Escriba aquí su pregunta de debate... by Juan Martin Larrea Arosemena

mgarciap130 — 2025-06-02 18:44:50 UTC

‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘YOU have not controlled it. That is what has brought you here.

You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the

act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of

one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something

objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-

evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that

everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external.

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 Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to

see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. 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 sane.’

He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying to sink in.

‘Do you remember,’ he went on, ‘writing in your diary, “Freedom is the freedom to say that

two plus two make four”?’

‘Yes,’ said Winston.

O’Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four

fingers extended.

‘How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?’

‘Four.’

‘And if the party says that it is not four but five — then how many?’

‘Four.’ (Orwell. G, 1949, p. 137)

jlarreap135 — 2025-06-02 18:50:43 UTC

He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under dazzling lights, a man in a white coat was reading the dials. there was a tramp of heavy boots outside, the door clanged ope. the waxen-faced officer marched in, followed by two guards. Room 101 said the officer the man in the white coat did not turn round. he did not look at winston either; he was looking only at the dials. He was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometer wide, a full of glorious, golden light, roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions at the top of his voice. He was confessing everything, even the things he had succeeded in holding back under the torture. He was relating the entire history of his life to an audience who knew it already. With him were the guards, the other questioners, the men in white coats, O brien, Julia, Mr. Charrington, all rolling down the corridor together and shouting with laughter. Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the future had somehow been skipped over and had not happened. Everything was all right, there was no more pain, the last detail of his life was laid bare, understood, forgiven. He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he had heard O Briens voice (Orwell, G, 1949, page 243

msaabp135 — 2025-06-02 22:22:16 UTC

»It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought him here. The dull pain in his belly never went away, but sometimes it grew better and sometimes worse, and his thoughts expanded or contracted accordingly. When it grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his desire for food. When it grew better, panic took hold of him. There were moments when he foresaw the things that would happen to him with such actuality that his heart galloped and his breath stopped. He felt the smash of truncheons on his elbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercy through broken teeth. He hardly thought of Julia. He could not fix his mind on her. He loved her and would not betray her; but that was only a fact, known as he knew the rules of arithmetic. He felt no love for her, and he hardly even wondered what was happening to her. He thought oftener of O’Brien, with a flickering hope. O’Brien might know that he had been arrested. The Brotherhood, he had said, never tried to save its members. But there was the razor blade; they would send the razor blade if they could. There would be perhaps five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell. The blade would bite into him with a sort of burning coldness, and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the bone. Everything came back to his sick body, which shrank trembling from the smallest pain. He was not certain that he would use the razor blade even if he got the chance. It was more natural to exist from moment to moment, accepting 290 1984 another ten minutes’ life even with the certainty that there was torture at the end of it.« (Orwell. G, 1949, pages 220)

lperap134 — 2025-06-03 14:40:13 UTC

There was a constant come-and-go of prisoners of every description: drug-peddlers, thieves, bandits, black-marketeers, drunks, prostitutes. Some of the drunks were so violent that the other prisoners had to combine to suppress them. An enormous wreck of a woman, aged about sixty, with great tumbling breasts and thick coils of white hair which had come down in her struggles, was carried in, kicking and shouting, by four guards, who had hold of her one at each corner. They wrenched off the boots with which she had been trying to kick them, and dumped her down across Winston’s lap, almost breaking his thigh-bones. The woman hoisted herself upright and followed them out with a yell of ‘F—— bastards!’ Then, noticing that she was sitting on something uneven, she slid off Winston’s knees on to the bench. ‘Beg pardon, dearie,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t ‘a sat on you, only the buggers put me there. They dono ‘ow to treat a lady, do they?’ She paused, patted her breast, and belched. ‘Pardon,’ she said, ‘I ain’t meself, quite.’ She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor. ‘Thass better,’ she said, leaning back with closed eyes. ‘Never keep it down, thass what I say. Get it up while it’s fresh on your stomach, like.’ She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and seemed immediately to take a fancy to him. She put a vast arm round his shoulder and drew him towards her, breathing beer and vomit into his face. ‘Wass your name, dearie?’ she said. ‘Smith,’ said Winston. ‘Smith?’ said the woman. ‘Thass funny. My name’s Smith too. Why,’ she added sentimentally, ‘I might be your mother!’ She might, thought Winston, be his mother. (Orwell G, 1949, pages 228 and 229)