Re: Marlow One tought guy

to set about
doing it. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal
glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable
event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a belch. The
gin was rising from his stomach.
His eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that while he sat
helplessly musing he had also been writing, as though by automatic action.
And it was no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His
pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat
capitals--

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER

over and over again, filling half a page.
He could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was absurd, since the
writing of those particular words was not more dangerous than the initial
act of opening the diary, but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the
spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether.
He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless.
Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from
writing it, made no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or
whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police
would get him just the same. He had committed -- would still have
committed, even if he had never set pen to paper -- the essential crime
that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it.
Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might
dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they
were bound to get you.
It was always at night -- the arrests invariably happened at night.
The sudden jerk ou


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