He turned round. It was his friend Syme， who worked in the Research Department. Perhaps “friend” was not exactly the right word. You did not have friends nowadays， you had comrades： but there were some comrades whose society was pleasanter than that of others. Syme was a philologist， a specialist in Newspeak.
Indeed， he was one ofenormous team of experts now engaged in compiling the He was a tiny creature， smaller than Winston， with dark hair and large， protuberant eyes， at once mournful and derisive， which seemed to search your face closely while he was speaking to you.
“I wanted to ask you whether you’d got any razor blades，” he said.
“Not one！” said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. “I’ve tried all over the place. They don’t exist any longer.”
Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he had two unused ones which he was hoarding up. There had been a famine of them for months past. At any given moment there was some necessary article which the Party shops were unable to supply. Sometimes it was buttons， sometimes it was darning wool， sometimes it was shoelaces； at present it was razor blades. You could only get hold of them， if at all， by scrounging more or less furtively on the “free” market.
“I’ve been using the same blade for six weeks，” he added untruthfully.
The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he turned and faced Syme again. Each of them took a greasy metal tray from a pile at the end of the counter.
“Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday？” said Syme.
“I was working，” said Winston indifferently.“I shall see it on the flicks， I suppose.”
“A very inadequate substitute，” said Syme.
His mocking eyes roved over Winston’s face. “I know you，”the eyes seemed to say，“I see through you. I know very well why you didn’t go to see those prisoners hanged.” In an intellectual way， Syme was venomously orthodox. He would talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of helicopter raids on enemy villages， and trials and confessions of thought-criminals， the executions in the cellars of the Ministry of Love. Talking to him was largely a matter of getting him away from such subjects and entangling him， if possible， in the technicalities of Newspeak， on which he was authoritative and interesting. Winston turned his head a little aside to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark eyes.
“It was a good hanging，” said Syme reminiscently. “I think it spoils it when they tie their feet together. I like to see them kicking. And above all， at the end， the tongue sticking right out， and blue a quite bright blue. That’s the detail that appeals to me.”
“Nex’， please！” yelled the white-aproned prole with the ladle.
Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille. On to each was dumped swiftly the regulation lunch — a metal pannikin of pinkish-grey stew， a hunk of bread， a cube of cheese， a mug of milkless Victory Coffee， and one saccharine tablet.
“There’s a table over there， under that telescreen，” said Syme. “Let’s pick up a gin on the way.”
The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. They threaded their way across the crowded room and unpacked their trays on to the metal-topped table， on one corner of which someone had left a pool of stew， a filthy liquid mess that had the appearance of vomit. Winston took up his mug of gin， paused for an instant to collect his nerve， and gulped the oily-tasting stuff down. When he had winked the tears out of his eyes he suddenly discovered that he was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of the stew， which， in among its general sloppiness， had cubes of spongy pinkish stuff which was probably a preparation of meat. Neither of them spoke again till they had emptied their pannikins. From the table at Winston’s left， a little behind his back， someone was talking rapidly and continuously， a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck， which pierced the general uproar of the room.
“How is the getting on？” said Winston， raising his voice to overcome the noise.
“Slowly，” said Syme. “I’m on the adjectives. It’s fascinating.”
He had brightened up immediately at the mention of Newspeak. He pushed his pannikin aside， took up his hunk of bread in one delicate hand and his cheese in the other， and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak without shouting.
“The is the definitive edition，” he said.
“We’re getting the language into its final shape — the shape it’s going to have when nobody speaks anything else. When we’ve finished with it， people like you will have to learn it all over again. You think， I dare say， that our chief job is inventing new words. But not a bit of it！ We’re destroying words — scores of them， hundreds of them， every day. We’re cutting the language down to the bone. The won’t contain a single word that will become obsolete before the year 2050.”
He bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls， then continued speaking， with a sort of pedant’s passion. His thin dark face had become animated， his eyes had lost their mocking expression and grown almost dreamy.
“It’s a beautiful thing， the destruction of words. Of course the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives， but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well. It isn’t only the synonyms； there are also the antonyms. After all， what justification is there for a word which is simply the opposite of some other word？ A word contains its opposite in itself. Take ‘good’， for instance. If you have a word like ‘good’， what need is there for a word like ‘bad’？ ‘Ungood’ will do just as well — better， because it’s an exact opposite， which the other is not. Or again， if you want a stronger version of ‘good’， what sense is there in having a whole string of vague useless words like ‘excellent’ and ‘splendid’ and all the rest of them？ ‘Plusgood’ covers the meaning， or ‘doubleplusgood’ if you want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms already. but in the final version of Newspeak there’ll be nothing else. In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words — in reality， only one word. Don’t you see the beauty of that， Winston？ It was B.B.’s idea originally， of course，” he added as an afterthought.
A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston’s face at the mention of Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of enthusiasm.
