In the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch queue jerked slowly
forward. The room was already very full and deafeningly noisy. From the grille
at the counter the steam of stew came pouring forth, with a sour metallic smell
which did not quite overcome the fumes of Victory Gin. On the far side of the
room there was a small bar, a mere hole in the wall, where gin could be bought
at ten cents the large nip.
'Just the man I was looking for,' said a voice at Winston's back.
He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research Department.
Perhaps 'friend' was not exactly the right word. You did not have friends
nowadays, you had comrades: but there were some comrades whose society was
pleasanter than that of others. Syme was a philologist, a specialist in
Newspeak. Indeed, he was one of the enormous team of experts now engaged in
compiling the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a tiny
creature, smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large, protuberant eyes, at
once mournful and derisive, which seemed to search your face closely while he
was speaking to you.
'I wanted to ask you whether you'd got any razor blades,' he said.
'Not one!' said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. 'I've tried all over the
place. They don't exist any longer.'
Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he had two unused ones which
he was hoarding up. There had been a famine of them for months past. At any
given moment there was some necessary article which the Party shops were unable
to supply. Sometimes it was buttons, sometimes it was darning wool, sometimes it
was shoelaces; at present it was razor blades. You could only get hold of them,
if at all, by scrounging more or less furtively on the 'free' market.
'I've been using the same blade for six weeks,' he added untruthfully.
The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he turned and faced Syme
again. Each of them took a greasy metal tray from a pile at the end of the
'Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday?' said Syme.
'I was working,' said Winston indifferently. 'I shall see it on the flicks, I
'A very inadequate substitute,' said Syme.
His mocking eyes roved over Winston's face. 'I know you,' the eyes seemed to
say, 'I see through you. I know very well why you didn't go to see those
prisoners hanged.' In an intellectual way, Syme was venomously orthodox. He
would talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of helicopter raids on
enemy villages, and trials and confessions of thought-criminals, the executions
in the cellars of the Ministry of Love. Talking to him was largely a matter of
getting him away from such subjects and entangling him, if possible, in the
technicalities of Newspeak, on which he was authoritative and interesting.
Winston turned his head a little aside to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark
'It was a good hanging,' said Syme reminiscently. 'I think it spoils it when
they tie their feet together. I like to see them kicking. And above all, at the
end, the tongue sticking right out, and blue a quite bright blue. That's the
detail that appeals to me.'
'Nex', please!' yelled the white-aproned prole with the ladle.
Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille. On to each was dumped
swiftly the regulation lunch – a metal pannikin of pinkish-grey stew, a hunk of
bread, a cube of cheese, a mug of milkless Victory Coffee, and one saccharine
'There's a table over there, under that telescreen,' said Syme. 'Let's pick up a
gin on the way.'
The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. They threaded their way
across the crowded room and unpacked their trays on to the metal-topped table,
on one corner of which someone had left a pool of stew, a filthy liquid mess
that had the appearance of vomit. Winston took up his mug of gin, paused for an
instant to collect his nerve, and gulped the oily-tasting stuff down. When he
had winked the tears out of his eyes he suddenly discovered that he was hungry.
He began swallowing spoonfuls of the stew, which, in among its general
sloppiness, had cubes of spongy pinkish stuff which was probably a preparation
of meat. Neither of them spoke again till they had emptied their pannikins. From
the table at Winston's left, a little behind his back, someone was talking
rapidly and continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck,
which pierced the general uproar of the room.
'How is the Dictionary getting on?' said Winston, raising his voice to overcome
'Slowly,' said Syme. 'I'm on the adjectives. It's fascinating.'
He had brightened up immediately at the mention of Newspeak. He pushed his
pannikin aside, took up his hunk of bread in one delicate hand and his cheese in
the other, and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak without
'The Eleventh Edition is the definitive edition,' he said. 'We're getting the
language into its final shape – the shape it's going to have when nobody speaks
anything else. When we've finished with it, people like you will have to learn
it all over again. You think, I dare say, that our chief job is inventing new
words. But not a bit of it! We're destroying words – scores of them, hundreds
of them, every day. We're cutting the language down to the bone. The Eleventh
Edition won't contain a single word that will become obsolete before the year
He bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, then
continued speaking, with a sort of pedant's passion. His thin dark face had
become animated, his eyes had lost their mocking expression and grown almost
'It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course the great wastage
is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got
rid of as well. It isn't only the synonyms; there are also the antonyms. After
all, what justification is there for a word which is simply the opposite of some
other word? A word contains its opposite in itself. Take "good", for instance.
If you have a word like "good", what need is there for a word like "bad"? "Ungood"
will do just as well – better, because it's an exact opposite, which the other
is not. Or again, if you want a stronger version of "good", what sense is there
in having a whole string of vague useless words like "excellent" and "splendid"
and all the rest of them? "Plusgood" covers the meaning, or "doubleplusgood" if
you want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms already. but in
the final version of Newspeak there'll be nothing else. In the end the whole
notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words – in reality,
only one word. Don't you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was B.B.'s idea
originally, of course,' he added as an afterthought.
A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston's face at the mention of Big
Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of enthusiasm.
'You haven't a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,' he said almost sadly.
'Even when you write it you're still thinking in Oldspeak. I've read some of
those pieces that you write in The Times occasionally. They're good enough, but
they're translations. In your heart you'd prefer to stick to Oldspeak, with all
its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. You don't grasp the beauty of
the destruction of words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in the
world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?'
Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, not
trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the dark-coloured
bread, chewed it briefly, and went on:
'Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought?
In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will
be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed, will
be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its
subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in the Eleventh Edition,
we're not far from that point. But the process will still be continuing long
after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of
consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there's no reason or
excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It's merely a question of self-discipline,
reality-control. But in the end there won't be any need even for that. The
Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and
Ingsoc is Newspeak,' he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. 'Has it ever
occurred to you, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, not a
single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation as we
are having now?'
'Except-' began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped.
It had been on the tip of his tongue to say 'Except the proles,' but he checked
himself, not feeling fully certain that this remark was not in some way
unorthodox. Syme, however, had divined what he was about to say.
'The proles are not human beings,' he said carelessly. 'By 2050 earlier,
probably – all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. The whole
literature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton,
Byron – they'll exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely changed into
something different, but actually changed into something contradictory of what
they used to be. Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans
will change. How could you have a slogan like "freedom is slavery" when the
concept of freedom has been abolished? The whole climate of thought will be
different. In fact there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy
means not thinking – not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.'
One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep conviction, Syme will be
vaporized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly and speaks too plainly.
The Party does not like such people. One day he will disappear. It is written in
Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned a little sideways in his
chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table on his left the man with the
strident voice was still talking remorselessly away. A young woman who was
perhaps his secretary, and who was sitting with her back to Winston, was
listening to him and seemed to be eagerly agreeing with everything that he said.
From time to time Winston caught some such remark as 'I think you're so right, I
do so agree with you', uttered in a youthful and rather silly feminine voice.
But the other voice never stopped for an instant, even when the girl was
speaking. Winston knew the man by sight, though he knew no more about him than
that he held some important post in the Fiction Department. He was a man of
about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was
thrown back a little, and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his
spectacles caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of
eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured
out of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just
once Winston caught a phrase -'complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism'-
jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line of type
cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet,
though you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not be in
any doubt about its general nature. He might be denouncing Goldstein and
demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be
fulminating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be praising
Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front – it made no difference.
Whatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy,
pure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and
down, Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but
some kind of dummy. It was not the man's brain that was speaking, it was his
larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it was not
speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness, like the
quacking of a duck.
Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of his spoon was
tracing patterns in the puddle of stew. The voice from the other table quacked
rapidly on, easily audible in spite of the surrounding din.
'There is a word in Newspeak,' said Syme, 'I don't know whether you know it:
duckspeak, to quack like a duck. It is one of those interesting words that have
two contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, applied to
someone you agree with, it is praise.'
Unquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston thought again. He thought it with
a kind of sadness, although well knowing that Syme despised him and slightly
disliked him, and was fully capable of denouncing him as a thought-criminal if
he saw any reason for doing so. There was something subtly wrong with Syme.
There was something that he lacked: discretion, aloofness, a sort of saving
stupidity. You could not say that he was unorthodox. He believed in the
principles of Ingsoc, he venerated Big Brother, he rejoiced over victories, he
hated heretics, not merely with sincerity but with a sort of restless zeal, an
up-to-dateness of information, which the ordinary Party member did not approach.
Yet a faint air of disreputability always clung to him. He said things that
would have been better unsaid, he had read too many books, he frequented the
Chestnut Tree Cafe, haunt of painters and musicians. There was no law, not even
an unwritten law, against frequenting the Chestnut Tree Cafe, yet the place was
somehow ill-omened. The old, discredited leaders of the Party had been used to
gather there before they were finally purged. Goldstein himself, it was said,
had sometimes been seen there, years and decades ago. Syme's fate was not
difficult to foresee. And yet it was a fact that if Syme grasped, even for three
seconds, the nature of his, Winston's, secret opinions, he would betray him
instantly to the Thought Police. So would anybody else, for that matter: but
Syme more than most. Zeal was not enough. Orthodoxy was unconsciousness.
Syme looked up. 'Here comes Parsons,' he said.
Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add, 'that bloody fool'. Parsons,
Winston's fellow-tenant at Victory Mansions, was in fact threading his way
across the room – a tubby, middle-sized man with fair hair and a froglike face.
At thirty-five he was already putting on rolls of fat at neck and waistline, but
his movements were brisk and boyish. His whole appearance was that of a little
boy grown large, so much so that although he was wearing the regulation
overalls, it was almost impossible not to think of him as being dressed in the
blue shorts, grey shirt, and red neckerchief of the Spies. In visualizing him
one saw always a picture of dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy
forearms. Parsons did, indeed, invariably revert to shorts when a community hike
or any other physical activity gave him an excuse for doing so. He greeted them
both with a cheery 'Hullo, hullo!' and sat down at the table, giving off an
intense smell of sweat. Beads of moisture stood out all over his pink face. His
powers of sweating were extraordinary. At the Community Centre you could always
tell when he had been playing table-tennis by the dampness of the bat handle.
Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there was a long column of words,
and was studying it with an ink-pencil between his fingers.
'Look at him working away in the lunch hour,' said Parsons, nudging Winston.
'Keenness, eh? What's that you've got there, old boy? Something a bit too brainy
for me, I expect. Smith, old boy, I'll tell you why I'm chasing you. It's that
sub you forgot to give me.'
'Which sub is that?' said Winston, automatically feeling for money. About a
quarter of one's salary had to be earmarked for voluntary subscriptions, which
were so numerous that it was difficult to keep track of them.
'For Hate Week. You know – the house-by-house fund. I'm treasurer for our
block. We're making an all-out effort – going to put on a tremendous show. I
tell you, it won't be my fault if old Victory Mansions doesn't have the biggest
outfit of flags in the whole street. Two dollars you promised me.'
Winston found and handed over two creased and filthy notes, which Parsons
entered in a small notebook, in the neat handwriting of the illiterate.
'By the way, old boy,' he said. 'I hear that little beggar of mine let fly at
you with his catapult yesterday. I gave him a good dressing-down for it. In fact
I told him I'd take the catapult away if he does it again.
'I think he was a little upset at not going to the execution,' said Winston.
' Ah, well – what I mean to say, shows the right spirit, doesn't it?
Mischievous little beggars they are, both of them, but talk about keenness! All
they think about is the Spies, and the war, of course. D'you know what that
little girl of mine did last Saturday, when her troop was on a hike out
Berkhamsted way? She got two other girls to go with her, slipped off from the
hike, and spent the whole afternoon following a strange man. They kept on his
tail for two hours, right through the woods, and then, when they got into
Amersham, handed him over to the patrols.'
'What did they do that for?' said Winston, somewhat taken aback. Parsons went on
'My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent – might have been dropped by
parachute, for instance. But here's the point, old boy. What do you think put
her on to him in the first place? She spotted he was wearing a funny kind of
shoes – said she'd never seen anyone wearing shoes like that before. So the
chances were he was a foreigner. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh?'
'What happened to the man?' said Winston.
'Ah, that I couldn't say, of course. But I wouldn't be altogether surprised if-'
Parsons made the motion of aiming a rifle, and clicked his tongue for the
'Good,' said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from his strip of paper.
'Of course we can't afford to take chances,' agreed Winston dutifully.
'What I mean to say, there is a war on,' said Parsons.
As though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call floated from the telescreen
just above their heads. However, it was not the proclamation of a military
victory this time, but merely an announcement from the Ministry of Plenty.
'Comrades!' cried an eager youthful voice. 'Attention, comrades! We have
glorious news for you. We have won the battle for production! Returns now
completed of the output of all classes of consumption goods show that the
standard of living has risen by no less than 20 per cent over the past year. All
over Oceania this morning there were irrepressible spontaneous demonstrations
when workers marched out of factories and offices and paraded through the
streets with banners voicing their gratitude to Big Brother for the new, happy
life which his wise leadership has bestowed upon us. Here are some of the
completed figures. Foodstuffs-'
The phrase 'our new, happy life' recurred several times. It had been a favourite
of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Parsons, his attention caught by the
trumpet call, sat listening with a sort of gaping solemnity, a sort of edified
boredom. He could not follow the figures, but he was aware that they were in
some way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged out a huge and filthy pipe
which was already half full of charred tobacco. With the tobacco ration at 100
grammes a week it was seldom possible to fill a pipe to the top. Winston was
smoking a Victory Cigarette which he held carefully horizontal. The new ration
did not start till tomorrow and he had only four cigarettes left. For the moment
he had shut his ears to the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that
streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that there had even been
demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty
grammes a week. And only yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the
ration was to be reduced to twenty grammes a week. Was it possible that they
could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it.
Parsons swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless
creature at the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a
furious desire to track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone who should suggest
that last week the ration had been thirty grammes. Syme, too-in some more
complex way, involving doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, alone in
the possession of a memory?
The fabulous statistics continued to pour out of the telescreen. As compared
with last year there was more food, more clothes, more houses, more furniture,
more cooking-pots, more fuel, more ships, more helicopters, more books, more
babies – more of everything except disease, crime, and insanity. Year by year
and minute by minute, everybody and everything was whizzing rapidly upwards. As
Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up his spoon and was dabbling in the
pale-coloured gravy that dribbled across the table, drawing a long streak of it
out into a pattern. He meditated resentfully on the physical texture of life.
Had it always been like this? Had food always tasted like this? He looked round
the canteen. A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of
innumerable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed so close together
that you sat with elbows touching; bent spoons, dented trays, coarse white mugs;
all surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad
gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Always in your stomach
and in your skin there was a sort of protest, a feeling that you had been
cheated of something that you had a right to. It was true that he had no
memories of anything greatly different. In any time that he could accurately
remember, there had never been quite enough to eat, one had never had socks or
underclothes that were not full of holes, furniture had always been battered and
rickety, rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to pieces, bread
dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tasting, cigarettes insufficient –
nothing cheap and plentiful except synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew
worse as one's body aged, was it not a sign that this was not the natural order
of things, if one's heart sickened at the discomfort and dirt and scarcity, the
interminable winters, the stickiness of one's socks, the lifts that never
worked, the cold water, the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the
food with its strange evil tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable
unless one had some kind of ancestral memory that things had once been
He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was ugly, and would still
have been ugly even if dressed otherwise than in the uniform blue overalls. On
the far side of the room, sitting at a table alone, a small, curiously
beetle-like man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting suspicious
glances from side to side. How easy it was, thought Winston, if you did not look
about you, to believe that the physical type set up by the Party as an
ideal-tall muscular youths and deep-bosomed maidens, blond-haired, vital,
sunburnt, carefree – existed and even predominated. Actually, so far as he
could judge, the majority of people in Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured.
It was curious how that beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries: little
dumpy men, growing stout very early in life, with short legs, swift scuttling
movements, and fat inscrutable faces with very small eyes. It was the type that
seemed to flourish best under the dominion of the Party.
The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended on another trumpet call and
gave way to tinny music. Parsons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by the bombardment
of figures, took his pipe out of his mouth.
'The Ministry of Plenty's certainly done a good job this year,' he said with a
knowing shake of his head. 'By the way, Smith old boy, I suppose you haven't got
any razor blades you can let me have?'
'Not one,' said Winston. 'I've been using the same blade for six weeks myself.'
'Ah, well – just thought I'd ask you, old boy.'
'Sorry,' said Winston.
The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily silenced during the
Ministry's announcement, had started up again, as loud as ever. For some reason
Winston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs Parsons, with her wispy hair and
the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years those children would be
denouncing her to the Thought Police. Mrs Parsons would be vaporized. Syme would
be vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O'Brien would be vaporized. Parsons,
on the other hand, would never be vaporized. The eyeless creature with the
quacking voice would never be vaporized. The little beetle-like men who scuttle
so nimbly through the labyrinthine corridors of Ministries they, too, would
never be vaporized. And the girl with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction
Department – she would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that he knew
instinctively who would survive and who would perish: though just what it was
that made for survival, it was not easy to say.
At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk. The girl
at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him. It was the
girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way, but with curious
intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away again.
The sweat started out on Winston's backbone. A horrible pang of terror went
through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left a sort of nagging
uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him? Why did she keep following him
about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been at the
table when he arrived, or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at any rate,
during the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him when there was
no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had been to listen to
him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough.
His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually a member of
the Thought Police, but then it was precisely the amateur spy who was the
greatest danger of all. He did not know how long she had been looking at him,
but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was possible that his features
had not been perfectly under control. It was terribly dangerous to let your
thoughts wander when you were in any public place or within range of a
telescreen. The smallest thing could give you away. A nervous tic, an
unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering to yourself – anything that
carried with it the suggestion of abnormality, of having something to hide. In
any case, to wear an improper expression on your face (to look incredulous when
a victory was announced, for example) was itself a punishable offence. There was
even a word for it in Newspeak: facecrime, it was called.
The girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after all she was not really
following him about, perhaps it was coincidence that she had sat so close to him
two days running. His cigarette had gone out, and he laid it carefully on the
edge of the table. He would finish smoking it after work, if he could keep the
tobacco in it. Quite likely the person at the next table was a spy of the
Thought Police, and quite likely he would be in the cellars of the Ministry of
Love within three days, but a cigarette end must not be wasted. Syme had folded
up his strip of paper and stowed it away in his pocket. Parsons had begun
'Did I ever tell you, old boy,' he said, chuckling round the stem of his pipe,
'about the time when those two nippers of mine set fire to the old
market-woman's skirt because they saw her wrapping up sausages in a poster of
B.B.? Sneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of matches. Burned her
quite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But keen as mustard! That's a
first-rate training they give them in the Spies nowadays – better than in my
day, even. What d'you think's the latest thing they've served them out with? Ear
trumpets for listening through keyholes! My little girl brought one home the
other night – tried it out on our sitting-room door, and reckoned she could
hear twice as much as with her ear to the hole. Of course it's only a toy, mind
you. Still, gives 'em the right idea, eh?'
At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. It was the signal to
return to work. All three men sprang to their feet to join in the struggle round
the lifts, and the remaining tobacco fell out of Winston's cigarette.