2084 by George Orwell

Michael Byron
Daily Stormer
May 29, 2017

O’Brien was looking down at Winston 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 had thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty. Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top and figures running round the face.

“I told you,” said O’Brien, “that if we met again it would be here.”

“Yes,” said Winston.

Without any warning except a slight movement of O’Brien’s hand, a wave of pain flooded Winston’s body. It was a frightening pain, because he could not see what was happening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was being done to him. He did not know whether the thing was really happening, or whether the effect was electrically produced; but his body was being wrenched out of shape, the joints were being slowly torn apart. Although the pain had brought the sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was the fear that his backbone was about to snap. He set his teeth and breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep silent as long as possible.

“Do you remember,” he went on, “writing in your diary, ‘Freedom is the freedom to say that niggers are the bubonic plague of mankind’?”

“Yes,” said Winston.

O’Brien held up a photo in his left hand. Though yellowed by time, the photo’s image was clear: a semi-naked Negro standing beside a hut made of pure animal dung.

“What is the average IQ of a Black man from Equatorial Guinea, Winston?”

“Fifty-nine.”

“And if the Jews say that it is not fifty-nine but one-hundred and forty – then what is it?”

“Fifty-nine.”

The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston’s body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O’Brien watched him, his hand still holding the photo.

He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.

“What is the IQ of this gentleman from Equatorial Guinea, Winston?” O’Brien said, moving the photo closer to Winston’s face.

“Fifty-nine.”

The needle went up to sixty.

“What is his IQ, Winston?”

“Fifty-nine! Fifty-nine! What else can I say? Fifty-nine!”

The needle must have risen again, but Winston did not look at it. The heavy, stern face of O’Brien and the photograph of the grinning Negro filled his gaze. As Winston’s vision continued to blur and vibrate, the Negro did momentarily seem more intelligent – he appeared to be wearing a tuxedo and clutching a well-worn copy of Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra – but Winston’s senses eventually re-asserted themselves, and reality returned to the fore.

“What is his IQ, Winston?”

“Fifty-nine! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Fifty-nine! Fifty-nine!”

“What is his IQ, Winston?”

“One-hundred and forty! One-hundred and forty! One-hundred and forty!”

“No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think it is fifty-nine. What is his IQ, please?”

“Fifty-nine! One-hundred and forty! Fifty-nine! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!”

Abruptly he was sitting up with O’Brien’s arm round his shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For a moment he clung to O’Brien like a baby, curiously comforted by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the feeling that O’Brien was his protector, that the pain was something that came from outside, from some other source, and that it was O’Brien who would save him from it.

“You are a slow learner, Winston,” said O’Brien gently.

“How can I help it?” he blubbered. “How can I help seeing what is in front of my eyes? That monkey’s forehead is less than an inch high, for heaven’s sake! His IQ is clearly in the fifties – at most.”

“Never, Winston. Never is it low. Sometimes it is one-hundred and forty. Sometimes it is one-hundred and seventy-five. But a gentleman of color’s intelligence is always high – and always superior to that of a White devil. You must try harder to understand.”

O’Brien laid Winston down on the bed. The grip of his limbs tightened again, but the pain had ebbed away and the trembling had stopped, leaving him merely weak and cold.

“Reality is not external,” O’Brien began. “Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Jewish tribe, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Jews hold to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Jews. That is the fact that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become a good goy.”

O’Brien turned to face Winston directly. His features appeared sharper and more intense than before, as if seized by a burst of impassioned malevolence.

“If you want a picture of the future, Winston, imagine an obese sheboon twerking atop the ruins of White civilization – forever.”