But today， supposing that it could be somehow resurrected from its ashes， the photograph might not even be evidence. Already， at the time when he made his discovery， Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia， and it must have been to the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men had betrayed their country. Since then there had been other changes — two， three， he could not remember how many. Very likely the confessions had been rewritten and rewritten until the original facts and dates no longer had the smallest significance. The past not only changed， but changed continuously. What most afflicted him with the sense of nightmare was that he had never clearly understood why the huge imposture was undertaken. The immediate advantages of falsifying the past were obvious， but the ultimate motive was mysterious. He took up his pen again and wrote：
He wondered， as he had many times wondered before， whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one. At one time it had been a sign of madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun； today， to believe that the past is inalterable. He might be alone in holding that belief， and if alone， then a lunatic. But the thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him： the horror was that he might also be wrong.
He picked up the children’s history book and looked at the portrait of Big Brother which formed its frontispiece. The hypnotic eyes gazed into his own. It was as though some huge force were pressing down upon you — something that penetrated inside your skull， battering against your brain， frightening you out of your beliefs， persuading you， almost， to deny the evidence of your senses. In the end the Party would announce that two and two made five， and you would have to believe it. It was inevitable that they should make that claim sooner or later： the logic of their position demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience， but the very existence of external reality， was tacitly denied by their philosophy. The heresy of heresies was common sense. And what was terrifying was not that they would kill you for thinking otherwise， but that they might be right. For， after all， how do we know that two and two make four？ Or that the force of gravity works？ Or that the past is unchangeable？ If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind， and if the mind itself is controllable what then？
But no！ His courage seemed suddenly to stiffen of its own accord. The face of O’Brien， not called up by any obvious association， had floated into his mind. He knew， with more certainty than before， that O’Brien was on his side. He was writing the diary for O’Brien — to O’Brien： it was like an interminable letter which no one would ever read， but which was addressed to a particular person and took its colour from that fact.
The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final， most essential command. His heart sank as he thought of the enormous power arrayed against him， the ease with which any Party intellectual would overthrow him in debate， the subtle arguments which he would not be able to understand， much less answer. And yet he was in the right！ They were wrong and he was right. The obvious， the silly， and the true had got to be defended. Truisms are true， hold on to that！ The solid world exists， its laws do not change. Stones are hard， water is wet， objects unsupported fall towards the earth’s centre. With the feeling that he was speaking to O’Brien， and also that he was setting forth an important axiom， he wrote：
英文八
From somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of roasting coffee — real coffee， not Victory Coffee — came floating out into the street. Winston paused involuntarily. For perhaps two seconds he was back in the half-forgotten world of his childhood. Then a door banged， seeming to cut off the smell as abruptly as though it had been a sound.
He had walked several kilometres over pavements， and his varicose ulcer was throbbing. This was the second time in three weeks that he had missed an evening at the Community Centre： a rash act， since you could be certain that the number of your attendances at the Centre was carefully checked. In principle a Party member had no spare time， and was never alone except in bed. It was assumed that when he was not working， eating， or sleeping he would be taking part in some kind of communal recreation： to do anything that suggested a taste for solitude， even to go for a walk by yourself， was always slightly dangerous. There was a word for it in Newspeak： ownlife， it was called， meaning individualism and eccentricity. But this evening as he came out of the Ministry the balminess of the April air had tempted him. The sky was a warmer blue than he had seen it that year， and suddenly the long， noisy evening at the Centre， the boring， exhausting games， the lectures， the creaking camaraderie oiled by gin， had seemed intolerable. On impulse he had turned away from the bus-stop and wandered off into the labyrinth of London， first south， then east， then north again， losing himself among unknown streets and hardly bothering in which direction he was going.
