- زمان مطالعه 10 دقیقه
- سطح ساده
دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»
این درس را میتوانید به بهترین شکل و با امکانات عالی در اپلیکیشن «زیبوک» بخوانید
متن انگلیسی درس
PART T H R E E Inside Winston Smith’s Head
Chapter 9 Miniluv
He did not know where he was. He thought he was in the Ministry of Love, Miniluv, but he could not be certain.
He was in a high-ceilinged, windowless cell with white stone walls. It was bright with cold light. In this place, he felt, the lights would never be turned out. One moment he felt certain that it was bright day outside and the next moment he was equally certain that it was black night. ‘We shall meet in the place where there is no dark,’ O’Brien had said to him. In the Ministry of Love there were no windows.
He thought of O’Brien more often than Julia. He loved Julia and would not betray her, but he did not think about what was happening to her. Sometimes he thought about what they would do to him. He saw himself on the floor, screaming through broken teeth for them to stop hitting him. O’Brien must know he was here. O’Brien said the Brotherhood never tried to save its members. But they would send him a razor blade if they could.
One cut and it would all be finished.
In his cell, there was a continuous noise from the machine that brought air in from outside. A narrow shelf went round the wall, stopping only at the door, and at the end opposite the door there was a toilet with no wooden seat. There were four telescreens, one n each wall.
He was hungry. It might be twenty-four hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did not know, probably never would know, if it had been morning or evening when the soldiers took him. Since then he had been given no food.
He sat on the narrow shelf without moving, with his hands crossed on his knees. He had already learned not to move too much. If you moved around they shouted at you from the telescreen. But he wanted food so badly, especially a piece of bread.
He thought perhaps there was a small piece in the pocket of his overalls. His need for the bread grew stronger than the fear; he put a hand in his pocket.
‘Smith!’ shouted a voice from the telescreen. ‘6079 Smith W!
Hands out of pockets in the cells!’
He crossed his hands on his knee again. There was a sound of marching boots outside. A young officer, black-uniformed, with an emotionless face, stepped into the cell. He waved to the guards behind him and they brought in a man who they were holding by the arms. It was Ampleforth, the man who re-wrote poems for the Party. The cell door closed behind him.
Ampleforth walked up and down the cell. He had not yet noticed Winston. He was dirty, wore no shoes and had not shaved for several days. The hairy half-beard gave him a criminal look that was strange, with his large weak body and nervous movements.
Winston thought quickly. He must speak to Ampleforth even if they shouted at him through the telescreen. It was possible that Ampleforth had the razor blade for him.
‘Ampleforth,’ he said.
There was no shout from the telescreen. Ampleforth stopped walking up and down. He seemed surprised. It took him a moment to recognize Winston.
‘Ah, Smith!’ he said. ‘You too!’
‘What are you in for?’
Ampleforth put a hand to his head, trying to remember.
‘There is something . . .’ he said. ‘We were working on a poem and I didn’t change the word “God”. It was necessary, in the poem. There was no other word. So I left it.’ For a moment he looked happy, pleased with his work on the poem.
‘Do you know what time of day it is?’ asked Winston.
Ampleforth looked surprised. ‘I hadn’t thought about it. They took me - it could be two days ago - perhaps three.’ He looked round the cell. ‘There is no difference between night and day in this place. You can never know the time.’
They talked for a few minutes, then, for no clear reason, a voice from the telescreen told them to be silent. Winston sat quietly, his hands crossed. Ampleforth was too large for the narrow shelf and moved from side to side. Time passed - twenty minutes, an hour.
Again there was a sound of boots. Winston’s stomach turned to water. Soon, very soon, perhaps now, the boots would come for him.
The door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped into the cell. He waved his arm at Ampleforth.
‘Room 101,’ he said.
Ampleforth marched out between the guards. He looked a little worried but did not seem to understand what was happening to him.
More time passed. It seemed like a long time to Winston. He had only six thoughts: the pain in his stomach; a piece of bread; the blood and the screaming; O’Brien; Julia; the razor blade.
Then his stomach turned to water again as he heard the boots outside. The door was opened and a smell of sweat came in with the cold air. Parsons walked into the cell.
‘You here!’ Winston cried out in surprise.
Parsons did not seem interested in Winston or surprised to see him. He looked completely without hope.
‘What are you in for?’ said Winston.
‘Thoughtcrime’ said Parsons, almost crying. ‘They won’t shoot me, will they? I mean, they don’t shoot you when you haven’t done anything — just thought? And they’ll know everything I’ve done for the Party, won’t they? I’ll just get five years, don’t you think? Or even ten years? Someone like me could really help the Party in prison. They wouldn’t shoot me for just one mistake?’
‘Are you guilty?’ said Winston.
’ Of course I’m guilty!’ said Parsons, looking at the telescreen as he spoke. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. Thoughtcrime is a terrible thing. Do you know how it happened? In my sleep! Yes, there I was working away for the Party — I never knew I had any bad stuff in my mind at all. And then I started talking in my sleep. Do you know what I said? I said “Down with Big Brother!” Do you know what I’m going to say to them? I’m going to say, “Thank you for saving me.” ‘
‘Who told them about you?’ said Winston.
’ M y little daughter,’ said Parsons, sad but proud. He walked up and down a few more times, looking hard at the toilet. ‘Excuse me, old man,’ he said. ‘I can’t help it. It’s the waiting.’
Parsons took his trousers down. Winston covered his face w i t h his hands.
‘Smith!’ shouted the voice from the telescreen. ‘6079 Smith W!
Uncover your face. No faces covered in the cells.’
Winston uncovered his face. Parsons used the toilet, loudly and horribly. The cell smelled terrible for hours afterwards.
Parsons was taken out. More men and women were brought in and taken out again by the guards. One woman was sent to ‘ Room 101’ and seemed to become smaller and change colour as she heard the words.
‘Comrade! Officer!’ she cried. ‘You don’t have to take me to that place! Haven’t I told you everything already? I’ll say anything. Just write it down and I’ll say it! Not Room 101.’
‘Room 101,’ said the guard.
A long time passed. Winston was alone and had been alone for hours. Sometimes he thought of O’Brien and the razor blade, but with less and less hope. He also thought, less clearly, of Julia. He thought that if she were in pain and he could double his own pain to help her, he would do it.
He heard the boots again. O’Brien came in. Winston got to his feet. The shock made him forget the telescreen for the first time in years.
‘They’ve got you too!’ he shouted out.
‘They got me a long time ago,’ said O’Brien with a small smile. He stepped to one side. Behind him there was a large guard with a heavy stick in his hand.
’ You knew this, Winston,’ said O’Brien. ‘You have always known it.’
Yes, he had always known it. But there was no time to think of that. The heavy stick in the guard’s hand might hit him anywhere, on his head, ear, arm, elbow …
The elbow! He had gone down on his knees, holding the pain in his elbow with the other hand. There was an explosion of yellow light. The pain was unbelievable, but the guard had only hit him once. They were both looking down at him and the guard was laughing.
Well, one question was answered. You could never, for any reason on earth, wish for more pain. You only wished for one thing - that it would stop. Nothing in the world was as bad as physical pain. W i t h pain there are no heroes, no heroes, he thought again and again as he lay screaming on the floor, holding his useless left arm.
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