unconnected with its original subject.
He might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of traitors and
thought-criminals, but that was a little too obvious, while to invent a
victory at the front, or some triumph of over-production in the Ninth
Three-Year Plan, might complicate the records too much. What was needed was
a piece of pure fantasy. Suddenly there sprang into his mind, ready made as
it were, the image of a certain Comrade Ogilvy, who had recently died in
battle, in heroic circumstances. There were occasions when Big Brother
devoted his Order for the Day to commemorating some humble, rank-and-file
Party member whose life and death he held up as an example worthy to be
followed. Today he should commemorate Comrade Ogilvy. It was true that
there was no such person as Comrade Ogilvy, but a few lines of print and a
couple of faked photographs would soon bring him into existence.
Winston thought for a moment, then pulled the speakwrite towards him
and began dictating in Big Brother's familiar style: a style at once
military and pedantic, and, because of a trick of asking questions and then
promptly answering them ('What lessons do we learn from this fact,
comrades? The lesson -- which is also one of the fundamental principles of
Ingsoc -- that,' etc., etc.), easy to imitate.
At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys except a drum,
a sub-machine gun, and a model helicopter. At six -- a year early, by a
special relaxation of the rules -- he had joined the Spies, at nine he had
been a troop leader. At eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought
Police after overhearing a conversation which app