Jeetanjali Sawh, 1984, Book 1, Chapter 1

A day never passed when spies and
saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police.

From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its
white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above
ground level, and corresponding ramifications below.

Thus, at one moment Winston’s
hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against
Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his heart
went out to the lonely, derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and
sanity in a world of lies.

There were also whispered stories of a terrible book,
a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which
circulated clandestinely here and there.

Were there always these vistas of
rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber,
their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron,
their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions?

There were also whispered stories of a terrible book,
a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which
circulated clandestinely here and there.

You were abolished, annihilated: vaporized was the usual
word.

Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago,
nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party,
almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counterrevolutionary
activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously
escaped and disappeared.

All he had
to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had
been running inside his head, literally for years.

With a tremulous murmur
that sounded like ’My Saviour!’ she extended her arms towards the screen.