the feathers, channels, and discussions are all scared and nineteenth-century
 

but still more it was an act of
self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic
noise. Winston's entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he
could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chanting
of 'B-B!....B-B!' always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with
the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise. To dissemble your feelings, to
control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive
reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the
expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him. And it was
exactly at this moment that the significant thing happened -- if, indeed,
it did happen.
Momentarily he caught O'Brien's eye. O'Brien had stood up. He had
taken off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose
with his characteristic gesture. But there was a fraction of a second when
their eyes met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew -- yes,
he knew! -- that O'Brien was thinking the same thing as himself. An
unmistakable message had passed. It was as though their two minds had
opened and the thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their
eyes. 'I am with you,' O'Brien seemed to be saying to him. 'I know
precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your
hatred, your disgust. But don't worry, I am on your side!