In the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch queue
jerked slowly forward. The room was already very full and deafeningly
noisy. From the grille at the counter the steam of stew came pouring
forth, with a sour metallic smell which did not quite overcome
the fumes of Victory Gin. On the far side of the room there was
a small bar, a mere hole in the wall, where gin could be bought
at ten cents the large nip.
'Just the man I was looking for,' said a voice at Winston's back.
He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research
Department. Perhaps 'friend' was not exactly the right word. You
did not have friends nowadays, you had comrades: but there were
some comrades whose society was pleasanter than that of others.
Syme was a philologist, a specialist in Newspeak. Indeed, he was
one of the enormous team of experts now engaged in compiling the
Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a tiny creature,
smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large, protuberant eyes,
at once mournful and derisive, which seemed to search your face
closely while he was speaking to you.
'I wanted to ask you whether you'd got any razor blades,' he said.
'Not one!' said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. 'I've tried
all over the place. They don't exist any longer.'
Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he had two
unused ones which he was hoarding up. There had been a famine
of them for months past. At any given moment there was some necessary
article which the Party shops were unable to supply. Sometimes
it was buttons, sometimes it was darning wool, sometimes it was
shoelaces; at present it was razor blades. You could only get
hold of them, if at all, by scrounging more or less furtively
on the 'free' market.
'I've been using the same blade for six weeks,' he added untruthfully.
The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he turned
and faced Syme again. Each of them took a greasy metal tray from
a pile at the end of the counter.
'Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday?' said Syme.
'I was working,' said Winston indifferently. 'I shall see it on
the flicks, I suppose.'
'A very inadequate substitute,' said Syme.
His mocking eyes roved over Winston's face. 'I know you,' the
eyes seemed to say, 'I see through you. I know very well why you
didn't go to see those prisoners hanged.' In an intellectual way,
Syme was venomously orthodox. He would talk with a disagreeable
gloating satisfaction of helicopter raids on enemy villages, and
trials and confessions of thought-criminals, the executions in
the cellars of the Ministry of Love. Talking to him was largely
a matter of getting him away from such subjects and entangling
him, if possible, in the technicalities of Newspeak, on which
he was authoritative and interesting. Winston turned his head
a little aside to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark eyes.
'It was a good hanging,' said Syme reminiscently. 'I think it
spoils it when they tie their feet together. I like to see them
kicking. And above all, at the end, the tongue sticking right
out, and blue a quite bright blue. That's the detail that appeals
'Nex', please!' yelled the white-aproned prole with the ladle.
Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille. On to
each was dumped swiftly the regulation lunch -- a metal pannikin
of pinkish-grey stew, a hunk of bread, a cube of cheese, a mug
of milkless Victory Coffee, and one saccharine tablet.
'There's a table over there, under that telescreen,' said Syme.
'Let's pick up a gin on the way.'
The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. They
threaded their way across the crowded room and unpacked their
trays on to the metal-topped table, on one corner of which someone
had left a pool of stew, a filthy liquid mess that had the appearance
of vomit. Winston took up his mug of gin, paused for an instant
to collect his nerve, and gulped the oily-tasting stuff down.
When he had winked the tears out of his eyes he suddenly discovered
that he was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of the stew,
which, in among its general sloppiness, had cubes of spongy pinkish
stuff which was probably a preparation of meat. Neither of them
spoke again till they had emptied their pannikins. From the table
at Winston's left, a little behind his back, someone was talking
rapidly and continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking
of a duck, which pierced the general uproar of the room.
'How is the Dictionary getting on?' said Winston, raising his
voice to overcome the noise.
'Slowly,' said Syme. 'I'm on the adjectives. It's fascinating.'
He had brightened up immediately at the mention of Newspeak. He
pushed his pannikin aside, took up his hunk of bread in one delicate
hand and his cheese in the other, and leaned across the table
so as to be able to speak without shouting.
'The Eleventh Edition is the definitive edition,' he said. 'We're
getting the language into its final shape -- the shape it's going
to have when nobody speaks anything else. When we've finished
with it, people like you will have to learn it all over again.
You think, I dare say, that our chief job is inventing new words.
But not a bit of it! We're destroying words -- scores of them,
hundreds of them, every day. We're cutting the language down to
the bone. The Eleventh Edition won't contain a single word that
will become obsolete before the year 2050.'
He bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls,
then continued speaking, with a sort of pedant's passion. His
thin dark face had become animated, his eyes had lost their mocking
expression and grown almost dreamy.
'It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course the
great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds
of nouns that can be got rid of as well. It isn't only the synonyms;
there are also the antonyms. After all, what justification is
there for a word which is simply the opposite of some other word?
A word contains its opposite in itself. Take "good", for instance.
If you have a word like "good", what need is there for a word
like "bad"? "Ungood" will do just as well -- better, because it's
an exact opposite, which the other is not. Or again, if you want
a stronger version of "good", what sense is there in having a
whole string of vague useless words like "excellent" and "splendid"
and all the rest of them? "Plusgood" covers the meaning, or "doubleplusgood"
if you want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms
already. but in the final version of Newspeak there'll be nothing
else. In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will
be covered by only six words -- in reality, only one word. Don't
you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was B.B.'s idea originally,
of course,' he added as an afterthought.
A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston's face at the
mention of Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected
a certain lack of enthusiasm.
'You haven't a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,' he said
almost sadly. 'Even when you write it you're still thinking in
Oldspeak. I've read some of those pieces that you write in the
Times occasionally. They're good enough, but they're translations.
In your heart you'd prefer to stick to Oldspeak, with all its
vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. You don't grasp the
beauty of the destruction of words. Do you know that Newspeak
is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller
Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he
hoped, not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment
of the dark-coloured bread, chewed it briefly, and went on:
'Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the
range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally
impossible, because there will be no words in which to express
it. Every concept that can ever be needed, will be expressed by
exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and
all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already,
in the Eleventh Edition, we're not far from that point. But the
process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead.
Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness
always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there's no reason
or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It's merely a question
of self-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won't
be any need even for that. The Revolution will be complete when
the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc is Newspeak,'
he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. 'Has it ever occurred
to you, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, not
a single human being will be alive who could understand such a
conversation as we are having now?'
'Except-' began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped.
It had been on the tip of his tongue to say 'Except the proles,'
but he checked himself, not feeling fully certain that this remark
was not in some way unorthodox. Syme, however, had divined what
he was about to say.
'The proles are not human beings,' he said carelessly. 'By 2050
earlier, probably -- all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have
disappeared. The whole literature of the past will have been destroyed.
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron -- they'll exist only in Newspeak
versions, not merely changed into something different, but actually
changed into something contradictory of what they used to be.
Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans
will change. How could you have a slogan like "freedom is slavery"
when the concept of freedom has been abolished? The whole climate
of thought will be different. In fact there will be no
thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking
-- not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.'
One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep conviction,
Syme will be vaporized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly
and speaks too plainly. The Party does not like such people. One
day he will disappear. It is written in his face.
Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned a little
sideways in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table
on his left the man with the strident voice was still talking
remorselessly away. A young woman who was perhaps his secretary,
and who was sitting with her back to Winston, was listening to
him and seemed to be eagerly agreeing with everything that he
said. From time to time Winston caught some such remark as 'I
think you're so right, I do so agree with you',
uttered in a youthful and rather silly feminine voice. But the
other voice never stopped for an instant, even when the girl was
speaking. Winston knew the man by sight, though he knew no more
about him than that he held some important post in the Fiction
Department. He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat
and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little,
and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles
caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead
of eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream
of sound that poured out of his mouth it was almost impossible
to distinguish a single word. Just once Winston caught a phrase
-'complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism'- jerked out
very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line
of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking.
And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was saying,
you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might
be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against
thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against
the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big
Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front -- it made no difference.
Whatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was
pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with
the jaw moving rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling
that this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. It
was not the man's brain that was speaking, it was his larynx.
The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it
was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness,
like the quacking of a duck.
Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of his
spoon was tracing patterns in the puddle of stew. The voice from
the other table quacked rapidly on, easily audible in spite of
the surrounding din.
'There is a word in Newspeak,' said Syme, 'I don't know whether
you know it: duckspeak, to quack like a duck. It is one
of those interesting words that have two contradictory meanings.
Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, applied to someone you agree
with, it is praise.'
Unquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston thought again.
He thought it with a kind of sadness, although well knowing that
Syme despised him and slightly disliked him, and was fully capable
of denouncing him as a thought-criminal if he saw any reason for
doing so. There was something subtly wrong with Syme. There was
something that he lacked: discretion, aloofness, a sort of saving
stupidity. You could not say that he was unorthodox. He believed
in the principles of Ingsoc, he venerated Big Brother, he rejoiced
over victories, he hated heretics, not merely with sincerity but
with a sort of restless zeal, an up-to-dateness of information,
which the ordinary Party member did not approach. Yet a faint
air of disreputability always clung to him. He said things that
would have been better unsaid, he had read too many books, he
frequented the Chestnut Tree Cafe, haunt of painters and musicians.
There was no law, not even an unwritten law, against frequenting
the Chestnut Tree Cafe, yet the place was somehow ill-omened.
The old, discredited leaders of the Party had been used to gather
there before they were finally purged. Goldstein himself, it was
said, had sometimes been seen there, years and decades ago. Syme's
fate was not difficult to foresee. And yet it was a fact that
if Syme grasped, even for three seconds, the nature of his, Winston's,
secret opinions, he would betray him instantly to the Thought
Police. So would anybody else, for that matter: but Syme more
than most. Zeal was not enough. Orthodoxy was unconsciousness.
Syme looked up. 'Here comes Parsons,' he said.
Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add, 'that bloody
fool'. Parsons, Winston's fellow-tenant at Victory Mansions, was
in fact threading his way across the room -- a tubby, middle-sized
man with fair hair and a froglike face. At thirty-five he was
already putting on rolls of fat at neck and waistline, but his
movements were brisk and boyish. His whole appearance was that
of a little boy grown large, so much so that although he was wearing
the regulation overalls, it was almost impossible not to think
of him as being dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirt, and red
neckerchief of the Spies. In visualizing him one saw always a
picture of dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy forearms.
Parsons did, indeed, invariably revert to shorts when a community
hike or any other physical activity gave him an excuse for doing
so. He greeted them both with a cheery 'Hullo, hullo!' and sat
down at the table, giving off an intense smell of sweat. Beads
of moisture stood out all over his pink face. His powers of sweating
were extraordinary. At the Community Centre you could always tell
when he had been playing table-tennis by the dampness of the bat
handle. Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there was
a long column of words, and was studying it with an ink-pencil
between his fingers.
'Look at him working away in the lunch hour,' said Parsons, nudging
Winston. 'Keenness, eh? What's that you've got there, old boy?
Something a bit too brainy for me, I expect. Smith, old boy, I'll
tell you why I'm chasing you. It's that sub you forgot to give
'Which sub is that?' said Winston, automatically feeling for money.
About a quarter of one's salary had to be earmarked for voluntary
subscriptions, which were so numerous that it was difficult to
keep track of them.
'For Hate Week. You know -- the house-by-house fund. I'm treasurer
for our block. We're making an all-out effort -- going to put
on a tremendous show. I tell you, it won't be my fault if old
Victory Mansions doesn't have the biggest outfit of flags in the
whole street. Two dollars you promised me.'
Winston found and handed over two creased and filthy notes, which
Parsons entered in a small notebook, in the neat handwriting of
'By the way, old boy,' he said. 'I hear that little beggar of
mine let fly at you with his catapult yesterday. I gave him a
good dressing-down for it. In fact I told him I'd take the catapult
away if he does it again.
'I think he was a little upset at not going to the execution,'
' Ah, well -- what I mean to say, shows the right spirit, doesn't
it? Mischievous little beggars they are, both of them, but talk
about keenness! All they think about is the Spies, and the war,
of course. D'you know what that little girl of mine did last Saturday,
when her troop was on a hike out Berkhamsted way? She got two
other girls to go with her, slipped off from the hike, and spent
the whole afternoon following a strange man. They kept on his
tail for two hours, right through the woods, and then, when they
got into Amersham, handed him over to the patrols.'
'What did they do that for?' said Winston, somewhat taken aback.
Parsons went on triumphantly:
'My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent -- might have
been dropped by parachute, for instance. But here's the point,
old boy. What do you think put her on to him in the first place?
She spotted he was wearing a funny kind of shoes -- said she'd
never seen anyone wearing shoes like that before. So the chances
were he was a foreigner. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh?'
'What happened to the man?' said Winston.
'Ah, that I couldn't say, of course. But I wouldn't be altogether
surprised if-' Parsons made the motion of aiming a rifle, and
clicked his tongue for the explosion.
'Good,' said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from his strip
'Of course we can't afford to take chances,' agreed Winston dutifully.
'What I mean to say, there is a war on,' said Parsons.
As though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call floated from
the telescreen just above their heads. However, it was not the
proclamation of a military victory this time, but merely an announcement
from the Ministry of Plenty.
'Comrades!' cried an eager youthful voice. 'Attention, comrades!
We have glorious news for you. We have won the battle for production!
Returns now completed of the output of all classes of consumption
goods show that the standard of living has risen by no less than
20 per cent over the past year. All over Oceania this morning
there were irrepressible spontaneous demonstrations when workers
marched out of factories and offices and paraded through the streets
with banners voicing their gratitude to Big Brother for the new,
happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed upon us. Here
are some of the completed figures. Foodstuffs-'
The phrase 'our new, happy life' recurred several times. It had
been a favourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Parsons,
his attention caught by the trumpet call, sat listening with a
sort of gaping solemnity, a sort of edified boredom. He could
not follow the figures, but he was aware that they were in some
way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged out a huge and filthy
pipe which was already half full of charred tobacco. With the
tobacco ration at 100 grammes a week it was seldom possible to
fill a pipe to the top. Winston was smoking a Victory Cigarette
which he held carefully horizontal. The new ration did not start
till tomorrow and he had only four cigarettes left. For the moment
he had shut his ears to the remoter noises and was listening to
the stuff that streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that
there had even been demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising
the chocolate ration to twenty grammes a week. And only yesterday,
he reflected, it had been announced that the ration was to be
reduced to twenty grammes a week. Was it possible that
they could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they
swallowed it. Parsons swallowed it easily, with the stupidity
of an animal. The eyeless creature at the other table swallowed
it fanatically, passionately, with a furious desire to track down,
denounce, and vaporize anyone who should suggest that last week
the ration had been thirty grammes. Syme, too-in some more complex
way, involving doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, alone
in the possession of a memory?
The fabulous statistics continued to pour out of the telescreen.
As compared with last year there was more food, more clothes,
more houses, more furniture, more cooking-pots, more fuel, more
ships, more helicopters, more books, more babies -- more of everything
except disease, crime, and insanity. Year by year and minute by
minute, everybody and everything was whizzing rapidly upwards.
As Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up his spoon and was
dabbling in the pale-coloured gravy that dribbled across the table,
drawing a long streak of it out into a pattern. He meditated resentfully
on the physical texture of life. Had it always been like this?
Had food always tasted like this? He looked round the canteen.
A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact
of innumerable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed
so close together that you sat with elbows touching; bent spoons,
dented trays, coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy, grime in
every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad gin and bad
coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Always in your stomach
and in your skin there was a sort of protest, a feeling that you
had been cheated of something that you had a right to. It was
true that he had no memories of anything greatly different. In
any time that he could accurately remember, there had never been
quite enough to eat, one had never had socks or underclothes that
were not full of holes, furniture had always been battered and
rickety, rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling
to pieces, bread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tasting,
cigarettes insufficient -- nothing cheap and plentiful except
synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew worse as one's body
aged, was it not a sign that this was not the natural order
of things, if one's heart sickened at the discomfort and dirt
and scarcity, the interminable winters, the stickiness of one's
socks, the lifts that never worked, the cold water, the gritty
soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the food with its strange
evil tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one
had some kind of ancestral memory that things had once been different?
He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was ugly, and
would still have been ugly even if dressed otherwise than in the
uniform blue overalls. On the far side of the room, sitting at
a table alone, a small, curiously beetle-like man was drinking
a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting suspicious glances from
side to side. How easy it was, thought Winston, if you did not
look about you, to believe that the physical type set up by the
Party as an ideal-tall muscular youths and deep-bosomed maidens,
blond-haired, vital, sunburnt, carefree -- existed and even predominated.
Actually, so far as he could judge, the majority of people in
Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curious
how that beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries: little
dumpy men, growing stout very early in life, with short legs,
swift scuttling movements, and fat inscrutable faces with very
small eyes. It was the type that seemed to flourish best under
the dominion of the Party.
The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended on another
trumpet call and gave way to tinny music. Parsons, stirred to
vague enthusiasm by the bombardment of figures, took his pipe
out of his mouth.
'The Ministry of Plenty's certainly done a good job this year,'
he said with a knowing shake of his head. 'By the way, Smith old
boy, I suppose you haven't got any razor blades you can let me
'Not one,' said Winston. 'I've been using the same blade for six
'Ah, well -- just thought I'd ask you, old boy.'
'Sorry,' said Winston.
The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily silenced during
the Ministry's announcement, had started up again, as loud as
ever. For some reason Winston suddenly found himself thinking
of Mrs Parsons, with her wispy hair and the dust in the creases
of her face. Within two years those children would be denouncing
her to the Thought Police. Mrs Parsons would be vaporized. Syme
would be vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O'Brien would
be vaporized. Parsons, on the other hand, would never be vaporized.
The eyeless creature with the quacking voice would never be vaporized.
The little beetle-like men who scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine
corridors of Ministries they, too, would never be vaporized. And
the girl with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction Department
-- she would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that
he knew instinctively who would survive and who would perish:
though just what it was that made for survival, it was not easy
At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent
jerk. The girl at the next table had turned partly round and was
looking at him. It was the girl with dark hair. She was looking
at him in a sidelong way, but with curious intensity. The instant
she caught his eye she looked away again.
The sweat started out on Winston's backbone. A horrible pang of
terror went through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left
a sort of nagging uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him?
Why did she keep following him about? Unfortunately he could not
remember whether she had already been at the table when he arrived,
or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at any rate, during
the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him when
there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object
had been to listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting
His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually
a member of the Thought Police, but then it was precisely the
amateur spy who was the greatest danger of all. He did not know
how long she had been looking at him, but perhaps for as much
as five minutes, and it was possible that his features had not
been perfectly under control. It was terribly dangerous to let
your thoughts wander when you were in any public place or within
range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you away.
A nervous tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering
to yourself -- anything that carried with it the suggestion of
abnormality, of having something to hide. In any case, to wear
an improper expression on your face (to look incredulous when
a victory was announced, for example) was itself a punishable
offence. There was even a word for it in Newspeak: facecrime,
it was called.
The girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after all she
was not really following him about, perhaps it was coincidence
that she had sat so close to him two days running. His cigarette
had gone out, and he laid it carefully on the edge of the table.
He would finish smoking it after work, if he could keep the tobacco
in it. Quite likely the person at the next table was a spy of
the Thought Police, and quite likely he would be in the cellars
of the Ministry of Love within three days, but a cigarette end
must not be wasted. Syme had folded up his strip of paper and
stowed it away in his pocket. Parsons had begun talking again.
'Did I ever tell you, old boy,' he said, chuckling round the stem
of his pipe, 'about the time when those two nippers of mine set
fire to the old market-woman's skirt because they saw her wrapping
up sausages in a poster of B.B.? Sneaked up behind her and set
fire to it with a box of matches. Burned her quite badly, I believe.
Little beggars, eh? But keen as mustard! That's a first-rate training
they give them in the Spies nowadays -- better than in my day,
even. What d'you think's the latest thing they've served them
out with? Ear trumpets for listening through keyholes! My little
girl brought one home the other night -- tried it out on our sitting-room
door, and reckoned she could hear twice as much as with her ear
to the hole. Of course it's only a toy, mind you. Still, gives
'em the right idea, eh?'
At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. It was
the signal to return to work. All three men sprang to their feet
to join in the struggle round the lifts, and the remaining tobacco
fell out of Winston's cigarette.
HERE TO DISCUSS THIS BOOK