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A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the skull-faced man was taken away, it was
morning; if morning, it was afternoon. Winston was alone, and had been alone for hours. The pain of
sitting on the narrow bench was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved by the
telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chinless man had dropped it. At the beginning it
needed a hard effort not to look at it, but presently hunger gave way to thirst. His mouth was sticky
and evil-tasting. The humming sound and the unvarying white light induced a sort of faintness, an
empty feeling inside his head. He would get up because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable,
and then would sit down again almost at once because he was too dizzy to make sure of staying on his
feet. Whenever his physical sensations were a little under control the terror returned. Sometimes with
a fading hope he thought of O'Brien and the razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor blade might
arrive concealed in his food, if he were ever fed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere or other
she was suffering, perhaps far worse than he. She might be screaming with pain at this moment. He
thought: "If I could save Julia by doubling my own pain, would I do it? Yes, I would." But that was
merely an intellectual decision, taken because he knew that he ought to take it. He did not feel it. In
this place you could not feel anything, except pain and the foreknowledge of pain. Besides, was it
possible, when you were actually suffering it, to wish for any reason whatever that your own pain
should increase? But that question was not answerable yet.
The boots were approaching again. The door opened. O'Brien came in.
Winston started to his feet. The shock of the sight had driven all caution out of him. For the first
time in many years he forgot the presence of the telescreen.
"They've got you too!" he cried.
"They got me a long time ago," said O'Brien with a mild, almost regretful irony. He stepped aside.
From behind him there emerged a broad-chested guard with a long black truncheon in his hand.
"You knew this, Winston," said O'Brien. "Don't deceive yourself. You did know it—you have
always known it."
Yes, he saw now, he had always known it. But there was no time to think of that. All he had eyes
for was the truncheon in the guard's hand. It might fall anywhere: on the crown, on the tip of the ear,
on the upper arm, on the elbow—
The elbow! He had slumped to his knees, almost paralyzed, clasping the stricken elbow with his
other hand. Everything had exploded into yellow light. Inconceivable, inconceivable that one blow
could cause such pain! The light cleared and he could see the other two looking down at him. The
guard was laughing at his contortions. One question at any rate was answered. Never, for any reason
on earth, could you wish for an increase of pain. Of pain you could wish only one thing: that it should
stop. Nothing in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain there are no heroes, no
heroes, he thought over and over as he writhed on the floor, clutching uselessly at his disabled left
arm.