tramp of the soldiers" boots formed the
background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable
exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room.
The self-satisfied sheep-like face on the screen, and the terrifying power
of the Eurasian army behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the
sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger
automatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia
or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was
generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although
Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a
thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in
books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the
general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were -- in spite of all
this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh
dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and
saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought
Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network
of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood,
its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a
terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the
author and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book
without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book. But
one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood
nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if
there