00 1984
breath left for anything except hanging on. Then there was
a different kind of cry. A kick from a guard’s boot had bro-
ken the fingers of one of his hands. They dragged him to
his feet.
‘Room 101,’ said the officer.
The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head
sunken, nursing his crushed hand, all the fight had gone
out of him.
A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the
skull-faced man was taken away, it was morning: if morn-
ing, it was afternoon. Winston was alone, and had been
alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow bench
was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved
by the telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chin-
less man had dropped it. At the beginning it needed a hard
effort not to look at it, but presently hunger gave way to
thirst. His mouth was sticky and evil-tasting. The hum-
ming sound and the unvarying white light induced a sort
of faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would get
up because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable,
and then would sit down again almost at once because he
was too dizzy to make sure of staying on his feet. Whenever
his physical sensations were a little under control the ter-
ror returned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought of
O’Brien and the razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor
blade might arrive concealed in his food, if he were ever
fed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere or other
she was suffering perhaps far worse than he. She might be
screaming with pain at this moment. He thought: ‘If I could