1984. Джордж Оруэлл
Не было разницы, написал он или нет «ДОЛОЙ БОЛЬШОГО БРАТА». Не было разницы и в том, станет ли он дальше вести дневник или нет. Мыслеполиция все равно его поймает. Он и так уже совершил – даже если бы никогда не касался пером бумаги – абсолютное преступление, содержавшее в себе все остальные. Мыслефелония – так это называлось. Мыслефелонию невозможно скрывать вечно. Можно изворачиваться до поры до времени, даже годами, но рано или поздно за тобой придут.
Приходили всегда по ночам – в другое время людей не арестовывали. Тебя резко будили, трясли за плечо, светили фонарем в глаза, кровать обступали суровые лица. Почти никогда никого не судили, об арестах не сообщали. Люди просто исчезали – всегда среди ночи. Твое имя удаляли из реестров, любые записи о твоих действиях уничтожали, само твое существование отрицалось и вскоре забывалось. Тебя аннулировали, стирали с лица земли – одним словом, испаряли, как об этом говорили.
Им вдруг овладело что-то вроде истерики. Уинстон принялся спешно писать неряшливым почерком:
меня застрелят мне плевать меня застрелят сзади в шею мне плевать долой большого брата они всегда стреляют сзади в шею мне плевать долой большого брата…
Он откинулся на спинку стула, чуть стыдясь себя, и отложил ручку. В следующий миг он нервно вздрогнул. Стучали в дверь.
Уже! Уинстон сидел тихо, как мышка, в тщетной надежде, что кто бы там ни был, он сейчас уйдет. Но нет, стук повторился. Медлить в такой ситуации было хуже всего. Сердце Уинстона бухало, как барабан, но лицо в силу долгой привычки оставалось почти невозмутимым. Он встал и тяжело направился к двери.
II
As he put his hand to the door knob Winston saw that he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in letters almost big enough to be legible across the room. It was an inconceivably stupid thing to have done. But, he realized, even in his panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by shutting the book while the ink was wet.
He drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly a warm wave of relief flowed through him. A colourless, crushed looking woman, with wispy hair and a lined face, was standing outside.
“Oh, comrade,” she began in a dreary, whining sort of voice, “I thought I heard you come in. Do you think you could come across and have a look at our kitchen sink? It’s got blocked up and —”
It was Mrs. Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same floor. (“Mrs.” was a word somewhat discountenanced by the Party – you were supposed to call everyone “comrade” – but with some women one used it instinctively.) She was a woman of about thirty, but looking much older. One had the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face. Winston followed her down the passage. These amateur repair jobs were an almost daily irritation. Victory Mansions were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were falling to pieces. The plaster flaked constantly from ceilings and walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked whenever there was snow, the heating system was usually running at half steam when it was not closed down altogether from motives of economy. Repairs, except what you could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by remote committees which were liable to hold up even the mending of a window pane for two years.
“Of course it’s only because Tom isn’t home,” said Mrs. Parsons vaguely.
The Parsons’ flat was bigger than Winston’s, and dingy in a different way. Everything had a battered, trampled on look, as though the place had just been visited by some large violent animal. Games impediments – hockey sticks, boxing gloves, a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts turned inside out – lay all over the floor, and on the table there was a litter of dirty dishes and dogeared exercise books. On the walls were scarlet banners of the Youth League and the Spies, and a full-sized poster of Big Brother. There was the usual boiled cabbage smell, common to the whole building, but it was shot through by a sharper reek of sweat, which – one knew this at the first sniff, though it was hard to say how – was the sweat of some person not present at the moment. In another room someone with a comb and a piece of toilet paper was trying to keep tune with the military music which was still issuing from the telescreen.
“It’s the children,” said Mrs. Parsons, casting a half apprehensive glance at the door. “They haven’t been out today. And of course —”
She had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the middle. The kitchen sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy greenish water which smelt worse than ever of cabbage. Winston knelt down and examined the angle joint of the pipe. He hated using his hands, and he hated bending down, which was always liable to start him coughing. Mrs. Parsons looked on helplessly.
“Of course if Tom was home, he’d put it right in a moment,” she said. “He loves anything like that. He’s ever so good with his hands, Tom is.”
Parsons was Winston’s fellow employee at the Ministry of Truth. He was a fattish but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasms – one of those completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on whom, more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party depended. At thirty five he had just been unwillingly evicted from the Youth League, and before graduating into the Youth League he had managed to stay on in the Spies for a year beyond the statutory age. At the Ministry he was employed in some subordinate post for which intelligence was not required, but on the other hand he was a leading figure on the Sports Committee and all the other committees engaged in organizing community hikes, spontaneous demonstrations, savings campaigns, and voluntary activities