prisoners -- complete demoralization -- control of the whole of
Africa -- bring the war within measurable distance of its end victory --
greatest victory in human history -- victory, victory, victory!'
Under the table Winston's feet made convulsive movements. He had not
stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, he
was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at
the portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the world! The rock
against which the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain! He thought how
ten minutes ago -- yes, only ten minutes -- there had still been
equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front
would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than a Eurasian army that
had perished! Much had changed in him since that first day in the Ministry
of Love, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened,
until this moment.
The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of
prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a
little. The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached
with the gin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no
attention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any
longer. He was back in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his
soul white as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything,
implicating everybody. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with
the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The
longhoped-for bullet was entering his brain.
He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to
learn what kind of smi