was constricted. He could never see the face of
Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face,
with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a
clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile
silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles
was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a
sheep-like quality. Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon
the doctrines of the Party -- an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a
child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible
enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-
headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big Brother,
he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the
immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of
speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he
was crying hysterically that the revolution had