The torture had ceased. Winston was recovering.
Although the white light and the humming sound remained, his cell was a little more comfortable. He had a pillow and a mattress on the plank bed, and a stool to sit on. He had been bathed and was allowed to bath himself in a basin.
He had him new underclothes and a clean suit of overalls. His rotten teeth were replaced by dentures.
Fed at intervals he could keep track of time but felt no interest in doing so.
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.
He also had a whiteboard with a pencil but made no use of it.
Winston was totally lethargic.
He dreamed a lot, 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 enough for him.