[Martin X. Moleski, SJ]

almost
black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby. It had a sour-sweet
smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff at it with frank curiosity.
'It is called wine,' said O'Brien with a faint smile. 'You will have
read about it in books, no doubt. Not much of it gets to the Outer Party, I
am afraid.' His face grew solemn again, and he raised his glass: 'I think
it is fitting that we should begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To
Emmanuel Goldstein.'
Winston took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine was a thing
he had read and dreamed about. Like the glass paperweight or Mr.
Charrington's half-remembered rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic
past, the olden time as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts. For
some reason he had always thought of wine as having an intensely sweet
taste, like that of blackberry jam and an immediate intoxicating effect.
Actually, when he came to swallow it, the stuff was distinctly
disappointing. The truth was that after years of gin-drinking he could
barely taste it. He set down the empty glass.
'Then there is such a person as Goldstein?' he said.
'Yes, there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I