America's New War?
Or War On Americans?

Winston Smith's Hate Session 

       I've transcribed for you an excerpt beginning from page 13 of George Orwell's book 1984. It describes a hate session orchestrated by Big Brother via the telescreen.  The characters in this scene are reacting very much like the media mind-controlled masses of America are responding today to the message of "rage, revenge, hate, bomb and kill, destroy the enemy" being promulgated by the controlled media. And today. . . just as in the story book, the enemy is a phantom. Usama bin Ladin or Emmanuel Goldstein. . . The hate is cleverly induced.  

     For the first time since WWII the U.S. Government is issuing War Bonds. We are embarking on a dangerous journey into the third and final great war deemed necessary by the globalists to finalize their plan for World Government.  

    Most frighteningly real is the fact that Americans who cry out for, nay... demand this war could not say what that really means in terms of human life, either for them, their loved ones, or the innocent people across the world who are the victims of the very real bombs being dropped by U.S. soldiers.  

     It is doubtful that the thought has occurred to those within whom the blood lust has been roused that it is a given - more than a probability - the enemy's bombs will be falling on us soon; possibly bombs made right here in the good ol' U.S.ofA. -- Jackie -- 10-26-01


      The next moment a hideous, grinding screech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room.  It was a noise that set one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's neck. The Hate had started.

     As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed onto the screen.  There were hisses here and there among the audience.  The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust.

    Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counterrevolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared.  

    The program of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure.  He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's purity.  All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching.  Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies; perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters; perhaps even -- so it was occasionally rumored -- in some hiding place in Oceania itself.

     Winston's diaphragm was constricted.  He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions.  It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched.  It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheeplike quality.  

     Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party -- an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it.  

     He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed -- and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life.  

    And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army -- row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar.  The dull, rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.

     Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room.  The self-satisfied sheeplike face on the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army behind it, were too much to be borne; besides, the sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger automatically.  

     He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these powers it was generally at peace with the other.  

    But what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day, and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were -- in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less.

    Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced by him.  A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting under directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police.  He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State.  

    The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be.  There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there.  It was a book without a title.  People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book.  But one knew of such things only through vague rumors.  Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it.

      In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy.  People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen.  The little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish.  Even O'Brien's heavy face was flushed.  He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a wave.  

    The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out "Swine! Swine! Swine!" and suddenly she picked up a heavy newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen.  It struck Goldstein's nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably.  In a lucid moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair.  

    The horrible thing about the Two Minute Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in.  Within thirty seconds any pretense was always unnecessary.  

     A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.  

    And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one subject to another like the flame of a blowlamp.  Thus, at one moment Winston's hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.

    It was even possible, at moments, to switch one's hatred this way or that by a voluntary act.  Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one wrenches one's head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him.  vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind.  

    He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon.  He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot here full of arrows like Saint Sebastian.  He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax.  Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her.  He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweep supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.  

    The Hate rose to its climax.  The voice of Goldstein had become an actual sheep's bleat, and for an instant the face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his submachine gun roaring and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats.  

    But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-mustachioed, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying.  It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken. Then the face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out in bold capitals:




    But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for several seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had made on everyone's eyeballs were too vivid to wear off immediately.  The little sandy-haired woman had flung herself forward over the back of the chair in front of her.  With a tremulous murmur that sounded like "My Saviour!" she extended her arms toward the screen.  Then she buried her face in her hands.  It was apparent that she was uttering a prayer.

     At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of "B-B. . . B-B. . . B-B" over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first 'B' and the second -- a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms.

     For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it up.  It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of overwhelming emotion.  Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic music.  Winston's entrails seemed to grow cold.  In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this subhuman 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 . . .  


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