are three stages in your reintegration,' said O'Brien. 'There
is learning, there is understanding, and there is acceptance.
It is time for you to enter upon the second stage.'
As always, Winston was lying flat on his back. But of late his
bonds were looser. They still held him to the bed, but he could
move his knees a little and could turn his head from side to side
and raise his arms from the elbow. The dial, also, had grown to
be less of a terror. He could evade its pangs if he was quick-witted
enough: it was chiefly when he showed stupidity that O'Brien pulled
the lever. Sometimes they got through a whole session without
use of the dial. He could not remember how many sessions there
had been. The whole process seemed to stretch out over a long,
indefinite time -- weeks, possibly -- and the intervals between
the sessions might sometimes have been days, sometimes only an
hour or two.
'As you lie there,' said O'Brien, 'you have often wondered you
have even asked me -- why the Ministry of Love should expend so
much time and trouble on you. And when you were free you were
puzzled by what was essentially the same question. You could grasp
the mechanics of the Society you lived in, but not its underlying
motives. Do you remember writing in your diary, "I understand
how: I do not understand why"? It was when you thought
about "why" that you doubted your own sanity. You have read the
book, Goldstein's book, or parts of it, at least. Did it tell
you anything that you did not know already?'
'You have read it?' said Winston.
'I wrote it. That is to say, I collaborated in writing it. No
book is produced individually, as you know.'
'Is it true, what it says?'
'A description, yes. The programme it sets forth is nonsense.
The secret accumulation of knowledge -- a gradual spread of enlightenment
-- ultimately a proletarian rebellion -- the overthrow of the
Party. You foresaw yourself that that was what it would say. It
is all nonsense. The proletarians will never revolt, not in a
thousand years or a million. They cannot. I do not have to tell
you the reason: you know it already. If you have ever cherished
any dreams of violent insurrection, you must abandon them. There
is no way in which the Party can be overthrown. The rule of the
Party is for ever. Make that the starting-point of your thoughts.'
He came closer to the bed. 'For ever!' he repeated. 'And now let
us get back to the question of "how" and "why". You understand
well enough how the Party maintains itself in power. Now
tell me why we cling to power. What is our motive? Why
should we want power? Go on, speak,' he added as Winston remained
Nevertheless Winston did not speak for another moment or two.
A feeling of weariness had overwhelmed him. The faint, mad gleam
of enthusiasm had come back into O'Brien's face. He knew in advance
what O'Brien would say. That the Party did not seek power for
its own ends, but only for the good of the majority. That it sought
power because men in the mass were frail cowardly creatures who
could not endure liberty or face the truth, and must be ruled
over and systematically deceived by others who were stronger than
themselves. That the choice for mankind lay between freedom and
happiness, and that, for the great bulk of mankind, happiness
was better. That the party was the eternal guardian of the weak,
a dedicated sect doing evil that good might come, sacrificing
its own happiness to that of others. The terrible thing, thought
Winston, the terrible thing was that when O'Brien said this he
would believe it. You could see it in his face. O'Brien knew everything.
A thousand times better than Winston he knew what the world was
really like, in what degradation the mass of human beings lived
and by what lies and barbarities the Party kept them there. He
had understood it all, weighed it all, and it made no difference:
all was justified by the ultimate purpose. What can you do, thought
Winston, against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself,
who gives your arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists
in his lunacy?
'You are ruling over us for our own good,' he said feebly. 'You
believe that human beings are not fit to govern themselves, and
He started and almost cried out. A pang of pain had shot through
his body. O'Brien had pushed the lever of the dial up to thirty-five.
'That was stupid, Winston, stupid!' he said. 'You should know
better than to say a thing like that.'
He pulled the lever back and continued:
'Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The
Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested
in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not
wealth or luxury or long life or happiness: only power, pure power.
What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different
from all the oligarchies of the past, in that we know what we
are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves,
were cowards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian
Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never
had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended,
perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly
and for a limited time, and that just round the corner there lay
a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are
not like that. We know that no one ever seizes power with the
intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means, it is an
end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard
a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the
dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object
of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you
begin to understand me?'
Winston was struck, as he had been struck before, by the tiredness
of O'Brien's face. It was strong and fleshy and brutal, it was
full of intelligence and a sort of controlled passion before which
he felt himself helpless; but it was tired. There were pouches
under the eyes, the skin sagged from the cheekbones. O'Brien leaned
over him, deliberately bringing the worn face nearer.
'You are thinking,' he said, 'that my face is old and tired. You
are thinking that I talk of power, and yet I am not even able
to prevent the decay of my own body. Can you not understand, Winston,
that the individual is only a cell? The weariness of the cell
is the vigour of the organism. Do you die when you cut your fingernails?'
He turned away from the bed and began strolling up and down again,
one hand in his pocket.
'We are the priests of power,' he said. 'God is power. But at
present power is only a word so far as you are concerned. It is
time for you to gather some idea of what power means. The first
thing you must realize is that power is collective. The individual
only has power in so far as he ceases to be an individual. You
know the Party slogan: "Freedom is Slavery". Has it ever occurred
to you that it is reversible? Slavery is freedom. Alone -- free
-- the human being is always defeated. It must be so, because
every human being is doomed to die, which is the greatest of all
failures. But if he can make complete, utter submission, if he
can escape from his identity, if he can merge himself in the Party
so that he is the Party, then he is all-powerful and immortal.
The second thing for you to realize is that power is power over
human beings. Over the body but, above all, over the mind. Power
over matter -- external reality, as you would call it -- is not
important. Already our control over matter is absolute.'
For a moment Winston ignored the dial. He made a violent effort
to raise himself into a sitting position, and merely succeeded
in wrenching his body painfully.
'But how can you control matter?' he burst out. 'You don't even
control the climate or the law of gravity. And there are disease,
pain, death --'
O'Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. 'We control matter
because we control the mind. Reality is inside the skull. You
will learn by degrees, Winston. There is nothing that we could
not do. Invisibility, levitation -- anything. I could float off
this floor like a soap bubble if I wish to. I do not wish to,
because the Party does not wish it. You must get rid of those
nineteenth-century ideas about the laws of Nature. We make the
laws of Nature.'
'But you do not! You are not even masters of this planet. What
about Eurasia and Eastasia? You have not conquered them yet.'
'Unimportant. We shall conquer them when it suits us. And if we
did not, what difference would it make? We can shut them out of
existence. Oceania is the world.'
'But the world itself is only a speck of dust. And man is tiny
helpless! How long has he been in existence? For millions of years
the earth was uninhabited.'
'Nonsense. The earth is as old as we are, no older. How could
it be older? Nothing exists except through human consciousness.'
'But the rocks are full of the bones of extinct animals -- mammoths
and mastodons and enormous reptiles which lived here long before
man was ever heard of.'
'Have you ever seen those bones, Winston? Of course not. Nineteenth-century
biologists invented them. Before man there was nothing. After
man, if he could come to an end, there would be nothing. Outside
man there is nothing.'
'But the whole universe is outside us. Look at the stars! Some
of them are a million light-years away. They are out of our reach
'What are the stars?' said O'Brien indifferently. 'They are bits
of fire a few kilometres away. We could reach them if we wanted
to. Or we could blot them out. The earth is the centre of the
universe. The sun and the stars go round it.'
Winston made another convulsive movement. This time he did not
say anything. O'Brien continued as though answering a spoken objection:
'For certain purposes, of course, that is not true. When we navigate
the ocean, or when we predict an eclipse, we often find it convenient
to assume that the earth goes round the sun and that the stars
are millions upon millions of kilometres away. But what of it?
Do you suppose it is beyond us to produce a dual system of astronomy?
The stars can be near or distant, according as we need them. Do
you suppose our mathematicians are unequal to that? Have you forgotten
Winston shrank back upon the bed. Whatever he said, the swift
answer crushed him like a bludgeon. And yet he knew, he knew,
that he was in the right. The belief that nothing exists outside
your own mind -- surely there must be some way of demonstrating
that it was false? Had it not been exposed long ago as a fallacy?
There was even a name for it, which he had forgotten. A faint
smile twitched the corners of O'Brien's mouth as he looked down
'I told you, Winston,' he said, 'that metaphysics is not your
strong point. The word you are trying to think of is solipsism.
But you are mistaken. This is not solipsism. Collective solipsism,
if you like. But that is a different thing: in fact, the opposite
thing. All this is a digression,' he added in a different tone.
'The real power, the power we have to fight for night and day,
is not power over things, but over men.' He paused, and for a
moment assumed again his air of a schoolmaster questioning a promising
pupil: 'How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?'
Winston thought. 'By making him suffer,' he said.
'Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless
he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will
and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation.
Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together
again in new shapes of your own choosing. Do you begin to see,
then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite
of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined.
A world of fear and treachery is torment, a world of trampling
and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but
more merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world
will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed
that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon
hatred. In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage,
triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we shall destroy
everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of thought
which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the
links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between
man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend
any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends.
Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes
eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation
will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card.
We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon
it now. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party.
There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will
be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy.
There will be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent
we shall have no more need of science. There will be no distinction
between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment
of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed.
But always -- do not forget this, Winston -- always there will
be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly
growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill
of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless.
If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on
a human face -- for ever.'
He paused as though he expected Winston to speak. Winston had
tried to shrink back into the surface of the bed again. He could
not say anything. His heart seemed to be frozen. O'Brien went
'And remember that it is for ever. The face will always be there
to be stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always
be there, so that he can be defeated and humiliated over again.
Everything that you have undergone since you have been in our
hands -- all that will continue, and worse. The espionage, the
betrayals, the arrests, the tortures, the executions, the disappearances
will never cease. It will be a world of terror as much as a world
of triumph. The more the Party is powerful, the less it will be
tolerant: the weaker the opposition, the tighter the despotism.
Goldstein and his heresies will live for ever. Every day, at every
moment, they will be defeated, discredited, ridiculed, spat upon
and yet they will always survive. This drama that I have played
out with you during seven years will be played out over and over
again generation after generation, always in subtler forms. Always
we shall have the heretic here at our mercy, screaming with pain,
broken up, contemptible -- and in the end utterly penitent, saved
from himself, crawling to our feet of his own accord. That is
the world that we are preparing, Winston. A world of victory after
victory, triumph after triumph after triumph: an endless pressing,
pressing, pressing upon the nerve of power. You are beginning,
I can see, to realize what that world will be like. But in the
end you will do more than understand it. You will accept it, welcome
it, become part of it.'
Winston had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. 'You can't!'
he said weakly.
'What do you mean by that remark, Winston?'
'You could not create such a world as you have just described.
It is a dream. It is impossible.'
'It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred and
cruelty. It would never endure.'
'It would have no vitality. It would disintegrate. It would commit
'Nonsense. You are under the impression that hatred is more exhausting
than love. Why should it be? And if it were, what difference would
that make? Suppose that we choose to wear ourselves out faster.
Suppose that we quicken the tempo of human life till men are senile
at thirty. Still what difference would it make? Can you not understand
that the death of the individual is not death? The party is immortal.'
As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helplessness. Moreover
he was in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O'Brien
would twist the dial again. And yet he could not keep silent.
Feebly, without arguments, with nothing to support him except
his inarticulate horror of what O'Brien had said, he returned
to the attack.
'I don't know -- I don't care. Somehow you will fail. Something
will defeat you. Life will defeat you.'
'We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imagining
that there is something called human nature which will be outraged
by what we do and will turn against us. But we create human nature.
Men are infinitely malleable. Or perhaps you have returned to
your old idea that the proletarians or the slaves will arise and
overthrow us. Put it out of your mind. They are helpless, like
the animals. Humanity is the Party. The others are outside --
'I don't care. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later
they will see you for what you are, and then they will tear you
'Do you see any evidence that that is happening? Or any reason
why it should?'
'No. I believe it. I know that you will fail. There is
something in the universe -- I don't know, some spirit, some principle
-- that you will never overcome.'
'Do you believe in God, Winston?'
'Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?'
'I don't know. The spirit of Man.'
'And do you consider yourself a man?'
'If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your kind is
extinct; we are the inheritors. Do you understand that you are
alone? You are outside history, you are non-existent.'
His manner changed and he said more harshly: 'And you consider
yourself morally superior to us, with our lies and our cruelty?'
'Yes, I consider myself superior.'
O'Brien did not speak. Two other voices were speaking. After a
moment Winston recognized one of them as his own. It was a sound-track
of the conversation he had had with O'Brien, on the night when
he had enrolled himself in the Brotherhood. He heard himself promising
to lie, to steal, to forge, to murder, to encourage drug-taking
and prostitution, to disseminate venereal diseases, to throw vitriol
in a child's face. O'Brien made a small impatient gesture, as
though to say that the demonstration was hardly worth making.
Then he turned a switch and the voices stopped.
'Get up from that bed,' he said.
The bonds had loosened themselves. Winston lowered himself to
the floor and stood up unsteadily.
'You are the last man,' said O'Brien. 'You are the guardian of
the human spirit. You shall see yourself as you are. Take off
Winston undid the bit of string that held his overalls together.
The zip fastener had long since been wrenched out of them. He
could not remember whether at any time since his arrest he had
taken off all his clothes at one time. Beneath the overalls his
body was looped with filthy yellowish rags, just recognizable
as the remnants of underclothes. As he slid them to the ground
he saw that there was a three-sided mirror at the far end of the
room. He approached it, then stopped short. An involuntary cry
had broken out of him.
'Go on,' said O'Brien. 'Stand between the wings of the mirror.
You shall see the side view as well.'
He had stopped because he was frightened. A bowed, greycoloured,
skeleton-like thing was coming towards him. Its actual appearance
was frightening, and not merely the fact that he knew it to be
himself. He moved closer to the glass. The creature's face seemed
to be protruded, because of its bent carriage. A forlorn, jailbird's
face with a nobby forehead running back into a bald scalp, a crooked
nose, and battered-looking cheekbones above which his eyes were
fierce and watchful. The cheeks were seamed, the mouth had a drawn-in
look. Certainly it was his own face, but it seemed to him that
it had changed more than he had changed inside. The emotions it
registered would be different from the ones he felt. He had gone
partially bald. For the first moment he had thought that he had
gone grey as well, but it was only the scalp that was grey. Except
for his hands and a circle of his face, his body was grey all
over with ancient, ingrained dirt. Here and there under the dirt
there were the red scars of wounds, and near the ankle the varicose
ulcer was an inflamed mass with flakes of skin peeling off it.
But the truly frightening thing was the emaciation of his body.
The barrel of the ribs was as narrow as that of a skeleton: the
legs had shrunk so that the knees were thicker than the thighs.
He saw now what O'Brien had meant about seeing the side view.
The curvature of the spine was astonishing. The thin shoulders
were hunched forward so as to make a cavity of the chest, the
scraggy neck seemed to be bending double under the weight of the
skull. At a guess he would have said that it was the body of a
man of sixty, suffering from some malignant disease.
'You have thought sometimes,' said O'Brien, 'that my face -- the
face of a member of the Inner Party -- looks old and worn. What
do you think of your own face?'
He seized Winston's shoulder and spun him round so that he was
'Look at the condition you are in!' he said. 'Look at this filthy
grime all over your body. Look at the dirt between your toes.
Look at that disgusting running sore on your leg. Do you know
that you stink like a goat? Probably you have ceased to notice
it. Look at your emaciation. Do you see? I can make my thumb and
forefinger meet round your bicep. I could snap your neck like
a carrot. Do you know that you have lost twenty-five kilograms
since you have been in our hands? Even your hair is coming out
in handfuls. Look!' He plucked at Winston's head and brought away
a tuft of hair. 'Open your mouth. Nine, ten, eleven teeth left.
How many had you when you came to us? And the few you have left
are dropping out of your head. Look here!'
He seized one of Winston's remaining front teeth between his powerful
thumb and forefinger. A twinge of pain shot through Winston's
jaw. O'Brien had wrenched the loose tooth out by the roots. He
tossed it across the cell.
'You are rotting away,' he said; 'you are falling to pieces. What
are you? A bag of filth. Now turn around and look into that mirror
again. Do you see that thing facing you? That is the last man.
If you are human, that is humanity. Now put your clothes on again.'
Winston began to dress himself with slow stiff movements. Until
now he had not seemed to notice how thin and weak he was. Only
one thought stirred in his mind: that he must have been in this
place longer than he had imagined. Then suddenly as he fixed the
miserable rags round himself a feeling of pity for his ruined
body overcame him. Before he knew what he was doing he had collapsed
on to a small stool that stood beside the bed and burst into tears.
He was aware of his ugliness, his gracelessness, a bundle of bones
in filthy underclothes sitting weeping in the harsh white light:
but he could not stop himself. O'Brien laid a hand on his shoulder,
'It will not last for ever,' he said. 'You can escape from it
whenever you choose. Everything depends on yourself.'
'You did it!' sobbed Winston. 'You reduced me to this state.'
'No, Winston, you reduced yourself to it. This is what you accepted
when you set yourself up against the Party. It was all contained
in that first act. Nothing has happened that you did not foresee.'
He paused, and then went on:
'We have beaten you, Winston. We have broken you up. You have
seen what your body is like. Your mind is in the same state. I
do not think there can be much pride left in you. You have been
kicked and flogged and insulted, you have screamed with pain,
you have rolled on the floor in your own blood and vomit. You
have whimpered for mercy, you have betrayed everybody and everything.
Can you think of a single degradation that has not happened to
Winston had stopped weeping, though the tears were still oozing
out of his eyes. He looked up at O'Brien.
'I have not betrayed Julia,' he said.
O'Brien looked down at him thoughtfully. 'No,' he said; 'no; that
is perfectly true. You have not betrayed Julia.'
The peculiar reverence for O'Brien, which nothing seemed able
to destroy, flooded Winston's heart again. How intelligent, he
thought, how intelligent! Never did O'Brien fail to understand
what was said to him. Anyone else on earth would have answered
promptly that he had betrayed Julia. For what was there that they
had not screwed out of him under the torture? He had told them
everything he knew about her, her habits, her character, her past
life; he had confessed in the most trivial detail everything that
had happened at their meetings, all that he had said to her and
she to him, their black-market meals, their adulteries, their
vague plottings against the Party -- everything. And yet, in the
sense in which he intended the word, he had not betrayed her.
He had not stopped loving her; his feelings towards her had remained
the same. O'Brien had seen what he meant without the need for
'Tell me,' he said, 'how soon will they shoot me?'
'It might be a long time,' said O'Brien. 'You are a difficult
case. But don't give up hope. Everyone is cured sooner or later.
In the end we shall shoot you.'
HERE TO DISCUSS THIS BOOK