1984 - Planet eBook

eath left for anything except hanging on. Then there wasa different kind of cry. A kick from a guard’s boot had brokenthe fingers of one of his hands. They dragged him tohis feet.‘Room 101,’ said the officer.The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with headsunken, nursing his crushed hand, all the fight had goneout of him.A long time passed. If it had been midnight when theskull-faced man was taken away, it was morning: if morning,it was afternoon. Winston was alone, and had beenalone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow benchwas such that often he got up and walked about, unreprovedby the telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chinlessman had dropped it. At the beginning it needed a hardeffort not to look at it, but presently hunger gave way tothirst. His mouth was sticky and evil-tasting. The hummingsound and the unvarying white light induced a sortof faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would getup because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable,and then would sit down again almost at once because hewas too dizzy to make sure of staying on his feet. Wheneverhis physical sensations were a little under control the terrorreturned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought ofO’Brien and the razor blade. It was thinkable that the razorblade might arrive concealed in his food, if he were everfed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere or othershe was suffering perhaps far worse than he. She might bescreaming with pain at this moment. He thought: ‘If I could