1984 - Planet eBook

ture had somehow been skipped over and had not happened.Everything was all right, there was no more pain, the lastdetail of his life was laid bare, understood, forgiven.He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certaintythat he had heard O’Brien’s voice. All through hisinterrogation, although he had never seen him, he had hadthe feeling that O’Brien was at his elbow, just out of sight. Itwas O’Brien who was directing everything. It was he whoset the guards on to Winston and who prevented them fromkilling him. It was he who decided when Winston shouldscream with pain, when he should have a respite, when heshould be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs shouldbe pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questionsand suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, hewas the protector, he was the inquisitor, he was the friend.And once—Winston could not remember whether it wasin drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a momentof wakefulness—a voice murmured in his ear: ‘Don’t worry,Winston; you are in my keeping. For seven years I havewatched over you. Now the turning-point has come. I shallsave you, I shall make you perfect.’ He was not sure whetherit was O’Brien’s voice; but it was the same voice that hadsaid to him, ‘We shall meet in the place where there is nodarkness,’ in that other dream, seven years ago.He did not remember any ending to his interrogation.There was a period of blackness and then the cell, or room,in which he now was had gradually materialized round him.He was almost flat on his back, and unable to move. Hisbody was held down at every essential point. Even the back