position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to lift his weight by
his hands. It was hopeless, he could not raise himself a centimetre. But
after a few more days -- a few more mealtimes -- even that feat was
accomplished. A time came when he could do it six times running. He began
to grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an intermittent belief
that his face also was growing back to normal. Only when he chanced to put
his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the seamed, ruined face that had
looked back at him out of the mirror.
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back
against the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately
at the task of re-educating himself.
He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw now, he had
been ready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the
moment when he was inside the Ministry of Love -- and yes, even during
those minutes when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice
from the telescreen told them what to do -- he had grasped the frivolity,
the shallowness of his attempt to set himself up against the power of the
Party. He knew now that for seven years the Thought police had watched him
like a beetle under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no word
spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of thought that they had
not been able to infer. Even the speck of whitish dust on the cover of his
diary they had carefully repl