For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself， but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past he had been ****** ready for this moment， and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head， literally for years. At this moment， however， even the monologue had dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching unbearably. He dared not scratch it， because if he did so it always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him， the itching of the skin above his ankle， the blaring of the music， and a slight booziness caused by the gin.
Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic， only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page， shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops：
Winston stopped writing， partly because he was suffering from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had clarified itself in his mind， to the point where he almost felt equal to writing it down. It was， he now realized， because of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come home and begin the diary today.
It had happened that morning at the Ministry， if anything so nebulous could be said to happen.
It was nearly eleven hundred， and in the Records Department， where Winston worked， they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen， in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew by sight， but had never spoken to， came unexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors. He did not know her name， but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably — since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner she had some mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl， of about twenty-seven， with thick hair， a freckled face， and swift， athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash， emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League， was wound several times round the waist of her overalls， just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women， and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always the women， and above all the young ones， who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party， the swallowers of slogans， the ******* spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That， it was true， was very unlikely. Still， he continued to feel a peculiar uneasiness， which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility， whenever she was anywhere near him.
The other person was a man named O’Brien， a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature. A momentary hush passed over the group of people round the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member approaching. O’Brien was a large， burly man with a thick neck and a coarse， humorous， brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming — in some indefinable way， curiously civilized. It was a gesture which， if anyone had still thought in such terms， might have recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston had seen O’Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many years. He felt deeply drawn to him， and not solely because he was intrigued by the contrast between O’Brien’s urbane manner and his prize-fighter’s physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief — or perhaps not even a belief， merely a hope — that O’Brien’s political orthodoxy was not perfect.
Something in his face suggested it irresistibly. And again， perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was written in his face， but simply intelligence. But at any rate he had the appearance of being a person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this guess： indeed， there was no way of doing so. At this moment O’Brien glanced at his wrist-watch， saw that it was nearly eleven hundred， and evidently decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston， a couple of places away. A small， sandy-haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.
The next moment a hideous， grinding speech， as of some monstrous machine running without oil， burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set one’s teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one’s neck. The Hate had started.
