After several days of nervous tension during which he does not speak to her, Winston manages Executing their plan, Winston and the girl meet in the country. In , Book 2, Chapter 2, Winston meets Julia, the dark-haired girl from his dream of Golden Country. They make love and arrange to meet again sometime soon. Julia wonders why he did not and tells him she would have done it in a heartbeat. × She then begins to plan their next meeting where they first met. what conflicting emotions does winston feel before helping the girl? he is cautious. where do they plan to meet? . what does winston see when he faces julia.
She is 26, lives in a hostel with 30 other girls, and works on novel-writing machines in the Fiction Department. Though she doesn't like to read, she's comfortable with machinery and enjoys her job. She was a troop leader in the Spies and because of her reputation for chastity was selected to work in Pornosec, the all-girl section of the Fiction Department that produces pornography for the proles.
Julia doesn't believe in the existence of the Brotherhood. She just hates the Party and likes outwitting it, committing small acts of rebellion without getting caught. Winston sees his relationship as deeply political. Her dislike of reading indicates that, unlike Winston, she's no intellectual. Her dislike of the party is still intense, but not as deep as Winston's. She does not think of overthrowing the party, as Winston does.
She just enjoys beating it in the limited way that she can. While the Party keeps its members sexually repressed, it keeps the Proles quiet by actually publishing pornography for them. Active Themes Julia also understands the Party's policy on sex better than Winston does.
She explains to him that depriving people of sex induces hysteria, which can be transformed by the Party into hatred of the Party's enemies and worship of Big Brother. Though not as educated as Winston, Julia has a much better understanding of the Party's manipulation of sex. Winston, in turn, tells Julia about a time when he was on a community hike with Katharine and nearly pushed his wife off a cliff.
Its real, undeclared purpose was to remove all pleasure from the sexual act. Not love so much as eroticism was the enemy, inside marriage as well as outside it. All marriages between Party members had to be approved by a committee appointed for the purpose, and — though the principle was never clearly stated — permission was always refused if the couple concerned gave the impression of being physically attracted to one another.
The only recognized purpose of marriage was to beget children for the service of the Party. Sexual intercourse was to be looked on as a slightly disgusting minor operation, like having an enema. This again was never put into plain words, but in an indirect way it was rubbed into every Party member from childhood onwards. The sexual act, successfully performed, was rebellion. If there is hope If there is hope, it lies in the proles.
Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious. 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.
Everything faded into mist. The past was erased, the erasure was forgotten, the lie became truth. Under the spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me. There lie they, and here lie we Under the spreading chestnut tree. The past not only changed, but changed continuously. What most afflicted him with the sense of nightmare was that he had never clearly understood why the huge imposture was undertaken.
The immediate advantages of falsifying the past were obvious, but the ultimate motive was mysterious. He wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself was a lunatic.
Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one. At one time it had been a sign of madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; today, to believe that the past is unalterable.
He might be alone in holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him; the horror was that he might also be wrong. For after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable--what then? Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that is granted, all else follows.
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 had to achieve. But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling on to that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable: Within twenty years at the most, he reflected, the huge and simple question, 'Was life better before the Revolution than it is now?
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But in effect it was unanswerable even now, since the few scattered survivors from the ancient world were incapable of comparing one age with another. They remembered a million useless things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicycle pump, the expression on a long-dead sister's face, the swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: They were like the ant, which can see small objects but not large ones.
It would not matter if they killed you at once. To be killed was what you expected.
Book 2, Chapter 3 Summary & Analysis | LitCharts
But before death nobody spoke of such things, yet everybody knew of them there was the routine of confession that had to be gone through: Why did you have to endure it, since the end was always the same? Why was it not possible to cut a few days or weeks out of your life? Nobody ever escaped detection, and nobody ever failed to confess.
When once you had succumbed to thoughtcrime it was certain that by a given date you would be dead. Why then did that horror, which altered nothing, have to lie embedded in future time?
He thought with a kind of astonishment of the biological uselessness of pain and fear, the treachery of the human body which always freezes into inertia at exactly the moment when a special effort is needed. It struck him that in moments of crisis one is never fighting against an external enemy but always against one's own body. Chapter 2[ edit ] His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: Anything that hinted at corruption always filled him with a wild hope. Who knew, perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, its cult of strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing iniquity.
If he could have infected the whole lot of them with leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Anything to rot, to weaken, to undermine! In the old days, he thought, a man looked at a girl's body and saw that it was desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you could not have pure love or pure lust nowadays.
No emotion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act. But by degrees the flood of music drove all speculations out of his mind.
It was as though it were a kind of liquid stuff that poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and merely felt. Chapter 3[ edit ] If you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones. When you make love you're using up energy; and afterwards you feel happy and don't give a damn for anything.
They can't bear you to feel like that. They want you to be bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour.
If you're happy inside yourself, why should you get excited about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot? There was a direct intimate connection between chastity and political orthodoxy. For how could the fear, the hatred, and the lunatic credulity which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and using it as a driving force?
The sex impulse was dangerous to the Party, and the Party had turned it to account. They had played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood. The family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people were encouraged to be fond of their children, in almost the old-fashioned way.
The children, on the other hand, were systematically turned against their parents and taught to spy on them and report their deviations. The family had become in effect an extension of the Thought Police. It was a device by means of which everyone could be surrounded night and day by informers who knew him intimately.
In this game that we're playing, we can't win. Some kinds of failure are better than other kinds, that's all. Six months, a year--five years, conceivably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably you're more afraid of it than I am.
Nineteen Eighty-Four - Wikiquote
Obviously we shall put it off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So long as human beings stay human, death and life are the same thing.
It was one of countless similar songs published for the benefit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department. The words of these songs were composed without any human intervention whatever on an instrument known as versificator.
The inexhaustibly interesting thing was not the fragment of coral but the interior of the glass itself. There was such a depth of it, and yet it was almost as transparent as air.
It was as though the surface of the glass had been the arch of the sky, enclosing a tiny world with its atmosphere complete. He had the feeling that he could get inside it, and that in fact he was inside it, along with the mahogany bed and the gateleg table and the clock and the steel engraving and the paperweight itself.
The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was Julia's life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal. There were times when the fact of impending death seemed as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they would cling together with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned soul grasping at his last morsel of pleasure when the clock is within five minutes of striking.
But there were also times when they had the illusion not only of safety but of permanence. So long as they were actually in this room, they both felt, no harm could come to them.
Getting there was difficult and dangerous, but the room itself was sanctuary. 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. It was all nonsense, as they both knew.
In reality there was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one's lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available.
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. In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most successfully on people incapable of understanding it.
They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently interested in public events to notice what was happening. By lack of understanding they remained sane. They simply swallowed everything, and what they swallowed did them no harm, because it left no residue behind, just as a grain of corn will pass undigested through the body of a bird. Chapter 7[ edit ] "Confession is not betrayal.
What you say or do doesn't matter: If they could make me stop loving you—that would be the real betrayal. They can't make you believe it. They can't get inside you. If you can feel that staying human is worth while, even when it can't have any result whatever, you've beaten them. If you loved someone, you loved him and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love. When the last of the chocolate was gone, his mother had clasped the child in her arms.
It was no use, it changed nothing, it did not produce more chocolate, it did not avert the child's death or her own; but it seemed natural for her to do it.
The refugee woman in the boat had also covered the little boy with her arm, which was no more use against the bullets than a sheet of paper. The terrible thing that the Party had done was to persuade you that mere impulses, mere feelings, were of no account, while at the same time robbing you of all power over the material world. When once you were in the grip of the Party, what you felt or did not feel, what you did or refrained from doing, made literally no difference.
Whatever happened you vanished, and neither you nor your actions were ever heard of again. You were lifted clean out of the stream of history. And yet to the people of only two generations ago, this would not have seemed all-important, because they were not attempting to alter history.
They were governed by private loyalties which they did not question.
What mattered were individual relationships, and a completely helpless gesture, an embrace, a tear, a word spoken to a dying man, could have value in itself. Facts, at any rate, could not be kept hidden.
They could be tracked down by enquiry, they could be squeezed out of you by torture. But if the object was not to stay alive but to stay human, what difference did it ultimately make?
They could not alter your feelings: They could lay bare in the utmost detail everything that you had done or said or thought; but the inner heart, whose workings were mysterious even to yourself, remained impregnable. Chapter 8[ edit ] The Brotherhood cannot be wiped out because it is not an organization in the ordinary sense. Nothing holds it together except an idea which is indestructible. You will never have anything to sustain you, except the idea.
You will get no comradeship and no encouragement. When finally you are caught, you will get no help. We never help our members. At most, when it is absolutely necessary that someone should be silenced, we are occasionally able to smuggle a razor blade into a prisoner's cell. You will have to get used to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results that you will ever see.
There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there is no knowing.
It might be a thousand years. At present nothing is possible except to extend the area of sanity little by little. We cannot act collectively.