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ack at any moment when his answers were unsatisfactory. His questioners now were not ruffians in
black uniforms but Party intellectuals, little rotund men with quick movements and flashing
spectacles, who worked on him in relays over periods which lasted—he thought, he could not be sure
—ten or twelve hours at a stretch. These other questioners saw to it that he was in constant slight
pain, but it was not chiefly pain that they relied on. They slapped his face, wrung his ears, pulled his
hair, made him stand on one leg, refused him leave to urinate, shone glaring lights in his face until his
eyes ran with water; but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of arguing
and reasoning. Their real weapon was the merciless questioning that went on and on hour after hour,
tripping him up, laying traps for him, twisting everything that he said, convicting him at every step of
lies and self-contradiction, until he began weeping as much from shame as from nervous fatigue
Sometimes he would weep half a dozen times in a single session. Most of the time they screamed
abuse at him and threatened at every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes
they would suddenly change their tune, call him comrade, appeal to him in the name of Ingsoc and Big
Brother, and ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to
make him wish to undo the evil he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of questioning,
even this appeal could reduce him to sniveling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down
more completely than the boots and fists of the guards. He became simply a mouth that uttered, a hand
that signed whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to find out what they wanted him to
confess, and then confess it quickly, before the bullying started anew. He confessed to the
assassination of eminent Party members, the distribution of seditious pamphlets, embezzlement of
public funds, sale of military secrets, sabotage of every kind. He confessed that he had been a spy in
the pay of the Eastasian government as far back as 1968. He confessed that he was a religious
believer, an admirer of capitalism, and a sexual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his wife,
although he knew, and his questioners must have known, that his wife was still alive. He confessed
that for years he had been in personal touch with Goldstein and had been a member of an underground
organization which had included almost every human being he had ever known. It was easier to
confess everything and implicate everybody. Besides, in a sense it was all true. It was true that he had
been the enemy of the Party, and in the eyes of the Party there was no distinction between the thought
and the deed.
There were also memories of another kind. They stood out in his mind disconnectedly, like pictures
with blackness all round them.
He was in a cell which might have been either dark or light, because he could see nothing except a
pair of eyes. Near at hand some kind of instrument was ticking slowly and regularly. The eyes grew
larger and more luminous. Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and was
swallowed up.
He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under dazzling lights. A man in a white coat was
reading the dials. There was a tramp of heavy boots outside. The door clanged open. The waxenfaced
officer marched in, followed by two guards.
"Room 101," said the officer.