The Ministry of Truth， which concerned itself with news， entertainment， education， and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace， which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love， which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty， which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names， in Newspeak： Minitrue， Minipax， Miniluv， and Miniplenty.
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love， nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business， and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements， steel doors， and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms， armed with jointed truncheons.
Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen， and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow’s breakfast. He took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly， oily smell， as of Chinese ricespirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful， nerved himself for a shock， and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.
Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid， and moreover， in swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next moment， however， the burning in his belly died down and the world began to look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked and incautiously held it upright， whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took out a penholder， a bottle of ink， and a thick， quarto-sized blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.
For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual position. Instead of being placed， as was normal， in the end wall， where it could command the whole room， it was in the longer wall， opposite the window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting， and which， when the flats were built， had probably been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove， and keeping well back， Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen， so far as sight went. He could be heard， of course， but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do.
But it had also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper， a little yellowed by age， was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least forty years past. He could guess， however， that the book was much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town （just what quarter he did not now remember） and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops （“dealing on the free market”， it was called）， but the rule was not strictly kept， because there were various things， such as shoelaces and razor blades， which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it， it was a compromising possession.
The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal （nothing was illegal， since there were no longer any laws）， but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death， or at least by twenty-five years in a forcedlabour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic instrument， seldom used even for signatures， and he had procured one， furtively and with some difficulty， simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to writing by hand. Apart from very short notes， it was usual to dictate everything into the speakwrite which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote：
April 4th， 1984.
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with， he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date， since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine， and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945； but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
For whom， it suddenly occurred to him to wonder， was he writing this diary？ For the future， for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page， and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word doublethink. For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future？ It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present， in which case it would not listen to him；or it would be different from it， and his predicament would be meaningless.
