Speaking of blasters

except a pair of eyes. Near at hand some kind of
instrument was ticking slowly and regularly. The eyes grew larger and more
luminous. Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and was
swallowed up.
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 open. The waxed-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 kilometre wide, 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'Brien's voice. All through his interrogation, although he had
never seen him, he had had the feeling that O'Brien was a