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George Orwell 1984 Pdf Deutsch

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George Orwell. This web edition published . To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was It must be round about that. George Orwell: Dystopian Science Fiction or Grim Reality. The aim of this .. Nazi concentration camps, from the German war propaganda machine to cults pdf>. Dickstein. the teal-life version of George Orwell's novel, , in the United. States under a middle-European, writing Darkness at Noon in German, which was not his.

You are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that we are different from the persecutors of the past? 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. We do not destroy the heretic because he resists us: so long as he resists us we never destroy him.

We convert him, we capture his inner mind, we reshape him. We burn all evil and all illusion out of him; we bring him over to our side, not in appearance, but genuinely, heart and soul. We make him one of ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable to us that an erroneous thought should exist anywhere in the world, however secret and powerless it may be. Even in the instant of death we cannot permit any deviation. In the old days the heretic walked to the stake still a heretic, proclaiming his heresy, exulting in it.

Even the victim of the Russian purges could carry rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked down the passage waiting for the bullet. But we make the brain perfect before we blow it out. No one whom we bring to this place ever stands out against us. Everyone is washed clean. Even those three miserable traitors in whose innocence you once believed — Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford — in the end we broke them down. I took part in their interrogation myself. I saw them gradually worn down, whimpering, grovelling, weeping — and in the end it was not with pain or fear, only with penitence.

By the time we had finished with them they were only the shells of men. There was nothing left in them except sorrow for what they had done, and love of Big Brother. It was touching to see how they loved him. They begged to be shot quickly, so that they could die while their minds were still clean.

The exaltation, the lunatic enthusiasm, was still in his face. He is not pretending, thought Winston, he is not a hypocrite, he believes every word he says. What most oppressed him was the consciousness of his own intellectual inferiority.

He watched the heavy yet graceful form strolling to and fro, in and out of the range of his vision. O'Brien was a being in all ways larger than himself. There was no idea that he had ever had, or could have, that O'Brien had not long ago known, examined, and rejected.

His mind contained Winston's mind. But in that case how could it be true that O'Brien was mad? It must be he, Winston, who was mad. O'Brien halted and looked down at him. His voice had grown stern again. No one who has once gone astray is ever spared.

And even if we chose to let you live out the natural term of your life, still you would never escape from us. What happens to you here is for ever. Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to the point from which there is no coming back. Things will happen to you from which you could not recover, if you lived a thousand years. Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you.

Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves. Winston was aware of some heavy piece of apparatus being pushed into place behind his head.

O'Brien had sat down beside the bed, so that his face was almost on a level with Winston's. Two soft pads, which felt slightly moist, clamped themselves against Winston's temples. He quailed. There was pain coming, a new kind of pain. O'Brien laid a hand reassuringly, almost kindly, on his.

There was undoubtedly a blinding flash of light. Winston was not hurt, only prostrated.

Alice’s Adventures in A Farewell to Arms Native Son

Although he had already been lying on his back when the thing happened, he had a curious feeling that he had been knocked into that position. A terrific painless blow had flattened him out.

Also something had happened inside his head. As his eyes regained their focus he remembered who he was, and where he was, and recognized the face that was gazing into his own; but somewhere or other there was a large patch of emptiness, as though a piece had been taken out of his brain.

What country is Oceania at war with? He knew what was meant by Oceania and that he himself was a citizen of Oceania. He also remembered Eurasia and Eastasia; but who was at war with whom he did not know.

In fact he had not been aware that there was any war. Do you remember that now? Since the beginning of your life, since the beginning of the Party, since the beginning of history, the war has continued without a break, always the same war. Do you remember that? You pretended that you had seen a piece of paper which proved them innocent.

No such piece of paper ever existed.

You invented it, and later you grew to believe in it. You remember now the very moment at which you first invented it. You saw five fingers. Do you see five fingers? He saw five fingers, and there was no deformity. Then everything was normal again, and the old fear, the hatred, and the bewilderment came crowding back again. But there had been a moment — he did not know how long, thirty seconds, perhaps — of luminous certainty, when each new suggestion of O'Brien's had filled up a patch of emptiness and become absolute truth, and when two and two could have been three as easily as five, if that were what was needed.

It had faded but before O'Brien had dropped his hand; but though he could not recapture it, he could remember it, as one remembers a vivid experience at some period of one's life when one was in effect a different person.

O'Brien stood up with a satisfied air. Over to his left Winston saw the man in the white coat break an ampoule and draw back the plunger of a syringe. O'Brien turned to Winston with a smile.

In almost the old manner he resettled his spectacles on his nose.

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You were right. I enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you happen to be insane.

Before we bring the session to an end you can ask me a few questions, if you choose. What is your first question? O'Brien smiled again. I have seldom seen anyone come over to us so promptly. You would hardly recognize her if you saw her.

All her rebelliousness, her deceit, her folly, her dirty-mindedness — everything has been burned out of her. It was a perfect conversion, a textbook case. The Party exists. Big Brother is the embodiment of the Party. Once again the sense of helplessness assailed him. He knew, or he could imagine, the arguments which proved his own nonexistence; but they were nonsense, they were only a play on words. But what use was it to say so?

His mind shrivelled as he thought of the unanswerable, mad arguments with which O'Brien would demolish him. I was born and I shall die. I have arms and legs. I occupy a particular point in space. No other solid object can occupy the same point simultaneously. In that sense, does Big Brother exist?

He exists. How could he die? Next question. If we choose to set you free when we have finished with you, and if you live to be ninety years old, still you will never learn whether the answer to that question is Yes or No. As long as you live it will be an unsolved riddle in your mind. His breast rose and fell a little faster. He still had not asked the question that had come into his mind the first.

He had got to ask it, and yet it was as though his tongue would not utter it. There was a trace of amusement in O'Brien's face. Even his spectacles seemed to wear an ironical gleam. He knows, thought Winston suddenly, he knows what I am going to ask! Everyone knows what is in Room Evidently the session was at an end.

A needle jerked into Winston's arm. He sank almost instantly into deep sleep. It is time for you to enter upon the second stage. But of late his bonds were looser. They still held him to the bed, but he could move his knees a little and could turn his head from side to side and raise his arms from the elbow. The dial, also, had grown to be less of a terror.

He could evade its pangs if he was quick-witted enough: it was chiefly when he showed stupidity that O'Brien pulled the lever. Sometimes they got through a whole session without use of the dial.

He could not remember how many sessions there had been. The whole process seemed to stretch out over a long, indefinite time — weeks, possibly — and the intervals between the sessions might sometimes have been days, sometimes only an hour or two.

And when you were free you were puzzled by what was essentially the same question. You could grasp the mechanics of the Society you lived in, but not its underlying motives.

You have read the book, Goldstein's book, or parts of it, at least. Did it tell you anything that you did not know already? That is to say, I collaborated in writing it. No book is produced individually, as you know. The programme it sets forth is nonsense. The secret accumulation of knowledge — a gradual spread of enlightenment — ultimately a proletarian rebellion — the overthrow of the Party. You foresaw yourself that that was what it would say. It is all nonsense.

The proletarians will never revolt, not in a thousand years or a million. They cannot. I do not have to tell you the reason: you know it already. If you have ever cherished any dreams of violent insurrection, you must abandon them.

There is no way in which the Party can be overthrown. The rule of the Party is for ever. Make that the starting-point of your thoughts. You understand well enough how the Party maintains itself in power. Now tell me why we cling to power.

What is our motive? Why should we want power? Nevertheless Winston did not speak for another moment or two. A feeling of weariness had overwhelmed him. The faint, mad gleam of enthusiasm had come back into O'Brien's face. He knew in advance what O'Brien would say.

That the Party did not seek power for its own ends, but only for the good of the majority. That it sought power because men in the mass were frail cowardly creatures who could not endure liberty or face the truth, and must be ruled over and systematically deceived by others who were stronger than themselves.

That the choice for mankind lay between freedom and happiness, and that, for the great bulk of mankind, happiness was better. That the party was the eternal guardian of the weak, a dedicated sect doing evil that good might come, sacrificing its own happiness to that of others.

The terrible thing, thought Winston, the terrible thing was that when O'Brien said this he would believe it. You could see it in his face. O'Brien knew everything. A thousand times better than Winston he knew what the world was really like, in what degradation the mass of human beings lived and by what lies and barbarities the Party kept them there.

He had understood it all, weighed it all, and it made no difference: all was justified by the ultimate purpose. What can you do, thought Winston, against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy? A pang of pain had shot through his body. O'Brien had pushed the lever of the dial up to thirty-five.

It is this. The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness: only power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from all the oligarchies of the past, in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites.

The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just round the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it.

Power is not a means, it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me? It was strong and fleshy and brutal, it was full of intelligence and a sort of controlled passion before which he felt himself helpless; but it was tired.

There were pouches under the eyes, the skin sagged from the cheekbones. O'Brien leaned over him, deliberately bringing the worn face nearer. You are thinking that I talk of power, and yet I am not even able to prevent the decay of my own body.

Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell?

George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four: Winston Smith's rebellion

The weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. Do you die when you cut your fingernails? But at present power is only a word so far as you are concerned.

It is time for you to gather some idea of what power means. The first thing you must realize is that power is collective. The individual only has power in so far as he ceases to be an individual. Has it ever occurred to you that it is reversible? Slavery is freedom. Alone — free — the human being is always defeated. It must be so, because every human being is doomed to die, which is the greatest of all failures.

But if he can make complete, utter submission, if he can escape from his identity, if he can merge himself in the Party so that he is the Party, then he is all-powerful and immortal. The second thing for you to realize is that power is power over human beings.

Over the body but, above all, over the mind. Power over matter — external reality, as you would call it — is not important. Already our control over matter is absolute. He made a violent effort to raise himself into a sitting position, and merely succeeded in wrenching his body painfully.

Reality is inside the skull. You will learn by degrees, Winston. There is nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, levitation — anything. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if I wish to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it. You must get rid of those nineteenth-century ideas about the laws of Nature. We make the laws of Nature. You are not even masters of this planet. What about Eurasia and Eastasia? You have not conquered them yet.

We shall conquer them when it suits us. And if we did not, what difference would it make? We can shut them out of existence. Oceania is the world. And man is tiny helpless! How long has he been in existence?

George Orwell - 1984 (Deutsch/German)

For millions of years the earth was uninhabited. The earth is as old as we are, no older. How could it be older? Nothing exists except through human consciousness.

Of course not. Nineteenth-century biologists invented them. Before man there was nothing.

After man, if he could come to an end, there would be nothing. Outside man there is nothing. Look at the stars! Some of them are a million light-years away. They are out of our reach for ever. We could reach them if we wanted to. Or we could blot them out. The earth is the centre of the universe. The sun and the stars go round it. This time he did not say anything. When we navigate the ocean, or when we predict an eclipse, we often find it convenient to assume that the earth goes round the sun and that the stars are millions upon millions of kilometres away.

But what of it? Do you suppose it is beyond us to produce a dual system of astronomy? The stars can be near or distant, according as we need them. Do you suppose our mathematicians are unequal to that? Have you forgotten doublethink? Whatever he said, the swift answer crushed him like a bludgeon. And yet he knew, he knew, that he was in the right. The belief that nothing exists outside your own mind — surely there must be some way of demonstrating that it was false?

Had it not been exposed long ago as a fallacy? There was even a name for it, which he had forgotten. A faint smile twitched the corners of O'Brien's mouth as he looked down at him. The word you are trying to think of is solipsism. But you are mistaken. This is not solipsism.

Orwell, George - 1984

Collective solipsism, if you like. But that is a different thing: in fact, the opposite thing. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined.

A world of fear and treachery is torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself.

Progress in our world will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred.

In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we shall destroy — everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman.

No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now.

There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life.

All competing pleasures will be destroyed. 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 — for ever. Winston had tried to shrink back into the surface of the bed again.

He could not say anything. His heart seemed to be frozen. The face will always be there to be stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always be there, so that he can be defeated and humiliated over again.

Everything that you have undergone since you have been in our hands — all that will continue, and worse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tortures, the executions, the disappearances will never cease.

It will be a world of terror as much as a world of triumph. The more the Party is powerful, the less it will be tolerant: the weaker the opposition, the tighter the despotism. Goldstein and his heresies will live for ever. Every day, at every moment, they will be defeated, discredited, ridiculed, spat upon and yet they will always survive.

This drama that I have played out with you during seven years will be played out over and over again generation after generation, always in subtler forms.

Always we shall have the heretic here at our mercy, screaming with pain, broken up, contemptible — and in the end utterly penitent, saved from himself, crawling to our feet of his own accord. That is the world that we are preparing, Winston. A world of victory after victory, triumph after triumph after triumph: an endless pressing, pressing, pressing upon the nerve of power.

You are beginning, I can see, to realize what that world will be like. But in the end you will do more than understand it.

You will accept it, welcome it, become part of it. It is a dream. It is impossible. It would never endure. It would disintegrate. It would commit suicide. You are under the impression that hatred is more exhausting than love. Why should it be? And if it were, what difference would that make? Suppose that we choose to wear ourselves out faster. Suppose that we quicken the tempo of human life till men are senile at thirty. Still what difference would it make? Can you not understand that the death of the individual is not death?

The party is immortal. Moreover he was in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O'Brien would twist the dial again. And yet he could not keep silent. Feebly, without arguments, with nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of what O'Brien had said, he returned to the attack. Somehow you will fail. Something will defeat you. Life will defeat you. You are imagining that there is something called human nature which will be outraged by what we do and will turn against us.

But we create human nature. Men are infinitely malleable. Or perhaps you have returned to your old idea that the proletarians or the slaves will arise and overthrow us. Put it out of your mind. They are helpless, like the animals.

Humanity is the Party. The others are outside — irrelevant. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later they will see you for what you are, and then they will tear you to pieces. Or any reason why it should? I believe it. I know that you will fail. There is something in the universe — I don't know, some spirit, some principle — that you will never overcome. The spirit of Man. At first I am providing the reader with facts about his normal life in Oceania: his outer appearance, his social status depending on his job, his past referred to his family and his former wife.

His real nonconformity evidently starts with the first moment he gets in touch with her. Main part 2. They make up eighty-five percent.

One step higher come the Outer Party members who form a mass of thirteen percent. The higher a person is situated in the pyramid, the more power, knowledge and intelligence he possesses. Winston is introduced as a member of the Outer Party. By falsifying every note and altering the past every prediction of the Party can be shown by proof.

It is said that Winston can hardly remember his parents and his sister. They had to die and sacrifice their lives to his own when he was a ten-year-old boy. Orwell mentions in passing that the protagonist has been married to a woman called Katharine. They parted about eleven years ago, and they had only lived together for fifteen months.

In small clumsy letters he wrote:. He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in or ; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two. Copyright notice These books are published in Australia and are out of copyright here.

Popular apps that support ePUB include: Connect your Kindle device with your computer using a USB cable. In small clumsy letters he wrote: April 4th, At this moment, however, O'Brien turned away. I suppose there are four. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — for ever. Beyond the late fifties everything faded. Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself From time to time a little blood dripped on to the breast of his overalls.

His eyes focused themselves slowly on Winston.

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