Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen and sat down at the table again， still rubbing his neck. The music from the telescreen had stopped. Instead， a clipped military voice was reading out， with a sort of brutal relish， a description of the armaments of the new Floating Fortress which had just been anchored between Iceland and the Faroe lslands.With those children， he thought， that wretched woman must lead a life of terror. Another year， two years， and they would be watching her night and day for symptoms of unorthodoxy.
Nearly all children nowadays were horrible. What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages， and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the Party. On the contrary， they adored the Party and everything connected with it. The songs， the processions， the banners， the hiking， the drilling with dummy rifles， the yelling of slogans， the worship of Big Brother — it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned outwards， against the enemies of the State， against foreigners， traitors， saboteurs， thought-criminals. It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children. And with good reason， for hardly a week passed in which did not carry a paragraph describing how some eavesdropping little sneak — “child hero” was the phrase generally used — had overheard some compromising remark and denounced its parents to the Thought Police.
The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked up his pen half-heartedly， wondering whether he could find something more to write in the diary. Suddenly he began thinking of O’Brien again.
Years ago — how long was it？ Seven years it must be — he had dreamed that he was walking through a pitch-dark room. And someone sitting to one side of him had said as he passed： “We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.” It was said very quietly， almost casually — a statement， not a command. He had walked on without pausing. What was curious was that at the time， in the dream， the words had not made much impression on him. It was only later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on significance. He could not now remember whether it was before or after having the dream that he had seen O’Brien for the first time， nor could he remember when he had first identified the voice as O"Brien"s. But at any rate the identification existed. It was O"Brien who had spoken to him out of the dark.
Winston had never been able to feel sure — even after this morning’s flash of the eyes it was still impossible to be sure whether O"Brien was a friend or an enemy. Nor did it even seem to matter greatly. There was a link of understanding between them， more important than affection or partisanship.
“We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness，” he had said. Winston did not know what it meant， only that in some way or another it would come true.
The voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call， clear and beautiful， floated into the stagnant air. The voice continued raspingly：
“Attention！ Your attention， please！ A newsflash has this moment arrived from the Malabar front. Our forces in South India have won a glorious victory. I am authorized to say that the action we are now reporting may well bring the war within measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash —”Bad news coming， thought Winston. And sure enough， following on a gory description of the annihilation of a Eurasian army， with stupendous figures of killed and prisoners， came the announcement that， as from next week， the chocolate ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty.
Winston belched again. The gin was wearing off， leaving a deflated feeling. The telescreen — perhaps to celebrate the victory， perhaps to drown the memory of the lost chocolate — crashed into “Oceania， ’tis for thee”. You were supposed to stand to attention. However， in his present position he was invisible.
“Oceania， ’tis for thee” gave way to lighter music. Winston walked over to the window， keeping his back to the telescreen. The day was still cold and clear. Somewhere far away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull， reverberating roar. About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London at present.
Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and fro， and the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished. Ingsoc. The sacred principles of Ingsoc. Newspeak， doublethink， the mutability of the past. He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom， lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was dead， the future was unimaginable. What certainty had he that a single human creature now living was on his side？ And what way of knowing that the dominion of the Party would not endure for ever？ Like an answer， the three slogans on the white face of the Ministry of Truth came back to him：
He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There， too， in tiny clear lettering， the same slogans were inscribed， and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes pursued you. On coins， on stamps， on the covers of books， on banners， on posters， and on the wrappings of a cigarette Packet — everywhere. Always the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake， working or eating， indoors or out of doors， in the bath or in bed — no escape. Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull.
