or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was
generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although
Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a
thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in
books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the
general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were -- in spite of all
this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh
dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and
saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought
Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network
of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood,
its name was supposed to be. 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. It was a book
without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book. But
one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood
nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if
there was a way of avoiding it.
In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up
and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an
effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The
little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening
and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O'Brien's heavy face was
flushed. He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest
swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a
wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out 'Swine!
Swine! Swine!' and suddenly she