The boots approached, the door opened. O’Brien came in and Winston stood.
O’Brien was his ‘friend’, his ‘brother’, the man who gave him Goldstein’s book.
‘They’ve got you too!’ Winston exclaimed.
‘They got me a long time ago,’ replied O’Brien.
This remark was not fully caught by Winston.
A guard with a long black truncheon in his hand entered. O’Brien, indicating the guard said;
‘You know him, Winston,’ ‘Don’t deceive yourself. You did know it — you have always known it.’
Winston looked at the truncheon. It might fall anywhere; on the crown, on the tip of the ear, on the upper arm, on the elbow —
Winston fell to his knees in pain, clasping his elbow. He thought it inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain!
The guard was laughing at his contortions.
One question was answered. Never, for any reason on earth, could you wish for an increase of pain. Of pain you could wish only one thing: that it should stop. Nothing in the world was so bad as physical pain Winston decided as writhed on the floor, clutching uselessly at his disabled left arm.