By Goodwin Ginger
Is anyone out there taking seriously the proposition that the seven young black men living in a storage facility were doing anything more than talking loud and talking proud as young men are want to do especially when being coached along by a professional whose job it is to get people to say what they want them to say? Are we really to believe that these young men would have been doing anything other than engaging in fuck-the-man fantasies in absence of coaching by the FBI? Are we really to believe that these young men which have no military or industrial training in explosives or indeed even in marksmanship and who appear also to the lack the means to purchase any materials of significance are really to be taken seriously?
Yes, Yes, Yes, of course if coached appropriately by O’Brien, if given training by O’Brien, if given cash by O’Brien, if directed to the requisite supplies by O’Brien, if supervised by O’Brien in the construction of an explosive device, these young men might have made the long trip down that road. But these men made no such trip and their fantasies about sticking it to the man would have remained exactly that in absence of O'Brien’s intervention and seduction.
So what we have are seven disaffected young men who dreamt perhaps of justice and retribution for real or perceived past injustices. They will be tried for thought crimes. And perhaps there they will find the only kind of sublime freedom on offer in these times:
“The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the gin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything, implicating everybody. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The longhoped-for bullet was entering his brain.
He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother.”
"Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother."
"He had won the victory over himself." If you are not weeping now will you ever weep?