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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
Chapter 4
He was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger every day, if it was proper to speak of days.
The white light and the humming sound were the same as ever, but the cell was a little more comfortable than the others he had been in. There was a pillow and a mattress1 on the plank2 bed, and a stool to sit on. They had given him a bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequently in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash with. They had given him new underclothes and a clean suit of overalls3. They had dressed his varicose ulcer4 with soothing5 ointment6. They had pulled out the remnants of his teeth and given him a new set of dentures.
Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been possible now to keep count of the passage of time, if he had felt any interest in doing so, since he was being fed at what appeared to be regular intervals7. He was getting, he judged, three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he wondered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. The food was surprisingly good, with meat at every third meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had no matches, but the never-speaking guard who brought his food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke it made him sick, but he persevered8, and spun9 the packet out for a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal.
They had given him a white slate10 with a stump11 of pencil tied to the corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was completely torpid12. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost without stirring, sometimes asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in which it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference, except that one’s dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with O’Brien — not doing anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort, now that the stimulus14 of pain had been removed. He was not bored, he had no desire for conversation or distraction15. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all over, was completely satisfying.
By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the strength gathering16 in his body. He would finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were growing rounder and his skin tauter17. Finally it was established beyond a doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs19 were now definitely thicker than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres, measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and humiliated20 to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm’s length, he could not stand on one leg without falling over. He squatted21 down on his heels, and found that with agonizing22 pains in thigh18 and calf23 he could just lift himself to a standing24 position. He lay flat on his belly25 and tried to lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless, he could not raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days — a few more mealtimes — even that feat26 was accomplished27. A time came when he could do it six times running. He began to grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an intermittent28 belief that his face also was growing back to normal. Only when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the seamed, ruined face that had looked back at him out of the mirror.
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately29 at the task of re-educating himself.
He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw now, he had been ready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the moment when he was inside the Ministry30 of Love — and yes, even during those minutes when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice from the telescreen told them what to do — he had grasped the frivolity31, the shallowness of his attempt to set himself up against the power of the Party. He knew now that for seven years the Thought Police had watched him like a beetle32 under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no word spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of thought that they had not been able to infer. Even the speck33 of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had carefully replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him, shown him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia and himself. Yes, even . . . He could not fight against the Party any longer. Besides, the Party was in the right. It must be so; how could the immortal34, collective brain be mistaken? By what external standard could you check its judgements? Sanity35 was statistical36. It was merely a question of learning to think as they thought. Only ——!
The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He began to write down the thoughts that came into his head. He wrote first in large clumsy capitals:
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it:
TWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE
But then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though shying away from something, seemed unable to concentrate. He knew that he knew what came next, but for the moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it, it was only by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not come of its own accord. He wrote:
GOD IS POWER
He accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past never had been altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford were guilty of the crimes they were charged with. He had never seen the photograph that disproved their guilt37. It had never existed, he had invented it. He remembered remembering contrary things, but those were false memories, products of self-deception. How easy it all was! Only surrender, and everything else followed. It was like swimming against a current that swept you backwards38 however hard you struggled, and then suddenly deciding to turn round and go with the current instead of opposing it. Nothing had changed except your own attitude: the predestined thing happened in any case. He hardly knew why he had ever rebelled. Everything was easy, except ——!
Anything could be true. The so-called laws of Nature were nonsense. The law of gravity was nonsense. ‘If I wished,’ O’Brien had said, ‘I could float off this floor like a soap bubble.’ Winston worked it out. ‘If he THINKS he floats off the floor, and if I simultaneously39 THINK I see him do it, then the thing happens.’ Suddenly, like a lump of submerged wreckage40 breaking the surface of water, the thought burst into his mind: ‘It doesn’t really happen. We imagine it. It is hallucination.’ He pushed the thought under instantly. The fallacy was obvious. It presupposed that somewhere or other, outside oneself, there was a ‘real’ world where ‘real’ things happened. But how could there be such a world? What knowledge have we of anything, save through our own minds? All happenings are in the mind. Whatever happens in all minds, truly happens.
He had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he was in no danger of succumbing41 to it. He realized, nevertheless, that it ought never to have occurred to him. The mind should develop a blind spot whenever a dangerous thought presented itself. The process should be automatic, instinctive42. CRIMESTOP, they called it in Newspeak.
He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He presented himself with propositions —‘the Party says the earth is flat’, ‘the party says that ice is heavier than water’— and trained himself in not seeing or not understanding the arguments that contradicted them. It was not easy. It needed great powers of reasoning and improvisation43. The arithmetical problems raised, for instance, by such a statement as ‘two and two make five’ were beyond his intellectual grasp. It needed also a sort of athleticism44 of mind, an ability at one moment to make the most delicate use of logic45 and at the next to be unconscious of the crudest logical errors. Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult to attain46.
All the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered how soon they would shoot him. ‘Everything depends on yourself,’ O’Brien had said; but he knew that there was no conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It might be ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him for years in solitary47 confinement48, they might send him to a labour-camp, they might release him for a while, as they sometimes did. It was perfectly49 possible that before he was shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation would be enacted50 all over again. The one certain thing was that death never came at an expected moment. The tradition — the unspoken tradition: somehow you knew it, though you never heard it said — was that they shot you from behind; always in the back of the head, without warning, as you walked down a corridor from cell to cell.
One day — but ‘one day’ was not the right expression; just as probably it was in the middle of the night: once — he fell into a strange, blissful reverie. He was walking down the corridor, waiting for the bullet. He knew that it was coming in another moment. Everything was settled, smoothed out, reconciled. There were no more doubts, no more arguments, no more pain, no more fear. His body was healthy and strong. He walked easily, with a joy of movement and with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was not any longer in the narrow white corridors in the Ministry of Love, he was in the enormous sunlit passage, a kilometre wide, down which he had seemed to walk in the delirium51 induced by drugs. He was in the Golden Country, following the foot-track across the old rabbit-cropped pasture. He could feel the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sunshine on his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees, faintly stirring, and somewhere beyond that was the stream where the dace lay in the green pools under the willows52.
Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The sweat broke out on his backbone53. He had heard himself cry aloud:
‘Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!’
For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence. She had seemed to be not merely with him, but inside him. It was as though she had got into the texture54 of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far more than he had ever done when they were together and free. Also he knew that somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help.
He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. What had he done? How many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness?
In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had not known before, that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. He obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old days he had hidden a heretical mind beneath an appearance of conformity55. Now he had retreated a step further: in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped to keep the inner heart inviolate56. He knew that he was in the wrong, but he preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand that — O’Brien would understand it. It was all confessed in that single foolish cry.
He would have to start all over again. It might take years. He ran a hand over his face, trying to familiarize himself with the new shape. There were deep furrows57 in the cheeks, the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose flattened58. Besides, since last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like. In any case, mere13 control of the features was not enough. For the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that could be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think right; he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred59 locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst.
One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not tell when it would happen, but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess. It was always from behind, walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be enough. In that time the world inside him could turn over. And then suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his step, without the changing of a line in his face — suddenly the camouflage60 would be down and bang! would go the batteries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an enormous roaring flame. And almost in the same instant bang! would go the bullet, too late, or too early. They would have blown his brain to pieces before they could reclaim61 it. The heretical thought would be unpunished, unrepented, out of their reach for ever. They would have blown a hole in their own perfection. To die hating them, that was freedom.
He shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting an intellectual discipline. It was a question of degrading himself, mutilating himself. He had got to plunge62 into the filthiest64 of filth63. What was the most horrible, sickening thing of all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face (because of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought of it as being a metre wide), with its heavy black moustache and the eyes that followed you to and fro, seemed to float into his mind of its own accord. What were his true feelings towards Big Brother?
There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The steel door swung open with a clang. O’Brien walked into the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced officer and the black-uniformed guards.
‘Get up,’ said O’Brien. ‘Come here.’
Winston stood opposite him. O’Brien took Winston’s shoulders between his strong hands and looked at him closely.
‘You have had thoughts of deceiving me,’ he said. ‘That was stupid. Stand up straighter. Look me in the face.’
He paused, and went on in a gentler tone:
‘You are improving. Intellectually there is very little wrong with you. It is only emotionally that you have failed to make progress. Tell me, Winston — and remember, no lies: you know that I am always able to detect a lie — tell me, what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?’
‘I hate him.’
‘You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you to take the last step. You must love Big Brother. It is not enough to obey him: you must love him.’
He released Winston with a little push towards the guards.
‘Room 101,’ he said.
点击
收听单词发音
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1
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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ulcer
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| n.溃疡，腐坏物 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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13
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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tauter
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| adj.紧的( taut的比较级 )；绷紧的；（指肌肉或神经）紧张的；整洁的 | |
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18
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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20
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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21
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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22
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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23
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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24
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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26
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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30
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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32
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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38
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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40
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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41
succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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42
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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43
improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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44
athleticism
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| n.运动竞赛，崇尚运动，竞技热 | |
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45
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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46
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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47
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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48
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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49
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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50
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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52
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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53
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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54
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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55
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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56
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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57
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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59
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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60
camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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61
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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62
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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63
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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64
filthiest
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| filthy（肮脏的，污秽的）的最高级形式 | |
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