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， halfburying 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
Winston began reading：
Chapter I
Ignorance is Strength
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 etemity. 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
Winston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in remote distance a rocket bomb thundered. The blissful feeling of being alone with the forbidden book， in a room with no telescreen， had not worn off. Solitude and safety were physical sensations， mixed up somehow with the tiredness of his body， the softness of the chair， the touch of the faint breeze from the window that played upon his cheek. The book fascinated him， or more exactly it reassured him. In a sense it told him nothing that was new， but that was part of the attraction. It said what he would have said， if it had been possible for him to set his scattered thoughts in order. It was the product of a mind similar to his own， but enormously more powerful， more systematic， less fear-ridden. The best books， he perceived， are those that tell you what you know already. He had just turned back to Chapter I when he heard Julia’s footstep on the stair and started out of his chair to meet her. She dumped her brown tool-bag on the floor and flung herself into his arms. It was more than a week since they had seen one another.
“I’ve got the book，” he said as they disentangled themselves.
“Oh， you’ve got it？ Good，” she said without much interest， and almost immediately knelt down beside the oilstove to make the coffee.
