effort that made his
He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So had everyone
else in the Ministry. Now it was all over, and he had literally nothing to
do, no Party work of any description, until tomorrow morning. He could
spend six hours in the hiding-place and another nine in his own bed.
Slowly, in mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a dingy street in the
direction of Mr. Charrington's shop, keeping one eye open for the patrols,
but irrationally convinced that this afternoon there was no danger of
anyone interfering with him. The heavy brief-case that he was carrying
bumped against his knee at each step, sending a tingling sensation up and
down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book, which he had now had in
his possession for six days and had not yet opened, nor even looked at.
On the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the speeches,
the shouting, the singing, the banners, the posters, the films, the
waxworks, the rolling of drums and squealing of trumpets, the *** of
marching feet, the grinding of the caterpillars of tanks, the roar of
massed planes, the booming of guns -- after six days of this, when the
great *** was quivering to its climax and the general hatred of Eurasia
had boiled up into such delirium that if the crowd could have got their
hands on the 2,000 Eurasian war-criminals who were to be publicly hanged on
the last day of the proceedings, they would unquestionably have torn them
to pieces -- at just this moment it had been announced that Oceania was not
after all at war with Eurasia. Oceania was at war with Eastasia.