Perhaps the needle was eighty — ninety. Winston could not intermittently remember why the pain was happening. Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of fingers seemed to be moving in a sort of dance， weaving in and out， disappearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was trying to count them， he could not remember why. He knew only that it was impossible to count them， and that this was somehow due to the mysterious identity between five and four. The pain died down again. When he opened his eyes it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing. Innumerable fingers， like moving trees， were still streaming past in either direction， crossing and recrossing. He shut his eyes again.
“How many fingers am I holding up， Winston？”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. You will kill me if you do that again. Four， five， six — in all honesty I don’t know.”
“Better，” said O’Brien.
A needle slid into Winston’s arm. Almost in the same instant a blissful， healing warmth spread all through his body. The pain was already half-forgotten. He opened his eyes and looked up gratefully at O’Brien. At sight of the heavy， lined face， so ugly and so intelligent， his heart seemed to turn over. If he could have moved he would have stretched out a hand and laid it on O"Brien arm. He had never loved him so deeply as at this moment， and not merely because he had stopped the pain. The old feeling， that it bottom it did not matter whether O’Brien was a friend or an enemy， had come back. O’Brien was a person who could be talked to. Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood. O’Brien had tortured him to the edge of lunacy， and in a little while， it was certain， he would send him to his death. It made no difference. In some sense that went deeper than friendship， they were intimates： somewhere or other， although the actual words might never be spoken， there was a place where they could meet and talk. O’Brien was looking down at him with an expression which suggested that the same thought might be in his own mind. When he spoke it was in an easy， conversational tone.
“Do you know where you are， Winston？”he said.
“I don’t know. I can guess. In the Ministry of Love.”
“Do you know how long you have been here？”
“I don’t know. Days， weeks， months — I think it is months.”
“And why do you imagine that we bring people to this place？”
“To make them confess.”
“No， that is not the reason. Try again.”
“To punish them.”
“No！”exclaimed O"Brien. His voice had changed extraordinarily， and his face had suddenly become both stern and animated.“No！ Not merely to extract your confession， not to punish you. Shall I tell you why we have brought you here？ To cure you！ To make you sane！ Will you understand， Winston， that no one whom we bring to this place ever leaves our hands uncured？ We are not interested in those stupid crimes that you have committed. The Party is not interested in the overt act： the thought is all we care about. We do not merely destroy our enemies， we change them. Do you understand what I mean by that？”
He was bending over Winston. His face looked enormous because of its nearness， and hideously ugly because it was seen from below. Moreover it was filled with a sort of exaltation， a lunatic intensity. Again Winston’s heart shrank. If it had been possible he would have cowered deeper into the bed. He felt certain that O’Brien was about to twist the dial out of sheer wantonness. At this moment， however， O’Brien turned away. He took a pace or two up and down. Then he continued less vehemently：
“The first thing for you to understand is that in this place there are no martyrdoms. You have read of the religious persecutions of the past. In the Middle Ages there was the Inquisition. It was a failure. It set out to eradicate heresy， and ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it burned at the stake， thousands of others rose up. Why was that？ Because the Inquisition killed its enemies in the open， and killed them while they were still unrepentant： in fact， it killed them because they were unrepentant. Men were dying because they would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame to the Inquisitor who burned him. Later， in the twentieth century， there were the totalitarians， as they were called. There were the German Nazis and the Russian Communists. The Russians persecuted heresy more cruelly than the Inquisition had done. And they imagined that they had learned from the mistakes of the past； they knew， at any rate， that one must not make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims to public trial， they deliberately set themselves to destroy their dignity. They wore them down by torture and solitude until they were despicable， cringing wretches， confessing whatever was put into their mouths， covering themselves with abuse， accusing and sheltering behind one another， whimpering for mercy. And yet after only a few years the same thing had happened over again. The dead men had become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once again， why was it？ In the first place， because the confessions that they had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We do not make mistakes of that kind. All the confessions that are uttered here are true. We make them true. And above all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. You must stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you， Winston. Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out from the stream of history. We shall turn you into gas and pour you into the stratosphere. Nothing will remain of you， not a name in a register， not a memory in a living brain. You will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future. You will never have existed.”
“Then why bother to torture me？”thought Winston， with a momentary bitterness. O’Brien checked his step as though Winston had uttered the thought aloud. His large ugly face came nearer， with the eyes a little narrowed.
“You are thinking，”he said，“that since we intend to destroy you utterly， so that nothing that you say or do can make the smallest difference — in that case， why do we go to the trouble of interrogating you first？ That is what you were thinking， was it not？”
“Yes，”said Winston.
