Both of them knew-in a way， it was never out of their minds that what was now happening could not last long. There were times when the fact of impending death seemed as palpable as the bed they lay on， and they would cling together with a sort of despairing sensuality， like a damned soul grasping at his last morsel of pleasure when the clock is within five minutes of striking. But there were also times when they had the illusion not only of safety but of permanence. So long as they were actually in this room， they both felt， no harm could come to them. Getting there was difficult and dangerous， but the room itself was sanctuary. It was as when Winston had gazed into the heart of the paperweight， with the feeling that it would be possible to get inside that glassy world， and that once inside it time could be arrested. Often they gave themselves up to daydreams of escape. Their luck would hold indefinitely， and they would carry on their intrigue， just like this， for the remainder of their natural lives. Or Katharine would die， and by subtle manoeuvrings Winston and Julia would succeed in getting married. Or they would commit suicide together. Or they would disappear， alter themselves out of recognition， learn to speak with proletarian accents， get jobs in a factory and live out their lives undetected in a back-street. It was all nonsense， as they both knew. In reality there was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable， suicide， they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day and from week to week， spinning out a present that had no future， seemed an unconquerable instinct， just as one’s lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available.
Sometimes， too， they talked of engaging in active rebellion against the Party， but with no notion of how to take the first step. Even if the fabulous Brotherhood was a reality， there still remained the difficulty of finding one’s way into it. He told her of the strange intimacy that existed， or seemed to exist， between himself and O"Brien， and of the impulse he sometimes felt， simply to walk into O’Brien’s presence， announce that he was the enemy of the Party， and demand his help. Curiously enough， this did not strike her as an impossibly rash thing to do. She was used to judging people by their faces， and it seemed natural to her that Winston should believe O’Brien to be trustworthy on the strength of a single flash of the eyes. Moreover she took it for granted that everyone， or nearly everyone， secretly hated the Party and would break the rules if he thought it safe to do so. But she refused to believe that widespread， organized opposition existed or could exist. The tales about Goldstein and his underground army， she said， were simply a lot of rubbish which the Party had invented for its own purposes and which you had to pretend to believe in. Times beyond number， at Party rallies and spontaneous demonstrations， she had shouted at the top of her voice for the execution of people whose names she had never heard and in whose supposed crimes she had not the faintest belief. When public trials were happening she had taken her place in the detachments from the Youth League who surrounded the courts from morning to night， chanting at intervals “Death to the traitors！” During the Two Minutes Hate she always excelled all others in shouting insults at Goldstein. Yet she had only the dimmest idea of who Goldstein was and what doctrines he was supposed to represent. She had grown up since the Revolution and was too young to remember the ideological battles of the fifties and sixties. Such a thing as an independent political movement was outside her imagination： and in any case the Party was invincible. It would always exist， and it would always be the same. You could only rebel against it by secret disobedience or， at most， by isolated acts of violence such as killing somebody or blowing something up.