LITMIR.BIZ

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are hundreds of nouns that can be destroyed as well. It isn't only the synonyms; there are also the antonyms. After all, why do you need a word which is simply the opposite of some other word? Take ‘good', for example. If you have a word like ‘good', what need is there for a word like ‘bad'? ‘Ungood' is better, because it's an exact opposite, and ‘bad' is not. Or again, if you want a stronger version of ‘good', you just have to say ‘plusgood' or ‘doubleplusgood' if you want something stronger still. Of course we use those words already. But in the final version of Newspeak there'll be nothing else. There will only be six words to express goodness and badness – in reality, only one word. Don't you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was B. B.'s idea, of course», he added.

      Syme saw that Winston was not really interested.

      «You don't understand the importance 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 from time to time. They're good enough, but they're translations. In your heart you prefer Oldspeak. You don't see the beauty of the destruction of words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?»

      Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, but didn't speak. Syme bit off another piece of the dark-coloured bread, and went on:

      «Don't you see that thoughtcrime will be impossible in the end because of Newspeak? There will be no words in which to express it. It narrows the range of thought. Every word will only have one meaning. Already, in the Eleventh Edition, we're not far from it. But the process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and less and less thoughtcrime. Even now, of course, there's no reason or excuse for thoughtcrime. It's just 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. «Can you imagine, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, there won't be a single human who could understand our conversation?»

      «Except…» began Winston in doubt, and he stopped.

      He almost said, «Except the proles», but he wasn't sure that this was not unorthodox. Syme, however, had guessed what he wanted to say.

      «The proles are not humans», he said. «By 2050 – earlier, probably – all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. There will be no literature of the past. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron – they'll exist only in Newspeak versions. But they will be changed into something quite opposite. Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will change. How could you have a slogan like ‘freedom is slavery' when there's no idea of freedom? 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».

      One of these days, thought Winston, Syme will be vapourized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly and speaks too openly. 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 to the side in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table on his left the man was still talking. A young woman was sitting at the same table with her back to Winston and listening to the man. She was perhaps his secretary and seemed to agree with everything that he was saying. From time to time she said «I think you're so right, I do so agree with you». But the other voice never stopped, even when the girl was speaking. Winston had seen the man before. He was a man of about thirty. Winston knew that he held some important post in the Fiction Department, but nothing else. Winston couldn't hear what the man was talking about, he just once caught a phrase – «they should finally destroy Goldsteinism». For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet, you knew what he was talking about. You could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. It was not the man's brain that was speaking, it was his throat. What he was saying consisted of words, but it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise, like the quacking of a duck.

      Syme was silent. The voice from the other table quacked, Winston and Syme could hear it in spite of the noise.

      «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 opposite meanings. If you say it to your opponent, it is negative, if you say it to someone you agree with, it is positive».

      There's no doubt that Syme will be vapourized, Winston thought again. He thought it with a kind of sadness. He knew well that Syme disliked him, and could report him as a thoughtcriminal if he saw any reason for it. There was something wrong with Syme. There was something that he lacked: a sort of saving stupidity. You could not say that he was unorthodox. He believed in the principles of Ingsoc, he respected Big Brother, he hated thought-criminals. Yet there was something wrong with him. He said things that you shouldn't say, he had read too many books, he often went to the Chestnut Tree Café, where painters and musicians went. There was no law against going to the Chestnut Tree Café, yet you knew that you shouldn't. The old leaders of the Party had been used to go there before they were destroyed. Goldstein himself, it was said, had sometimes been seen there, years ago. Winston knew what would happen to Syme. And yet if Syme learnt Winston's secret opinions, he would report him to the Thought Police at once. So would anybody else: but Syme more than most.

      Syme looked up. «Here comes Parsons», he said.

      Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add, «that fool». Parsons, who lived in the same block of Victory Mansions as Winston, was in fact coming across the room. At thirty-five he was already getting fat at neck and waist. His movements and his whole appearance was that of a little boy grown large. He greeted them both with a happy «Hullo, hullo!» and sat down at the table. Winston and Syme felt a strong smell of sweat. He always sweated a lot. At the Community Centre you could always tell when he had been playing table-tennis, because the bat handle was wet. Syme had taken a strip of paper with a long list of words, and was studying it with an ink-pencil between his fingers.

      «Look at him working away in the lunch hour», said Parsons, pushing Winston with his elbow. «What's that you've got there, old boy? Something a bit too clever for me, I expect. Smith, old boy, I'll tell you why I'm here. It's that sub you forgot to give me».

      «Which sub is that?» said Winston, looking for money. About a quarter of one's salary had to be given for voluntary subscriptions. There were so many that it was difficult to remember all of them.

      «For Hate Week. I'm in charge of our block. We're going to put on a great show. I tell you, it won't be my fault if old Victory Mansions doesn't have the biggest number of flags in the whole street. Two dollars you promised me».

      Winston found and gave him two notes, which Parsons put in a small notebook.

      «By the way, old boy», he said. «I hear that my little boy hit you with his catapult yesterday. 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 hanging», said Winston.

      «Ah, well – troublemakers they are, both of them! All they think about is the Spies, and the war, of course. Do you know what that little girl of mine did last Saturday on a hike? She made two other girls to go with her and spent the whole afternoon following a strange man. They followed him for two hours, right through the woods, and then reported him to the patrols».

      «What did they do that for?» said Winston, surprised. Parsons continued:

      «My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy spy – might have used a parachute, for instance. But here's the point, old boy. Why do you think she followed? She saw that 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 child of seven, eh?»

      «What happened to the man?» said Winston.

      «Ah, I don't know, of course. But I guess…» Parsons made the motion of aiming a rifle, and clicked his tongue for the explosion.

      «Good», said Syme without looking up from his strip of paper.

      «Of

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