Reading Orwell's 1984 Under President Trump

after reading 1984 for school i jacked off to the scene where winston gets mind tortured by o'brien

you: big brother

“There is something in the universe–I don’t know, some spirit, or some principle–that you will never overcome.”… “Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?” “I don’t know. The spirit of Men.”… “If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your kind is extinct.”

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.

“How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!” O'Brien’s manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial. “On the contrary,” he said, “YOU have not controlled it. That is what 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….It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.”

We are not content with negative obedience, nor even with the most abject submission. When finally you surrender to us, it must be of your own free will.

Crimestop means the faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction. Crimestop, in short, means protective stupidity.

To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies–all of this is indispensably necessary.

He knew better than before that he was not mad. Being in a minority, even a minority of one, did not make you mad. There was truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world, you were not mad.

Sooner or later it would happen: strength would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal; you could not doubt it when you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their awakening would come. And until that happened, though it might be a thousand years, they would stay alive against all the odds, like birds, passing on from body to body the vitality which the Party did not share and could not kill.

The birds sang, the proles sang, the Party did not sing. All round the world…everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still signing. Out of those mighty loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. You were the dead; theirs was the future. But you could share in that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body, and passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two make four.

But always–do not forget this, Winston–always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face–forever.