of the Party. That is the fact that you have got
to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of
the
will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.'
He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had
been
saying to sink in.
'Do you remember,' he went on, 'writing in your diary, "Freedom is
the
freedom to say that two plus two make four"?'
'Yes,' said Winston.
O'Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with
the
thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.
'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?'
'Four.'
'And if the party says that it is not four but five -- then how
many?'
'Four.'
The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot
up
to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body. The
air
tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by
clenching
his teeth he could not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers
still
extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only
slightly
eased.
'How many fingers, Winston?'
'Four.'
The needle went up to sixty.
'How many fingers, Winston?'
'Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!'
The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it.
The
heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers
stood
up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to
vibrate,
but unmistakably four.
'How many fingers, Winston?'
'Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!'
'How many fingers, Winston?'
'Five! Five! Five!'
'No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there
are
four. How many fingers, please?'
'Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!'
Abruptly he was sitting up with O'Bri
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