How could you tell how much of it was lies？ It might be true that the average human being was better off now than he had been before the Revolution. The only evidence to the contrary was the mute protest in your own bones， the instinctive feeling that the conditions you lived in were intolerable and that at some other time they must have been different. It struck him that the truly characteristic thing about modern life was not its cruelty and insecurity， but simply its bareness， its dinginess， its listlessness. Life， if you looked about you， bore no resemblance not only to the lies that streamed out of the telescreens， but even to the ideals that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it， even for a Party member， were neutral and non-political， a matter of slogging through dreary jobs， fighting for a place on the Tube， darning a worn-out sock， cadging a saccharine tablet， saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the Party was something huge， terrible， and glittering — a world of steel and concrete， of monstrous machines and terrifying weapons — a nation of warriors and fanatics， marching forward in perfect unity， all thinking the same thoughts and shouting the same slogans， perpetually working， fighting， triumphing， persecuting — three hundred million people all with the same face. The reality was decaying， dingy cities where underfed people shuffled to and fro in leaky shoes， in patched-up nineteenth-century houses that smelt always of cabbage and bad lavatories. He seemed to see a vision of London， vast and ruinous， city of a million dustbins， and mixed up with it was a picture of Mrs. Parsons， a woman with lined face and wispy hair， fiddling helplessly with a blocked waste-pipe. He reached down and scratched his ankle again. Day and night the telescreens bruised your ears with statistics proving that people today had more food， more clothes， better houses， better recreations — that they lived longer， worked shorter hours， were bigger， healthier， stronger， happier， more intelligent， better educated， than the people of fifty years ago. Not a word of it could ever be proved or disproved. The Party claimed， for example， that today 40 per cent of adult proles were literate： before the Revolution， it was said， the number had only been 15 per cent. The Party claimed that the infant mortality rate was now only 160 per thousand， whereas before the Revolution it had been 300 — and so it went on. It was like a single equation with two unknowns. It might very well be that literally every word in the history books， even the things that one accepted without question， was pure fantasy. For all he knew there might never have been any such law as the jus primae noctis， or any such creature as a capitalist， or any such garment as a top hat.
Everything faded into mist. The past was erased， the erasure was forgotten， the lie became truth. Just once in his life he had possessed — after the event： that was what counted — concrete， unmistakable evidence of an act of falsification. He had held it between his fingers for as long as thirty seconds. In 1973， it must have been — at any rate， it was at about the time when he and Katharine had parted. But the really relevant date was seven or eight years earlier.
The story really began in the middle sixties， the period of the great purges in which the original leaders of the Revolution were wiped out once and for all. By 1970 none of them was left， except Big Brother himself. All the rest had by that time been exposed as traitors and counter- revolutionaries. Goldstein had fled and was hiding no one knew where， and of the others， a few had simply disappeared， while the majority had been executed after spectacular public trials at which they made confession of their crimes. Among the last survivors were three men named Jones， Aaronson， and Rutherford. It must have been in 1965 that these three had been arrested. As often happened， they had vanished for a year or more， so that one did not know whether they were alive or dead， and then had suddenly been brought forth to incriminate themselves in the usual way. They had confessed to intelligence with the enemy （at that date， too， the enemy was Eurasia）， embezzlement of public funds， the murder of various trusted Party members， intrigues against the leadership of Big Brother which had started long before the Revolution happened， and acts of sabotage causing the death of hundreds of thousands of people. After confessing to these things they had been pardoned， reinstated in the Party， and given posts which were in fact sinecures but which sounded important. All three had written long， abject articles in ， analysing the reasons for their defection and promising to make amends.
Some time after their release Winston had actually seen all three of them in the Chestnut Tree Café. He remembered the sort of terrified fascination with which he had watched them out of the corner of his eye. They were men far older than himself， relics of the ancient world， almost the last great figures left over from the heroic days of the Party. The glamour of the underground struggle and the civil war still faintly clung to them. He had the feeling， though already at that time facts and dates were growing blurry， that he had known their names years earlier than he had known that of Big Brother. But also they were outlaws， enemies， untouchables， doomed with absolute certainty to extinction within a year or two. No one who had once fallen into the hands of the Thought Police ever escaped in the end. They were corpses waiting to be sent back to the grave.
