When by chance Winston uncovers incontrovertible proof that the Party is lying, he embarks on a. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. It would have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it. But the curious thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had clarified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt equal to writing it down. Winston spends his evenings wandering through the poorest neighborhoods in London, where the proletarians, or proles, live squalid lives, relatively free of Party monitoring.
O'Brien tells Winston that he was only pretending to be his friend. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? They form part of an elaborate surveillance system used by the Ministry of Love, and its dreaded agents the Thought Police, to serve their singular goal: the elimination of 'thoughtcrime'. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. The film was obviously a labor of love for director Michael Radford, who also co-wrote the screenplay.
The book is about what Orwell thought the world could have looked like in the year 1984. This is the Party's idea on how Oceania should be run. That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened. But at any rate he had the appearance of being a person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get him alone. When this happens, all signs that this person existed are destroyed. His eyes re-focused on the page.
Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops 'dealing on the free market', it was called , but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate. The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature. All that they did was to keep alive in him the belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of the Party. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The portly, even chubby O'Brien bears little resemblance to the slight, emaciated, chronically exhausted, varicose-ulcerated Smith described in the novel. At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.
There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory walls -- once, even, when two strangers met, a small movement of the hand which had looked as though it might be a signal of recognition. He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture. A tremor had gone through his bowels. For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. The seconds were ticking by. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched.
Winston works in the Records Department of the Ministry of Truth - the section charged with modifying historical news archives for consistency. It was apparent that she was uttering a prayer. Last night to the flicks. For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen. The instrument the telescreen, it was called could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. Emmanuel Goldstein and O'Brien both say that the main role of Big Brother is to be a symbol for the Party.
It was absurd, since the writing of those particular words was not more dangerous than the initial act of opening the diary, but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats. Plot Overview Winston Smith is a low-ranking member of the ruling Party in London, in the nation of Oceania. But this particular girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. The book is about how the Party stays in power.
On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. The book is very famous. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the story. There are two other countries in the novel - Eurasia, and Eastasia. Even O'Brien's heavy face was flushed.
A land of peace and of plenty. The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil. They live like rich people. The worst thing of all would be to delay. For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors.