Found Collection

effort that made his
joints creak.
     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.