had not happened. Everything was all right,
there was no more pain, the last detail of his life was laid bare,
understood, forgiven.
He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he
had heard O'Brien's voice. All through his interrogation, although he had
never seen him, he had had the feeling that O'Brien was at his elbow, just
out of sight. It was O'Brien who was directing everything. It was he who
set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from killing him. It
was he who decided when Winston should scream with pain, when he should
have a respite, when he should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs
should be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and
suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was
the inquisitor, he was the friend. And once -- Winston could not remember
whether it was in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment of
wakefulness -- a voice murmured in his ear: 'Don't worry, Winston; you are
in my keeping. For seven years I have watched ov