folly, her dirty-mindedness -- everything has been burned out
of her. It was a perfect conversion, a textbook case.'
'You tortured her?'
O'Brien left this unanswered. 'Next question,' he said.
'Does Big Brother exist?'
'Of course he exists. The Party exists. Big Brother is the embodiment
of the Party.'
'Does he exist in the same way as I exist?'
'You do not exist,' said O'Brien.
Once again the sense of helplessness assailed him. He knew, or he
could imagine, the arguments which proved his own nonexistence; but they
were nonsense, they were only a play on words. Did not the statement, 'You
do not exist', contain a logical absurdity? But what use was it to say so?
His mind shrivelled as he thought of the unanswerable, mad arguments with
which O'Brien would demolish him.
'I think I exist,' he said wearily. 'I am conscious of my own
identity. I was born and I shall die. I have arms and legs. I occupy a
particular point in space. No other solid object can occupy the same point
simultaneously. In that sense, does Big Brother exist?'
'It is of no importance. He exists.'
'Will Big Brother ever die?'
'Of course not. How could he die? Next question.'
'Does the Brotherhood exist?'
'That, Winston, you will never know. If we choose to set you free when
we have finished with you, and if you live to be ninety years old, still
you will never learn whether the answer to that question is Yes or No. As
long as you live it wil