[Mike]

a week were falling on
London at present.
Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and fro, and
the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished. Ingsoc. The sacred
principles of Ingsoc. Newspeak, doublethink, the mutability of the past. He
felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in
a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past
was dead, the future was unimaginable. What certainty had he that a single
human creature now living was on his side? And what way of knowing that the
dominion of the Party would not endure for ever? Like an answer, the three
slogans on the white face of the Ministry of Truth came back to him:

WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There, too, in
tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other
face of the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes
pursued you. On coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on
posters, and on the wrappings of a cigarette packet -- everywhere. Always
the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake,
working or eating, indoors or out of doors, in th