an' the tears acrorss the years They twist ny 'eartstrings yet!" As he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across to the window. The sun must have gone down behind the houses; it was not shining into the yard any longer. The flagstones were wet as though they had just been washed, and he had the feeling that the sky had been washed too, so fresh and pale was the blue between the chimney pots. Tirelessly the woman marched to and fro, corking and uncorking herself, singing and falling silent, and pegging out more diapers, and more and yet more. He wondered whether she took in washing for a living or was merely the slave of twenty or thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to his side; together they gazed down with a sort of fascination at the sturdy figure below. As he looked at the woman in her characteristic attitude, her thick arms reaching up for the line, her powerful marelike buttocks protruded, it struck him for the first time that she was beautiful. It had never before occurred to him that the body of a woman of fifty, blown up to monstrous dimensions by childbearing, then hardened, roughened by work till it was coarse in the grain like an overripe turnip, could be beautiful. But it was so, and after all, he thought, why not? The solid, contourless body, like a block of granite, and the rasping red skin, bore the same relation to the body of a girl as the rose-hip to the rose. Why should the fruit be held inferior to the flower? "She's beautiful," he murmured. "She's a meter across the hips, easily," said Julia. "That is her style of beauty," said Winston. He held Julia's supple waist easily encircled by his arm. From the hip to the knee her flank was against his. Out of their bodies no child would ever come. That was the one thing they could never do. Only by word of mouth, from mind to mind, could they pass on the secret. The woman down there had no mind, she had only strong arms, a warm heart, and a fertile belly. He wondered how many children she had given birth to. It might easily be fifteen. She had had her momentary flowering, a year, perhaps, of wildrose beauty and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized fruit and grown hard
and red and coarse, and then her life had been laundering, scrubbing, darning, cooking, sweeping, polishing, mending, scrubbing, laundering, first for children, then for grandchildren, over thirty unbroken years. At the end of it she was still singing. The mystical reverence that he felt for her was somehow mixed up with the aspect of the pale, cloudless sky, stretching away behind the chimney pots into interminable distances. It was curious to think that the sky was the same for everybody, in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under the sky were also very much the same— everywhere, all over the world, hundreds of thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant of one another's existence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the same—people who had never learned to think but who were storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power that would one day overturn the world. If there was hope, it lay in the proles! Without having read to the end of the hook, he knew that that must be Goldstein's final message. The future belonged to the proles. And could he be sure that when their time came, the world they constructed would not be just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as the world of the Party? Yes, because at the least it would be a world of sanity. Where there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later it would happen: strength would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal; you could not doubt it when you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their awakening would come. And until that happened, though it might be a thousand years, they would stay alive against all the odds, like birds, passing on from body to body the vitality which the Party did not share and could not kill. "Do you remember," he said, "the thrush that sang to us, that first day, at the edge of the wood?" "He wasn't singing to us," said Julia. "He was singing to please himself. Not even that. He was just singing." The birds sang, the proles sang, the Party did not sing. All round the world, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and Japan— everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. You were the dead; theirs was the future. But you could share in that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body, and passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two make four. "We are the dead," he said. "We are the dead," echoed Julia dutifully. "You are the dead," said an iron voice behind them. They sprang apart. Winston's entrails seemed to have turned into ice. He could see the white all round the irises of Julia's eyes. Her face had turned a milky yellow. The smear of rouge that was still on each cheekbone stood out sharply, almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath.
- 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
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- 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
- Page 172 and 173: so for the past twenty-five years.
- Page 174 and 175: overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and dis
- Page 176 and 177: emaining activities in which the in
- Page 178 and 179: as Obliteration of the Self. The ci
- Page 180 and 181: They did not return to the subject
- Page 182 and 183: of machine production, however, the
- Page 184 and 185: also useful in keying up public mor
- Page 186 and 187: the contradictions inherent in Ings
- Page 188 and 189: circumstances, and were overthrown,
- Page 192 and 193: "You are the dead," repeated the ir
- Page 194 and 195: the Thought Police.
- Page 196 and 197: forced-labor camps to which most of
- Page 198 and 199: from the telescreen. It was even co
- Page 200 and 201: "Of course I'm guilty!" cried Parso
- Page 202 and 203: There was a gasp and a flurry at Wi
- Page 204 and 205: II HE WAS LYING ON something that f
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- Page 208 and 209: "Another example," he said. "Some y
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- Page 214 and 215: "Yes," said Winston. O'Brien smiled
- Page 216 and 217: O'Brien held up the fingers of his
- Page 218 and 219: As always, Winston was lying flat o
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- Page 222 and 223: the love of Big Brother. There will
- Page 224 and 225: he had enrolled himself in the Brot
- Page 226 and 227: O'Brien looked down at him thoughtf
- Page 228 and 229: into his head. He wrote first in la
- Page 230 and 231: the wrong, but he preferred to be i
- Page 232 and 233: "In your case," said O'Brien, "the
- Page 234 and 235: VI THE CHESTNUT TREE was almost emp
- Page 236 and 237: Park, on a vile, biting day in Marc
- Page 238 and 239: and teacup placed beside the bed ov
outlived the "Hate Song." Julia woke at the sound, stretched herself luxuriously, and got out of bed.<br />
"I'm hungry," she said. "Let's make some more coffee. Damn! The stove's gone out and the water's<br />
cold." She picked the stove up and shook it. "There's no oil in it."<br />
"We can get some from old Charrington, I expect."<br />
"The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I'm going to put my clothes on," she added. "It seems to<br />
have got colder."<br />
Winston also got up and dressed himself. The indefatigable voice sang on:<br />
"They sye that time 'eals all things,<br />
They sye you can always forget;<br />
But the smiles an' the tears acrorss the years<br />
They twist ny 'eartstrings yet!"<br />
As he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across to the window. The sun must have gone<br />
down behind the houses; it was not shining into the yard any longer. The flagstones were wet as<br />
though they had just been washed, and he had the feeling that the sky had been washed too, so fresh<br />
and pale was the blue between the chimney pots. Tirelessly the woman marched to and fro, corking<br />
and uncorking herself, singing and falling silent, and pegging out more diapers, and more and yet<br />
more. He wondered whether she took in washing for a living or was merely the slave of twenty or<br />
thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to his side; together they gazed down with a sort of<br />
fascination at the sturdy figure below. As he looked at the woman in her characteristic attitude, her<br />
thick arms reaching up for the line, her powerful marelike buttocks protruded, it struck him for the<br />
first time that she was beautiful. It had never before occurred to him that the body of a woman of fifty,<br />
blown up to monstrous dimensions by childbearing, then hardened, roughened by work till it was<br />
coarse in the grain like an overripe turnip, could be beautiful. But it was so, and after all, he thought,<br />
why not? The solid, contourless body, like a block of granite, and the rasping red skin, bore the same<br />
relation to the body of a girl as the rose-hip to the rose. Why should the fruit be held inferior to the<br />
flower?<br />
"She's beautiful," he murmured.<br />
"She's a meter across the hips, easily," said Julia.<br />
"That is her style of beauty," said Winston.<br />
He held Julia's supple waist easily encircled by his arm. From the hip to the knee her flank was<br />
against his. Out of their bodies no child would ever come. That was the one thing they could never do.<br />
Only by word of mouth, from mind to mind, could they pass on the secret. The woman down there had<br />
no mind, she had only strong arms, a warm heart, and a fertile belly. He wondered how many children<br />
she had given birth to. It might easily be fifteen. She had had her momentary flowering, a year,<br />
perhaps, of wildrose beauty and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized fruit and grown hard