Nineteen Eighty-Four

O'Brien:
If you want a vision of the future, Winston, imagine a boot stamping on a human face forever.

Winston Smith:
Thoughtcrime is death. Thoughtcrime does not entail death. Thoughtcrime IS death. I have committed even before setting pen to paper the essential crime that contains all others unto itself.

Winston Smith:
April the 4th, 1984. To the past, or to the future. To an age when thought is free. From the Age of Big Brother, from the Age of the Thought Police, from a dead man... greetings.

Tillotson:
Beautiful thing, the destruction of words.

Winston Smith:
If there is hope, it lies in the proles. If they could become conscious of their own strength, they would have no need to conspire. History does not matter to them.

Winston Smith:
It was three years ago, on a dark evening. Easy to slip the patrols, I had gone into the proletarian areas. There was no one else on the street, and no telescreens. She said, "Two dollars.", so I went with her. She had a young face, painted very thick. Really, t'was the paint that appealed to me: white like a mask, and bright red lips. No preliminaries. Standing there with the smell of dead insects and cheap perfume, I went and did it anyway.

Winston Smith:
Rutherford unperson. Substitute Ogilvy. Ogilvy biog details as follows: war hero, recently killed, Malabar front. Today awarded posthumous secondary order of conspicuous merit second class.

Charrington:
Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements...

Winston Smith:
What was that?

Charrington:
Something old...

Winston Smith:
Look, I hate purity. Hate goodness. I don't want virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone corrupt.

Julia:
Well, I ought to suit you, then. I'm corrupt to the core.

Winston Smith:
Do you like doing this? I don't mean just me...

Julia:
I adore it.

O'Brien:
What are your feelings towards Big Brother?

Winston Smith:
I hate him.

O'Brien:
You must love him. It is not enough to obey him. You must love him.

Winston Smith:
I love you.

Winston Smith:
She's beautiful.

Julia:
She's a metre across the hips, easily.

Winston Smith:
That is her style of beauty.

O'Brien:
We shall meet in the place were there is no darkness.

Winston Smith:
We are the dead.

Winston Smith:
They got you too?

O'Brien:
They got me a long time ago.

He was a fattish but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasms – one of those completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on whom, more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party depended