A sense of helplessness took hold of Winston. The old man’s memory was nothing but a rubbish-heap of details. One could question him all day without getting any real information. The party histories might still be true， after a fashion： they might even be completely true. He made a last attempt.
“Perhaps I have not made myself clear，” he said. “What I’m trying to say is this. You have been alive a very long time； you lived half your life before the Revolution. In 1925， for instance， you were already grown up. Would you say from what you can remember， that life in 1925 was better than it is now， or worse？ If you could choose， would you prefer to live then or now？”
The old man looked meditatively at the darts board. He finished up his beer， more slowly than before. When he spoke it was with a tolerant philosophical air， as though the beer had mellowed him.
“I know what you expect me to say，” he said. “You expect me to say as I’d sooner be young again. Most people’d say they’d sooner be young， if you arst’ ’em. You got your ’ealth and strength when you’re young. When you get to my time of life you ain’t never well. I suffer something wicked from my feet， and my bladder’s jest terrible. Six and seven times a night it ’as me out of bed. On the other ’and， there’s great advantages in being a old man. You ain’t got the same worries. No truck with women， and that’s a great thing. I ain’t ’ad a woman for near on thirty year， if you’d credit it. Nor wanted to， what’s more.”
Winston sat back against the window-sill. It was no use going on. He was about to buy some more beer when the old man suddenly got up and shuffled rapidly into the stinking urinal at the side of the room. The extra half-litre was already working on him. Winston sat for a minute or two gazing at his empty glass， and hardly noticed when his feet carried him out into the street again. Within twenty years at the most， he reflected， the huge and simple question， “Was life better before the Revolution than it is now？” would have ceased once and for all to be answerable. But in effect it was unanswerable even now， since the few scattered survivors from the ancient world were incapable of comparing one age with another. They remembered a million useless things， a quarrel with a workmate， a hunt for a lost bicycle pump， the expression on a long-dead sister’s face， the swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago： but all the relevant facts were outside the range of their vision. They were like the ant， which can see small objects but not large ones. And when memory failed and written records were falsified — when that happened， the claim of the Party to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted， because there did not exist， and never again could exist， any standard against which it could be tested. At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly. He halted and looked up. He was in a narrow street， with a few dark little shops， interspersed among dwelling-houses. Immediately above his head there hung three discoloured metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded. He seemed to know the place. Of course！ He was standing outside the junk-shop where he had bought the diary.
A twinge of fear went through him. It had been a sufficiently rash act to buy the book in the beginning， and he had sworn never to come near the place again. And yet the instant that he allowed his thoughts to wander， his feet had brought him back here of their own accord. It was precisely against suicidal impulses of this kind that he had hoped to guard himself by opening the diary. At the same time he noticed that although it was nearly twenty-one hours the shop was still open. With the feeling that he would be less conspicuous inside than hanging about on the pavement， he stepped through the doorway. If questioned， he could plausibly say that he was trying to buy razor blades.
The proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp which gave off an unclean but friendly smell. He was a man of perhaps sixty， frail and bowed， with a long， benevolent nose， and mild eyes distorted by thick spectacles. His hair was almost white， but his eyebrows were bushy and still black. His spectacles， his gentle， fussy movements， and the fact that he was wearing an aged jacket of black velvet， gave him a vague air of intellectuality， as though he had been some kind of literary man， or perhaps a musician. His voice was soft， as though faded， and his accent less debased than that of the majority of proles.
“I recognized you on the pavement，” he said immediately. “You’re the gentleman that bought the young lady’s keepsake album. That was a beautiful bit of paper， that was. Cream- laid， it used to be called. There’s been no paper like that made for — oh， I dare say fifty years.’ He peered at Winston over the top of his spectacles. “Is there anything special I can do for you？ Or did you just want to look round？”
“I was passing，” said Winston vaguely. “I just looked in. I don’t want anything in particular.”
“It’s just as well，” said the other， “because I don’t suppose I could have satisfied you.” He made an apologetic gesture with his softpalmed hand. “You see how it is； an empty shop， you might say. Between you and me， the antique trade’s just about finished. No demand any longer， and no stock either. Furniture， china， glass it’s all been broken up by degrees. And of course the metal stuff’s mostly been melted down. I haven’t seen a brass candlestick in years.”
The tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably full， but there was almost nothing in it of the slightest value. The floorspace was very restricted， because all round the walls were stacked innumerable dusty picture-frames. In the window there were trays of nuts and bolts， worn-out chisels， penknives with broken blades， tarnished watches that did not even pretend to be in going order， and other miscellaneous rubbish. Only on a small table in the corner was there a litter of odds and ends — lacquered snuffboxes， agate brooches， and the like — which looked as though they might include something interesting. As Winston wandered towards the table his eye was caught by a round， smooth thing that gleamed softly in the lamplight， and he picked it up.
