O'Brien
seemed already to be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting
with his hand on the switch that controlled the telescreen. Beyond him
Winston could see the writing-table with its green-shaded lamp and the
speakwrite and the wire baskets deep-laden with papers. The incident was
closed. Within thirty seconds, it occurred to him, O'Brien would be back at
his interrupted and important work on behalf of the Party.



IX

Winston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was the right word. It
had come into his head spontaneously. His body seemed to have not only the
weakness of a jelly, but its translucency. He felt that if he held up his
hand he would be able to see the light through it. All the blood and lymph
had been drained out of him by an enormous debauch of work, leaving only a
frail structure of nerves, bones, and skin. All sensations seemed to be
magnified. His overalls fretted his shoulders, the pavement tickled his
feet, even the opening and closing of a hand was an effort that made his
joints creak.
He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So had everyone
else in the Ministry. Now it was all over, and he had literally nothing to
do, no Party work of any description, until tomorrow morning. He could
spend six hours in the hiding-place and another nine in his own bed.
Slowly, in mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a dingy street in the
direction of Mr. Charrington's shop, keeping one eye open for the patrols,
but irrationally convinced that this afternoon there was no danger of
anyone interfering with him. The heavy brief-case that he was carrying
bumped against his knee at each step, sending a tingling sensation up and
down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book, which