In some ways she was far more acute than Winston， and far less susceptible to Party propaganda. Once when he happened in some connexion to mention the war against Eurasia， she startled him by saying casually that in her opinion the war was not happening. The rocket bombs which fell daily on London were probably fired by the Government of Oceania itself， “just to keep people frightened”. This was an idea that had literally never occurred to him. She also stirred a sort of envy in him by telling him that during the Two Minutes Hate her great difficulty was to avoid bursting out laughing. But she only questioned the teachings of the Party when they in some way touched upon her own life. Often she was ready to accept the official mythology， simply because the difference between truth and falsehood did not seem important to her. She believed， for instance， having learnt it at school， that the Party had invented aeroplanes. （In his own schooldays， Winston remembered， in the late fifties， it was only the helicopter that the Party claimed to have invented； a dozen years later， when Julia was at school， it was already claiming the aeroplane； one generation more， and it would be claiming the steam engine.） And when he told her that aeroplanes had been in existence before he was born and long before the Revolution， the fact struck her as totally uninteresting. After all， what did it matter who had invented aeroplanes？ It was rather more of a shock to him when he discovered from some chance remark that she did not remember that Oceania， four years ago， had been at war with Eastasia and at peace with Eurasia. It was true that she regarded the whole war as a sham： but apparently she had not even noticed that the name of the enemy had changed. “I thought we’d always been at war with Eurasia，” she said vaguely. It frightened him a little. The invention of aeroplanes dated from long before her birth， but the switchover in the war had happened only four years ago， well after she was grown up. He argued with her about it for perhaps a quarter of an hour. In the end he succeeded in forcing her memory back until she did dimly recall that at one time Eastasia and not Eurasia had been the enemy. But the issue still struck her as unimportant. “Who cares？” she said impatiently. “It’s always one bloody war after another， and one knows the news is all lies anyway.”
Sometimes he talked to her of the Records Department and the impudent forgeries that he committed there. Such things did not appear to horrify her. She did not feel the abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought of lies becoming truths. He told her the story of Jones， Aaronson， and Rutherford and the momentous slip of paper which he had once held between his fingers. It did not make much impression on her. At first， indeed， she failed to grasp the point of the story.
“Were they friends of yours？” she said.
“No， I never knew them. They were Inner Party members. Besides， they were far older men than I was. They belonged to the old days， before the Revolution. I barely knew them by sight.”
“Then what was there to worry about？ People are being killed off all the time， aren’t they？”
He tried to make her understand. “This was an exceptional case. It wasn’t just a question of somebody being killed. Do you realize that the past， starting from yesterday， has been actually abolished？ If it survives anywhere， it’s in a few solid objects with no words attached to them， like that lump of glass there. Already we know almost literally nothing about the Revolution and the years before the Revolution. Every record has been destroyed or falsified， every book has been rewritten， every picture has been repainted， every statue and street and building has been renamed， every date has been altered. And that process is continuing day by day and minute by minute. History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Party is always right. I know， of course， that the past is falsified， but it would never be possible for me to prove it， even when I did the falsification myself. After the thing is done， no evidence ever remains. The only evidence is inside my own mind， and I don’t know with any certainty that any other human being shares my memories. Just in that one instance， in my whole life， I did possess actual concrete evidence after the event — years after it.”
“And what good was that？”
“It was no good， because I threw it away a few minutes later. But if the same thing happened today， I should keep it.”
“Well， I wouldn’t！” said Julia. “I’m quite ready to take risks， but only for something worth while， not for bits of old newspaper. What could you have done with it even if you had kept it？”
“Not much， perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have planted a few doubts here and there， supposing that I’d dared to show it to anybody. I don’t imagine that we can alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine little knots of resistance springing up here and there — small groups of people banding themselves together， and gradually growing， and even leaving a few records behind， so that the next generations can carry on where we leave off.”
“I’m not interested in the next generation， dear. I’m interested in us.”
“You’re only a rebel from the waist downwards，”he told her.
She thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms round him in delight.
