killing him. It
was he who decided when Winston should scream with pain, when he should
have a respite, when he should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs
should be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and
suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was
the inquisitor, he was the friend. And once -- Winston could not remember
whether it was in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment of
wakefulness -- a voice murmured in his ear: 'Don't worry, Winston; you are
in my keeping. For seven years I have watched over you. Now the turning-
point has come. I shall save you, I shall make you perfect.' He was not
sure whether it was O'Brien's voice; but it was the same voice that had
said to him, 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' in
that other dream, seven years ago.
He did not remember any ending to his interrogation. There was a
period of blackness and then the cell, or room, in which he now was had
gradually materialized round him. He was almost flat on his back, and
unable to move. His body was held down at every essential point. Even the
back of his head was gripped in some manner. O'Brien was looking down at
him gravely and rather sadly. His face, seen from below, looked coarse and
worn, with pouches under the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin. He was
older than Winston
.
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