LITMIR.BIZ

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three men, three one-time Party members named Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford—men who were executed for treachery and sabotage after making the fullest possible confession—were not guilty of the crimes they were charged with. You believed that you had seen unmistakable documentary evidence proving that their confessions were false. There was a certain photograph about which you had a hallucination. You believed that you had actually held it in your hands. It was a photograph something like this."

      An oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between O'Brien's fingers. For perhaps five seconds it was within the angle of Winston's vision. It was a photograph, and there was no question of its identity. It was the photograph. It was another copy of the photograph of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford at the Party function in New York, which he had chanced upon eleven years ago and promptly destroyed. For only an instant it was before his eyes, then it was out of sight again. But he had seen it, unquestionably he had seen it! He made a desperate, agonizing effort to wrench the top half of his body free. It was impossible to move so much as a centimeter in any direction. For the moment he had even forgotten the dial. All he wanted was to hold the photograph in his fingers again, or at least to see it.

      "It exists!" he cried.

      "No," said O'Brien.

      He stepped across the room. There was a memory hole in the opposite wall. O'Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the frail slip of paper was whirling away on the current of warm air; it was vanishing in a flash of flame. O'Brien turned away from the wall.

      "Ashes," he said. "Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does not exist. It never existed."

      "But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I remember it. You remember it."

      "I do not remember it," said O'Brien.

      Winston's heart sank. That was doublethink. He had a feeling of deadly helplessness. If he could have been certain that O'Brien was lying, it would not have seemed to matter. But it was perfectly possible that O'Brien had really forgotten the photograph. And if so, then already he would have forgotten his denial of remembering it, and forgotten the act of forgetting. How could one be sure that it was simply trickery? Perhaps that lunatic dislocation in the mind could really happen: that was the thought that defeated him.

      O'Brien was looking down at him speculatively. More than ever he had the air of a teacher taking pains with a wayward but promising child.

      "There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the past," he said. "Repeat it, if you please."

      "'Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past,'" repeated Winston obediently.

      "'Who controls the present controls the past,'" said O'Brien, nodding his head with slow approval. "Is it your opinion, Winston, that the past has real existence?"

      Again the feeling of helplessness descended upon Winston. His eyes flitted toward the dial. He not only did not know whether "yes" or "no" was the answer that would save him from pain; he did not even know which answer he believed to be the true one.

      O'Brien smiled faintly. "You are no metaphysician, Winston," he said. "Until this moment you had never considered what is meant by existence. I will put it more precisely. Does the past exist concretely, in space? Is there somewhere or other a place, a world of solid objects, where the past is still happening?"

      "No."

      "Then where does the past exist, if at all?"

      "In records. It is written down."

      "In records. And—?"

      "In the mind. In human memories."

      "In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all records, and we control all memories. Then we control the past, do we not?"

      "But how can you stop people remembering things?" cried Winston, again momentarily forgetting the dial. "It is involuntary. It is outside oneself. How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!"

      O'Brien's manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial.

      "On the contrary," he said, "you have not controlled it. That is what has brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes; only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be truth is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane."

      He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying to sink in.

      "Do you remember," he went on, "writing in your diary, 'Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four'?"

      "Yes," said Winston.

      O'Brien held up his left hand, its back toward Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.

      "How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?"

      "Four."

      "And if the Party says that it is not four but five—then how many?"

      "Four."

      The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.

      "How many fingers, Winston?"

      "Four."

      The needle went up to sixty.

      "How many fingers, Winston?"

      "Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!"

      The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four.

      "How many fingers, Winston?"

      "Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!"

      "How many fingers, Winston?"

      "Five! Five! Five!"

      "No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are four. How many fingers, please?"

      "Four! Five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!"

      Abruptly he was sitting up with O'Brien's arm round his shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For a moment he clung to O'Brien like a baby, curiously comforted by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the feeling that O'Brien was his protector, that the pain was something that came from outside, from some other source, and that it was O'Brien who would save him from it.

      "You are a slow learner, Winston," said O'Brien gently.

      "How can I help it?" he blubbered. "How can I help seeing what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four."

      "Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane."

      He laid

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