Julia

by Sandra Newman

It was a lean, intellectual face with a kindliness that soon came to seem conniving and false. Behind the spectacles, the eyes were childish and lewd at once. The thick lips were always moist. They made you want to cross your legs. The bloom of woolly white hair around his head was sheeplike, as were his bulbous features. Even his voice had a bleating querulousness. As the clip began, he was making a speech that at first seemed much like any Party speech. In fact, for long stretches, it was Newspeak: sickthink overtaked plusgood of truefighters. You had to listen closely to hear it was a string of attacks on Oceania, the Party, and their way of life.

the three core Party slogans, written in thick black letters on red: WAR IS PEACE. FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.

Another thought had been correctly thought, another feeling rightly felt. One saw how little the Party asked, after all.

If you hated the enemy, you could be loved.

Artsem was artificial insemination. This was now the Party’s preferred method for its members to have babies. Sex outside marriage had always been criminal, but now even marriage was regarded suspiciously as a source of divided loyalties. The only good comrade was one who devoted every ounce of energy to the Party.

The main lesson taught in Youth Leagues was suspicion of one’s elders. Adults had been raised in capitalist times and were all prone to wrongthink. It was a solemn duty to report their missteps, and certain children acquired a horrible glamour for their feats in that direction. They got medals designating them “Eagle Eyes” and “Guardians,”

calisthenics—or Rhythmic Jerks, as they were now called—had

This wife conformed to the rule of all ex-wives: she was handsome, but a mental and moral nullity.

but one would make a poor companion if one refused to laugh at a fellow’s ex-wife.

In this game that we’re playing, we can’t win. Some kinds of failure are better than other kinds, that’s all.”

It struck Julia that luxury was as much the absence of things as their abundance.

“Truth! How the terrorists love that word! First they dream of giving their lives for it—that is how the sickness begins. Of course, at this point, it remains a fantasy. Our fledgling terrorist does not think to really sacrifice himself. In fact, he goes to his job as before, does his work, and appears like everyone else. “But soon truth demands the blood of others. It is at this stage that dreams turn into action. The terrorist is driven to find others like himself. Once they have gathered in a cell, the truth-lovers will not rest until they have their blood. They will commit acts of sabotage that cause the deaths of hundreds of innocents. They will betray their country to enemy powers, bring hostile armies to their own cities to blight and kill and rape. They will commit every low crime, too—cheat, forge documents, blackmail, corrupt the minds of children, distribute habit-forming drugs, encourage prostitution, spread venereal diseases—anything to harm those people they see as obstacles to truth. If it might somehow serve the cause of truth to throw acid into the face of a child, the truth-lover will happily do it.

“In time, you will hear a devotee of truth confirm this from his own mouth. Then you may judge for yourself what moves him. For now, let us say it is insanity. We have made a study of this sickness and can now spot it in the early stages. We know the least flaw of this type leads to homicidal madness.”

There was always the chance that something would change—Love would have second thoughts about hiring her, or possibly Julia would die in an accident. Perhaps O’Brien would die.

Julia’s mother, Clara, said of such women that you could safely hit them in the face with a brick if you didn’t mind what happened to the brick.

Semi-Autonomous Zones.

Saz

pity is actually the greatest cruelty.

Hate is the highest capacity of mankind. Every other sentiment we share with the animal kingdom—anger, greed, mother love, fear, curiosity. Only hate is human. No lower animal can access its mysteries. A beast can feel transient rage, but never hate. That is why he is morally null; there can be no goodness without hate. One hates when the good within one identifies evil. Hate is goodness in operation. And without operation, without action, goodness is the mere corpse of goodness. “Only hate is good. That is the great revelation of Big Brother Thought. Perhaps future human beings will evolve some still higher faculty, purer and more ruthless. For now, this is the greatest of what is human: to hate and to be led by hate.”

Gin bottles were also handed to her everywhere she went—the gin ration had been trebled temporarily—so she, like everyone else, was drunk or tipsy all day long. Like everyone, she sang the new Hate Song as she went about the streets. It had been simplified from previous years, so now it scarcely had a tune or lyrics. It went: Death to the wrongthinker, death death death! Death to the ownthinker, death death death! Death to Eurasia! Death! Death! Death!

“So you think we should burn the Goldsteinites’ children alive?” He snapped, “No! They want to burn our children! The whole point is we’re not like that! But, if you’re asking me, their children aren’t so innocent, either. If their spawn were to be disposed of—I don’t say burned, but to rid us of the enemy, if that’s what’s needed, then burning it will be. Yes, burn them, if that’s what’s needed. Burn their children! Burn them alive!”

In a moment he was lost in the crowds of proles coming back from the evening executions.

Once a plan began to succeed, and all became real, it was a hundred times more difficult.