He knew that sooner or later he would obey O’Brien’s summons. Perhaps tomorrow， perhaps after a long delay — he was not certain. What was happening was only the working-out of a process that had started years ago. The first step had been a secret， involuntary thought， the second had been the opening of the diary. He had moved from thoughts to words， and now from words to actions. The last step was something that would happen in the Ministry of Love. He had accepted it. The end was contained in the beginning. But it was frightening： or， more exactly， it was like a foretaste of death， like being a little less alive. Even while he was speaking to O’Brien， when the meaning of the words had sunk in， a chilly shuddering feeling had taken possession of his body. He had the sensation of stepping into the dampness of a grave， and it was not much better because he had always known that the grave was there and waiting for him.
英文十五
Winston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Julia rolled sleepily against him， murmuring something that might have been “What’s the matter？”
“I dreamt—” he began， and stopped short. It was too complex to be put into words. There was the dream itself， and there was a memory connected with it that had swum into his mind in the few seconds after waking.
He lay back with his eyes shut， still sodden in the atmosphere of the dream. It was a vast， luminous dream in which his whole life seemed to stretch out before him like a landscape on a summer evening after rain. It had all occurred inside the glass paperweight， but the surface of the glass was the dome of the sky， and inside the dome everything was flooded with clear soft light in which one could see into interminable distances. The dream had also been comprehended by — indeed， in some sense it had consisted in — a gesture of the arm made by his mother， and made again thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the news film， trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets， before the helicopter blew them both to pieces.
“Do you know，” he said， “that until this moment I believed I had murdered my mother？”
“Why did you murder her？” said Julia， almost asleep.
“I didn’t murder her. Not physically.”
In the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his mother， and within a few moments of waking the cluster of small events surrounding it had all come back. It was a memory that he must have deliberately pushed out of his consciousness over many years. He was not certain of the date， but he could not have been less than ten years old， possibly twelve， when it had happened.
His father had disappeared some time earlier， how much earlier he could not remember. He remembered better the rackety， uneasy circumstances of the time： the periodical panics about air-raids and the sheltering in Tube stations， the piles of rubble everywhere， the unintelligible proclamations posted at street corners， the gangs of youths in shirts all the same colour， the enormous queues outside the bakeries， the intermittent machine-gun fire in the distance — above all， the fact that there was never enough to eat. He remembered long afternoons spent with other boys in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps， picking out the ribs of cabbage leaves， potato peelings， sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust from which they carefully scraped away the cinders； and also in waiting for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were known to carry cattle feed， and which， when they jolted over the bad patches in the road， sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake.
When his father disappeared， his mother did not show any surprise or any violent grief， but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have become completely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for something that she knew must happen. She did everything that was needed — cooked， washed， mended， made the bed， swept the floor， dusted the mantelpiece — always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion， like an artist’s lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For hours at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed， nursing his young sister， a tiny， ailing， very silent child of two or three， with a face made simian by thinness. Very occasionally she would take Winston in her arms and press him against her for a long time without saying anything. He was aware， in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness， that this was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen.
He remembered the room where they lived， a dark， closesmelling room that seemed half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas ring in the fender， and a shelf where food was kept， and on the landing outside there was a brown earthenware sink， common to several rooms. He remembered his mother’s statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan. Above all he remembered his continuous hunger， and the fierce sordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly， over and over again， why there was not more food， he would shout and storm at her （he even remembered the tones of his voice， which was beginning to break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar way）， or he would attempt a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than his share. She took it for granted that he， “the boy”， should have the biggest portion； but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more. At every meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little sister was sick and also needed food， but it was no use. He would cry out with rage when she stopped ladling， he would try to wrench the saucepan and spoon out of her hands， he would grab bits from his sister’s plate. He knew that he was starving the other two， but he could not help it； he even felt that he had a right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his belly seemed to justify him. Between meals， if his mother did not stand guard， he was constantly pilfering at the wretched store of food on the shelf.