consignes compresseur

on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the
audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and
disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how
long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of
the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged
in counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had
mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of the Two Minutes
Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not
the principal figure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of
the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all
treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of
his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his
conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his
foreign paymasters, perhaps even -- so it was occasionally rumoured -- in
some hiding-place in Oceania itself.
Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never see the face of
Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face,
with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard -- a
clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile
silliness in the