wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out 'Swine!
Swine! Swine!' and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary
and
flung it at the screen. It struck Goldstein's nose and bounced off;
the
voice continued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he
was
shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung
of
his chair. The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that
one
was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible
to
avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was
always
unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire
to
kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to
flow
through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning
one
even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet
the
rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could
be
switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus,
at
one moment Winston's hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all,
but,
on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought
Police;
and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic
on
the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies. And
yet
the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all
that
was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his
secret
loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed
to
tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock
against
the hordes
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