O'Brien with a mild, almost
regretful irony. He stepped aside. From behind him there emerged a broad-
chested guard with a long black truncheon in his hand.
'You know this, Winston,' said O'Brien. 'Don't deceive yourself. You
did know it -- you have always known it.'
Yes, he saw now, he had always known it. But there was no time to
think of that. All he had eyes for was the truncheon in the guard's hand.
It might fall anywhere; on the crown, on the tip of the ear, on the upper
arm, on the elbow--
The elbow! He had slumped to his knees, almost paralysed, clasping the
stricken elbow with his other hand. Everything had exploded into yellow
light. Inconceivable, inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain!
The light cleared and he could see the other two looking down at him. The
guard was laughing at his contortions. One question at any rate was
answered. Never, for any reason on earth, could you wish for an increase of
pain. Of pain you could wish only one thing: that it should stop. Nothing
in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain there are no
heroes, no heroes, he thought over and over as he writhed on the floor,
clutching uselessly at his disabled left arm.



II

He was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it
was higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he
could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his
face. O'Brien was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At
the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic
syringe.
Even after his eyes were op