The white light and the humming sound were the same as ever， but the cell was a little more comfortable than the others he had been in. There was a pillow and a mattress on the plank bed， and a stool to sit on. They had given him a bath， and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequently in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash with. They had given him new underclothes and a clean suit of overalls. They had dressed his varicose ulcer with soothing ointment. They had pulled out the remnants of his teeth and given him a new set of dentures.
Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been possible now to keep count of the passage of time， if he had felt any interest in doing so， since he was being fed at what appeared to be regular intervals. He was getting， he judged， three meals in the twenty-four hours； sometimes he wondered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. The food was surprisingly good， with meat at every third meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had no matches， but the never-speaking guard who brought his food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke it made him sick， but he persevered， and spun the packet out for a long time， smoking half a cigarette after each meal.
They had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil tied to the corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was completely torpid. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost without stirring， sometimes asleep， sometimes waking into vague reveries in which it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference， except that one’s dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time， and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden Country， or he was sitting among enormous glorious， sunlit ruins， with his mother， with Julia， with O’Brien — not doing anything， merely sitting in the sun， talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort， now that the stimulus of pain had been removed. He was not bored， he had no desire for conversation or distraction. Merely to be alone， not to be beaten or questioned， to have enough to eat， and to be clean all over， was completely satisfying.
By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep， but he still felt no impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the strength gathering in his body. He would finger himself here and there， trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a doubt that he was growing fatter； his thighs were now definitely thicker than his knees. After that， reluctantly at first， he began exercising himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres， measured by pacing the cell， and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises， and was astonished and humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a walk， he could not hold his stool out at arm’s length， he could not stand on one leg without falling over. He squatted down on his heels， and found that with agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself to a standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless， he could not raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days — a few more mealtimes — even that feat was accomplished. A time came when he could do it six times running. He began to grow actually proud of his body， and to cherish an intermittent belief that his face also was growing back to normal. Only when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the seamed， ruined face that had looked back at him out of the mirror.
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed， his back against the wall and the slate on his knees， and set to work deliberately at the task of re-educating himself. He had capitulated， that was agreed. In reality， as he saw now， he had been ready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the moment when he was inside the Ministry of Love — and yes， even during those minutes when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice from the telescreen told them what to do — he had grasped the frivolity， the shallowness of his attempt to set himself up against the power of the Party. He knew now that for seven years the Thought police had watched him like a beetle under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act， no word spoken aloud， that they had not noticed， no train of thought that they had not been able to infer. Even the speck of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had carefully replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him， shown him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia and himself. Yes， even ... He could not fight against the Party any longer. Besides， the Party was in the right. It must be so； how could the immortal， collective brain be mistaken？ By what external standard could you check its judgements？ Sanity was statistical. It was merely a question of learning to think as they thought. Only！
The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He began to write down the thoughts that came into his head. He wrote first in large clumsy capitals：
Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it：
But then there came a sort of check. His mind， as though shying away from something， seemed unable to concentrate. He knew that he knew what came next， but for the moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it， it was only by consciously reasoning out what it must be： it did not come of its own accord. He wrote：
