Winston was gelatinous with fatigue.

Gelatinous was the right word.

It had come into his head spontaneously.

His body seemed to have not only the weakness of a jelly, but its translucency.

He felt that if he held up his hand he would be able to see the light through it.

All the blood and lymph had been drained out of him by an enormous debauch of work, leaving only a frail structure of nerves, bones, and skin.

All sensations seemed to be magnified.

His overalls fretted his shoulders, the pavement tickled his feet, even the opening and closing of a hand was an 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 tramp 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 orgasm 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.

Eurasia was an ally.

 There was, of course, no admission that any change had taken place.

Merely it became known, with extreme suddenness and everywhere at once, that Eastasia and not Eurasia was the enemy.

Winston was taking part in a demonstration in one of the central London squares at the moment when it happened.

It was night, and the white faces and the scarlet banners were luridly floodlit.

The square was packed with several thousand people, including a block of about a thousand schoolchildren in the uniform of the Spies.

On a scarlet-draped platform an orator of the Inner Party, a small lean man with disproportionately long arms and a large bald skull over which a few lank locks straggled, was haranguing the crowd.

A little Rumpelstiltskin figure, contorted with hatred, he gripped the neck of the microphone with one hand while the other, enormous at the end of a bony arm, clawed the air menacingly above his head.

His voice, made metallic by the amplifiers, boomed forth an endless catalogue of atrocities, massacres, deportations, lootings, rapings, torture of prisoners, bombing of civilians, lying propaganda, unjust aggressions, broken treaties.

It was almost impossible to listen to him without being first convinced and then maddened.

At every few moments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the voice of the speaker was drowned by a wild beast-like roaring that rose uncontrollably from thousands of throats.

The most savage yells of all came from the schoolchildren.

The speech had been proceeding for perhaps twenty minutes when a messenger hurried on to the platform and a scrap of paper was slipped into the speaker's hand.

He unrolled and read it without pausing in his speech.

Nothing altered in his voice or manner, or in the content of what he was saying, but suddenly the names were different.

Without words said, a wave of understanding rippled through the crowd.

Oceania was at war with Eastasia!

The next moment there was a tremendous commotion.

The banners and posters with which the square was decorated were all wrong!

Quite half of them had the wrong faces on them.

It was sabotage!

The agents of Goldstein had been at work!

There was a riotous interlude while posters were ripped from the walls, banners torn to shreds and trampled underfoot.

The Spies performed prodigies of activity in clambering over the rooftops and cutting the streamers that fluttered from the chimneys.

But within two or three minutes it was all over.

The orator, still gripping the neck of the microphone, his shoulders hunched forward, his free hand clawing at the air, had gone straight on with his speech.

One minute more, and the feral roars of rage were again bursting from the crowd.

The Hate continued exactly as before, except that the target had been changed.

 The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was that the speaker had switched from one line to the other actually in midsentence, not only without a pause, but without even breaking the syntax.

But at the moment he had other things to preoccupy him.

It was during the moment of disorder while the posters were being torn down that a man whose face he did not see had tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, I think you've dropped your brief-case.”

He took the brief-case abstractedly, without speaking.

He knew that it would be days before he had an opportunity to look inside it.

The instant that the demonstration was over he went straight to the Ministry of Truth, though the time was now nearly twenty-three hours.

The entire staff of the Ministry had done likewise.

The orders already issuing from the telescreen, recalling them to their posts, were hardly necessary.

 Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia.

A large part of the political literature of five years was now completely obsolete.

Reports and records of all kinds, newspapers, books, pamphlets, films, sound-tracks, photographs--all had to be rectified at lightning speed.

Although no directive was ever issued, it was known that the chiefs of the Department intended that within one week no reference to the war with Eurasia, or the alliance with Eastasia, should remain in existence anywhere.

The work was overwhelming, all the more so because the processes that it involved could not be called by their true names.

Everyone in the Records Department worked eighteen hours in the twenty-four, with two three-hour snatches of sleep.

Mattresses were brought up from the cellars and pitched all over the corridors: meals consisted of sandwiches and Victory Coffee wheeled round on trolleys by attendants from the canteen.

Each time that Winston broke off for one of his spells of sleep he tried to leave his desk clear of work, and each time that he crawled back sticky-eyed and aching, it was to find that another shower of paper cylinders had covered the desk like a snowdrift, half-burying the speakwrite and overflowing on to the floor, so that the first job was always to stack them into a neat enough pile to give him room to work.

What was worst of all was that the work was by no means purely mechanical.

Often it was enough merely to substitute one name for another, but any detailed report of events demanded care and imagination.

Even the geographical knowledge that one needed in transferring the war from one part of the world to another was considerable.

 By the third day his eyes ached unbearably and his spectacles needed wiping every few minutes.

It was like struggling with some crushing physical task, something which one had the right to refuse and which one was nevertheless neurotically anxious to accomplish.

In so far as he had time to remember it, he was not troubled by the fact that every word he murmured into the speakwrite, every stroke of his ink-pencil, was a deliberate lie.

He was as anxious as anyone else in the Department that the forgery should be perfect.

On the morning of the sixth day the dribble of cylinders slowed down.

For as much as half an hour nothing came out of the tube;

then one more cylinder, then nothing.

Everywhere at about the same time the work was easing off.

A deep and as it were secret sigh went through the Department.

A mighty deed, which could never be mentioned, had been achieved.

It was now impossible for any human being to prove by documentary evidence that the war with Eurasia had ever happened.

At twelve hundred it was unexpectedly announced that all workers in the Ministry were free till tomorrow morning.

Winston, still carrying the brief-case containing the book, which had remained between his feet while he worked and under his body while he slept, went home, shaved himself, and almost fell asleep in his bath, although the water was barely more than tepid.

 With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he climbed the stair above Mr Charrington's shop.

He was tired, but not sleepy any longer.

He opened the window, lit the dirty little oilstove and put on a pan of water for coffee.

Julia would arrive presently: meanwhile there was the book.

He sat down in the sluttish armchair and undid the straps of the brief-case.

 A heavy black volume, amateurishly bound, with no name or title on the cover.

The print also looked slightly irregular.

The pages were worn at the edges, and fell apart, easily, as though the book had passed through many hands.

The inscription on the title-page ran:

 THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF OLIGARCHICAL COLLECTIVISM

 by Emmanuel Goldstein

 Winston began reading:

 Chapter I

 Ignorance is Strength

 Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle, and the Low.

They have been subdivided in many ways, they have borne countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the essential structure of society has never altered.

Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium, however far it is pushed one way or the other.

 The aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable...

 Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact that he was reading, in comfort and safety.

He was alone: no telescreen, no ear at the keyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the page with his hand.

The sweet summer air played against his cheek.

From somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of children: in the room itself there was no sound except the insect voice of the clock.

He settled deeper into the arm-chair and put his feet up on the fender.

It was bliss, it was eternity.

Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one knows that one will ultimately read and re-read every word, he opened it at a different place and found himself at Chapter III.

He went on reading:

 Chapter III

 War is Peace

 The splitting up of the world into three great super-states was an event which could be and indeed was foreseen before the middle of the twentieth century.

With the absorption of Europe by Russia and of the British Empire by the United States, two of the three existing powers, Eurasia and Oceania, were already effectively in being.

The third, Eastasia, only emerged as a distinct unit after another decade of confused fighting.

The frontiers between the three super-states are in some places arbitrary, and in others they fluctuate according to the fortunes of war, but in general they follow geographical lines.

Eurasia comprises the whole of the northern part of the European and Asiatic land-mass, from Portugal to the Bering Strait.

Oceania comprises the Americas, the Atlantic islands including the British Isles, Australasia, and the southern portion of Africa.

Eastasia, smaller than the others and with a less definite western frontier, comprises China and the countries to the south of it, the Japanese islands and a large but fluctuating portion of Manchuria, Mongolia, and Tibet.

 In one combination or another, these three super-states are permanently at war, and have been so for the past twenty-five years.

War, however, is no longer the desperate, annihilating struggle that it was in the early decades of the twentieth century.

It is a warfare of limited aims between combatants who are unable to destroy one another, have no material cause for fighting and are not divided by any genuine ideological difference.

This is not to say that either the conduct of war, or the prevailing attitude towards it, has become less bloodthirsty or more chivalrous.

On the contrary, war hysteria is continuous and universal in all countries, and such acts as raping, looting, the slaughter of children, the reduction of whole populations to slavery, and reprisals against prisoners which extend even to boiling and burying alive, are looked upon as normal, and, when they are committed by one's own side and not by the enemy, meritorious.

But in a physical sense war involves very small numbers of people, mostly highly-trained specialists, and causes comparatively few casualties.

The fighting, when there is any, takes place on the vague frontiers whose whereabouts the average man can only guess at, or round the Floating Fortresses which guard strategic spots on the sea lanes.

In the centres of civilization war means no more than a continuous shortage of consumption goods, and the occasional crash of a rocket bomb which may cause a few scores of deaths.

War has in fact changed its character.

More exactly, the reasons for which war is waged have changed in their order of importance.

Motives which were already present to some small extent in the great wars of the early twentieth century have now become dominant and are consciously recognized and acted upon.

 To understand the nature of the present war--for in spite of the regrouping which occurs every few years, it is always the same war--one must realize in the first place that it is impossible for it to be decisive.

None of the three super-states could be definitively conquered even by the other two in combination.

They are too evenly matched, and their natural defences are too formidable.

Eurasia is protected by its vast land spaces, Oceania by the width of the Atlantic and the Pacific, Eastasia by the fecundity and industriousness of its inhabitants.

Secondly, there is no longer, in a material sense, anything to fight about.

With the establishment of self-contained economies, in which production and consumption are geared to one another, the scramble for markets which was a main cause of previous wars has come to an end, while the competition for raw materials is no longer a matter of life and death.

In any case each of the three super-states is so vast that it can obtain almost all the materials that it needs within its own boundaries.

In so far as the war has a direct economic purpose, it is a war for labour power.

Between the frontiers of the super-states, and not permanently in the possession of any of them, there lies a rough quadrilateral with its corners at Tangier, Brazzaville, Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing within it about a fifth of the population of the earth.

It is for the possession of these thickly-populated regions, and of the northern ice-cap, that the three powers are constantly struggling.

In practice no one power ever controls the whole of the disputed area.

Portions of it are constantly changing hands, and it is the chance of seizing this or that fragment by a sudden stroke of treachery that dictates the endless changes of alignment.

 All of the disputed territories contain valuable minerals, and some of them yield important vegetable products such as rubber which in colder climates it is necessary to synthesize by comparatively expensive methods.

But above all they contain a bottomless reserve of cheap labour.

Whichever power controls equatorial Africa, or the countries of the Middle East, or Southern India, or the Indonesian Archipelago, disposes also of the bodies of scores or hundreds of millions of ill-paid and hard-working coolies.

The inhabitants of these areas, reduced more or less openly to the status of slaves, pass continually from conqueror to conqueror, and are expended like so much coal or oil in the race to turn out more armaments, to capture more territory, to control more labour power, to turn out more armaments, to capture more territory, and so on indefinitely.

It should be noted that the fighting never really moves beyond the edges of the disputed areas.

The frontiers of Eurasia flow back and forth between the basin of the Congo and the northern shore of the Mediterranean; the islands of the Indian Ocean and the Pacific are constantly being captured and recaptured by Oceania or by Eastasia; in Mongolia the dividing line between Eurasia and Eastasia is never stable;

round the Pole all three powers lay claim to enormous territories which in fact are largely uninhabited and unexplored: but the balance of power always remains roughly even, and the territory which forms the heartland of each super-state always remains inviolate.

Moreover, the labour of the exploited peoples round the Equator is not really necessary to the world's economy.

They add nothing to the wealth of the world, since whatever they produce is used for purposes of war, and the object of waging a war is always to be in a better position in which to wage another war.

By their labour the slave populations allow the tempo of continuous warfare to be speeded up.

But if they did not exist, the structure of world society, and the process by which it maintains itself, would not be essentially different.

 The primary aim of modern warfare (in accordance with the principles of DOUBLETHINK, this aim is simultaneously recognized and not recognized by the directing brains of the Inner Party) is to use up the products of the machine without raising the general standard of living.

Ever since the end of the nineteenth century, the problem of what to do with the surplus of consumption goods has been latent in industrial society.

At present, when few human beings even have enough to eat, this problem is obviously not urgent, and it might not have become so, even if no artificial processes of destruction had been at work.

The world of today is a bare, hungry, dilapidated place compared with the world that existed before 1914, and still more so if compared with the imaginary future to which the people of that period looked forward.

In the early twentieth century, the vision of a future society unbelievably rich, leisured, orderly, and efficient--a glittering antiseptic world of glass and steel and snow-white concrete--was part of the consciousness of nearly every literate person.

Science and technology were developing at a prodigious speed, and it seemed natural to assume that they would go on developing.

This failed to happen, partly because of the impoverishment caused by a long series of wars and revolutions, partly because scientific and technical progress depended on the empirical habit of thought, which could not survive in a strictly regimented society.

As a whole the world is more primitive today than it was fifty years ago.

Certain backward areas have advanced, and various devices, always in some way connected with warfare and police espionage, have been developed, but experiment and invention have largely stopped, and the ravages of the atomic war of the nineteen-fifties have never been fully repaired.

Nevertheless the dangers inherent in the machine are still there.

From the moment when the machine first made its appearance it was clear to all thinking people that the need for human drudgery, and therefore to a great extent for human inequality, had disappeared.

If the machine were used deliberately for that end, hunger, overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and disease could be eliminated within a few generations.

And in fact, without being used for any such purpose, but by a sort of automatic process--by producing wealth which it was sometimes impossible not to distribute--the machine did raise the living standards of the average human being very greatly over a period of about fifty years at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries.

 But it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth threatened the destruction--indeed, in some sense was the destruction--of a hierarchical society.

In a world in which everyone worked short hours, had enough to eat, lived in a house with a bathroom and a refrigerator, and possessed a motor-car or even an aeroplane, the most obvious and perhaps the most important form of inequality would already have disappeared.

If it once became general, wealth would confer no distinction.

It was possible, no doubt, to imagine a society in which WEALTH, in the sense of personal possessions and luxuries, should be evenly distributed, while POWER remained in the hands of a small privileged caste.

But in practice such a society could not long remain stable.

For if leisure and security were enjoyed by all alike, the great mass of human beings who are normally stupefied by poverty would become literate and would learn to think for themselves;

and when once they had done this, they would sooner or later realize that the privileged minority had no function, and they would sweep it away.

In the long run, a hierarchical society was only possible on a basis of poverty and ignorance.

To return to the agricultural past, as some thinkers about the beginning of the twentieth century dreamed of doing, was not a practicable solution.

It conflicted with the tendency towards mechanization which had become quasi-instinctive throughout almost the whole world, and moreover, any country which remained industrially backward was helpless in a military sense and was bound to be dominated, directly or indirectly, by its more advanced rivals.

 Nor was it a satisfactory solution to keep the masses in poverty by restricting the output of goods.

This happened to a great extent during the final phase of capitalism, roughly between 1920 and 1940.

The economy of many countries was allowed to stagnate, land went out of cultivation, capital equipment was not added to, great blocks of the population were prevented from working and kept half alive by State charity.

But this, too, entailed military weakness, and since the privations it inflicted were obviously unnecessary, it made opposition inevitable.

The problem was how to keep the wheels of industry turning without increasing the real wealth of the world.

Goods must be produced, but they must not be distributed.

And in practice the only way of achieving this was by continuous warfare.

 The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human lives, but of the products of human labour.

War is a way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths of the sea, materials which might otherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, and hence, in the long run, too intelligent.

Even when weapons of war are not actually destroyed, their manufacture is still a convenient way of expending labour power without producing anything that can be consumed.

A Floating Fortress, for example, has locked up in it the labour that would build several hundred cargo-ships. Ultimately it is scrapped as obsolete, never having brought any material benefit to anybody, and with further enormous labours another Floating Fortress is built.

In principle the war effort is always so planned as to eat up any surplus that might exist after meeting the bare needs of the population.

In practice the needs of the population are always underestimated, with the result that there is a chronic shortage of half the necessities of life;

but this is looked on as an advantage.

It is deliberate policy to keep even the favoured groups somewhere near the brink of hardship, because a general state of scarcity increases the importance of small privileges and thus magnifies the distinction between one group and another.

By the standards of the early twentieth century, even a member of the Inner Party lives an austere, laborious kind of life.

Nevertheless, the few luxuries that he does enjoy his large, well-appointed flat, the better texture of his clothes, the better quality of his food and drink and tobacco, his two or three servants, his private motor-car or helicopter--set him in a different world from a member of the Outer Party, and the members of the Outer Party have a similar advantage in comparison with the submerged masses whom we call “the proles”.

The social atmosphere is that of a besieged city, where the possession of a lump of horseflesh makes the difference between wealth and poverty.

And at the same time the consciousness of being at war, and therefore in danger, makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste seem the natural, unavoidable condition of survival.

 War, it will be seen, accomplishes the necessary destruction, but accomplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way.

In principle it would be quite simple to waste the surplus labour of the world by building temples and pyramids, by digging holes and filling them up again, or even by producing vast quantities of goods and then setting fire to them.

But this would provide only the economic and not the emotional basis for a hierarchical society.

What is concerned here is not the morale of masses, whose attitude is unimportant so long as they are kept steadily at work, but the morale of the Party itself.

Even the humblest Party member is expected to be competent, industrious, and even intelligent within narrow limits, but it is also necessary that he should be a credulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing moods are fear, hatred, adulation, and orgiastic triumph.

In other words it is necessary that he should have the mentality appropriate to a state of war.

It does not matter whether the war is actually happening, and, since no decisive victory is possible, it does not matter whether the war is going well or badly.

All that is needed is that a state of war should exist.

The splitting of the intelligence which the Party requires of its members, and which is more easily achieved in an atmosphere of war, is now almost universal, but the higher up the ranks one goes, the more marked it becomes.

It is precisely in the Inner Party that war hysteria and hatred of the enemy are strongest.

In his capacity as an administrator, it is often necessary for a member of the Inner Party to know that this or that item of war news is untruthful, and he may often be aware that the entire war is spurious and is either not happening or is being waged for purposes quite other than the declared ones: but such knowledge is easily neutralized by the technique of DOUBLETHINK.

Meanwhile no Inner Party member wavers for an instant in his mystical belief that the war is real, and that it is bound to end victoriously, with Oceania the undisputed master of the entire world.

 All members of the Inner Party believe in this coming conquest as an article of faith.

It is to be achieved either by gradually acquiring more and more territory and so building up an overwhelming preponderance of power, or by the discovery of some new and unanswerable weapon.

The search for new weapons continues unceasingly, and is one of the very few remaining activities in which the inventive or speculative type of mind can find any outlet.

In Oceania at the present day, Science, in the old sense, has almost ceased to exist.

In Newspeak there is no word for “Science”.

The empirical method of thought, on which all the scientific achievements of the past were founded, is opposed to the most fundamental principles of Ingsoc.

And even technological progress only happens when its products can in some way be used for the diminution of human liberty.

In all the useful arts the world is either standing still or going backwards.

The fields are cultivated with horse-ploughs while books are written by machinery.

But in matters of vital importance--meaning, in effect, war and police espionage--the empirical approach is still encouraged, or at least tolerated.

The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole surface of the earth and to extinguish once and for all the possibility of independent thought.

There are therefore two great problems which the Party is concerned to solve.

One is how to discover, against his will, what another human being is thinking, and the other is how to kill several hundred million people in a few seconds without giving warning beforehand.

In so far as scientific research still continues, this is its subject matter.

The scientist of today is either a mixture of psychologist and inquisitor, studying with real ordinary minuteness the meaning of facial expressions, gestures, and tones of voice, and testing the truth-producing effects of drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis, and physical torture;

or he is chemist, physicist, or biologist concerned only with such branches of his special subject as are relevant to the taking of life.

In the vast laboratories of the Ministry of Peace, and in the experimental stations hidden in the Brazilian forests, or in the Australian desert, or on lost islands of the Antarctic, the teams of experts are indefatigably at work.

Some are concerned simply with planning the logistics of future wars;

others devise larger and larger rocket bombs, more and more powerful explosives, and more and more impenetrable armour-plating;

others search for new and deadlier gases, or for soluble poisons capable of being produced in such quantities as to destroy the vegetation of whole continents, or for breeds of disease germs immunized against all possible antibodies;

others strive to produce a vehicle that shall bore its way under the soil like a submarine under the water, or an aeroplane as independent of its base as a sailing-ship;

others explore even remoter possibilities such as focusing the sun's rays through lenses suspended thousands of kilometres away in space, or producing artificial earthquakes and tidal waves by tapping the heat at the earth's centre.

 But none of these projects ever comes anywhere near realization, and none of the three super-states ever gains a significant lead on the others.

What is more remarkable is that all three powers already possess, in the atomic bomb, a weapon far more powerful than any that their present researches are likely to discover.

Although the Party, according to its habit, claims the invention for itself, atomic bombs first appeared as early as the nineteen-forties, and were first used on a large scale about ten years later.

At that time some hundreds of bombs were dropped on industrial centres, chiefly in European Russia, Western Europe, and North America.

The effect was to convince the ruling groups of all countries that a few more atomic bombs would mean the end of organized society, and hence of their own power.

Thereafter, although no formal agreement was ever made or hinted at, no more bombs were dropped.

All three powers merely continue to produce atomic bombs and store them up against the decisive opportunity which they all believe will come sooner or later.

And meanwhile the art of war has remained almost stationary for thirty or forty years.

Helicopters are more used than they were formerly, bombing planes have been largely superseded by self-propelled projectiles, and the fragile movable battleship has given way to the almost unsinkable Floating Fortress; but otherwise there has been little development.

The tank, the submarine, the torpedo, the machine gun, even the rifle and the hand grenade are still in use.

And in spite of the endless slaughters reported in the Press and on the telescreens, the desperate battles of earlier wars, in which hundreds of thousands or even millions of men were often killed in a few weeks, have never been repeated.

 None of the three super-states ever attempts any manoeuvre which involves the risk of serious defeat.

When any large operation is undertaken, it is usually a surprise attack against an ally.

The strategy that all three powers are following, or pretend to themselves that they are following, is the same.

The plan is, by a combination of fighting, bargaining, and well-timed strokes of treachery, to acquire a ring of bases completely encircling one or other of the rival states, and then to sign a pact of friendship with that rival and remain on peaceful terms for so many years as to lull suspicion to sleep.

During this time rockets loaded with atomic bombs can be assembled at all the strategic spots;

finally they will all be fired simultaneously, with effects so devastating as to make retaliation impossible.

It will then be time to sign a pact of friendship with the remaining world-power, in preparation for another attack.

This scheme, it is hardly necessary to say, is a mere daydream, impossible of realization.

Moreover, no fighting ever occurs except in the disputed areas round the Equator and the Pole: no invasion of enemy territory is ever undertaken.

This explains the fact that in some places the frontiers between the super-states are arbitrary.

Eurasia, for example, could easily conquer the British Isles, which are geographically part of Europe, or on the other hand it would be possible for Oceania to push its frontiers to the Rhine or even to the Vistula.

But this would violate the principle, followed on all sides though never formulated, of cultural integrity.

If Oceania were to conquer the areas that used once to be known as France and Germany, it would be necessary either to exterminate the inhabitants, a task of great physical difficulty, or to assimilate a population of about a hundred million people, who, so far as technical development goes, are roughly on the Oceanic level.

The problem is the same for all three super-states.

It is absolutely necessary to their structure that there should be no contact with foreigners, except, to a limited extent, with war prisoners and coloured slaves.

Even the official ally of the moment is always regarded with the darkest suspicion.

War prisoners apart, the average citizen of Oceania never sets eyes on a citizen of either Eurasia or Eastasia, and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages.

If he were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover that they are creatures similar to himself and that most of what he has been told about them is lies.

The sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the fear, hatred, and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might evaporate.

It is therefore realized on all sides that however often Persia, or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon may change hands, the main frontiers must never be crossed by anything except bombs.

 Under this lies a fact never mentioned aloud, but tacitly understood and acted upon: namely, that the conditions of life in all three super-states are very much the same.

In Oceania the prevailing philosophy is called Ingsoc, in Eurasia it is called Neo-Bolshevism, and in Eastasia it is called by a Chinese name usually translated as Death-Worship, but perhaps better rendered as Obliteration of the Self.

The citizen of Oceania is not allowed to know anything of the tenets of the other two philosophies, but he is taught to execrate them as barbarous outrages upon morality and common sense.

Actually the three philosophies are barely distinguishable, and the social systems which they support are not distinguishable at all.

Everywhere there is the same pyramidal structure, the same worship of semi-divine leader, the same economy existing by and for continuous warfare.

It follows that the three super-states not only cannot conquer one another, but would gain no advantage by doing so.

On the contrary, so long as they remain in conflict they prop one another up, like three sheaves of corn.

And, as usual, the ruling groups of all three powers are simultaneously aware and unaware of what they are doing.

Their lives are dedicated to world conquest, but they also know that it is necessary that the war should continue everlastingly and without victory.

Meanwhile the fact that there IS no danger of conquest makes possible the denial of reality which is the special feature of Ingsoc and its rival systems of thought.

Here it is necessary to repeat what has been said earlier, that by becoming continuous war has fundamentally changed its character.