21 The Joy of the Martyrs Winston Smith, drinking oily gin in a drab little tavern called The Chestnut Tree, hears a song over the television that reminds him of something— what was it again?—that happened to him in a dungeon, in the bowels of the Ministry of Love: Under the spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me; There lie you and here lie we, Under the spreading chestnut tree. Yes, that was it. They had gotten inside him, prying open his heart. They had let loose the rats and spiders of his nightmares. They had made him betray Julia, the woman he loved. She had betrayed him also. Now all that was left of their love was like the cauterized knob of an amputated limb. His eyes welled up with tears, as the waiter brought him another bottle. He had wanted to be a witness to the truth, but he had failed. If Big Brother said that two and two made five, then you had to think your way into agreeing with it. You had not merely to lie, but to believe your lie. Winston Smith was now too weary to go over it all again. They had won. And now they jeered from the screen. Smith didn’t know it, because poetry had been buriedmany
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