[trotsky]

then the
flash of intelligence was gone, and O'Brien's face was as inscrutable as
everybody else's.
That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened.
Such incidents never had any sequel. All that they did was to keep alive in
him the belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of
the Party. Perhaps the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true
after all -- perhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was impossible, in
spite of the endless arrests and confessions and executions, to be sure
that the Brotherhood was not simply a myth. Some days he believed in it,
some days not. There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might
mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint
scribbles on lavatory walls -- once, even, when two strangers met, a small
movement of the hand which had looked as though it might be a signal of
recognition. It was all guesswork: very likely he had imagined everything.
He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at O'Brien again. The idea
of following up their momentary contact hardly crossed his mind. It would
have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to set about
doing it. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal
glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable
event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a belch. The
gin was rising from his stomach.
His eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that while he sat
helplessly musing he had also been writing, as though by automatic action.
And it was no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His
pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat
capitals--

DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DO