Winston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was the right word. It had come into his head spontaneously. His body seemed to have not only the weakness of a jelly， but its translucency. He felt that if he held up his hand he would be able to see the light through it. All the blood and lymph had been drained out of him by an enormous debauch of work， leaving only a frail structure of nerves， bones， and skin. All sensations seemed to be magnified. His overalls fretted his shoulders， the pavement tickled his feet， even the opening and closing of a hand was an effort that made his joints creak.
He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So had everyone else in the Ministry. Now it was all over， and he had literally nothing to do， no Party work of any description， until tomorrow morning. He could spend six hours in the hiding-place and another nine in his own bed. Slowly， in mild afternoon sunshine， he walked up a dingy street in the direction of Mr. Charrington’s shop， keeping one eye open for the patrols， but irrationally convinced that this afternoon there was no danger of anyone interfering with him. The heavy brief-case that he was carrying bumped against his knee at each step， sending a tingling sensation up and down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book， which he had now had in his possession for six days and had not yet opened， nor even looked at.
On the sixth day of Hate Week， after the processions， the speeches， the shouting， the singing， the banners， the posters， the films， the waxworks， the rolling of drums and squealing of trumpets， the tramp of marching feet， the grinding of the caterpillars of tanks， the roar of massed planes， the booming of guns — after six days of this， when the great orgasm was quivering to its climax and the general hatred of Eurasia had boiled up into such delirium that if the crowd could have got their hands on the 2，000 Eurasian war-criminals who were to be publicly hanged on the last day of the proceedings， they would unquestionably have torn them to pieces — at just this moment it had been announced that Oceania was not after all at war with Eurasia. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Eurasia was an ally.
There was， of course， no admission that any change had taken place. Merely it became known， with extreme suddenness and everywhere at once， that Eastasia and not Eurasia was the enemy. Winston was taking part in a demonstration in one of the central London squares at the moment when it happened. It was night， and the white faces and the scarlet banners were luridly floodlit. The square was packed with several thousand people， including a block of about a thousand schoolchildren in the uniform of the Spies. On a scarlet-draped platform an orator of the Inner Party， a small lean man with disproportionately long arms and a large bald skull over which a few lank locks straggled， was haranguing the crowd. A little Rumpelstiltskin figure， contorted with hatred， he gripped the neck of the microphone with one hand while the other， enormous at the end of a bony arm， clawed the air menacingly above his head. His voice， made metallic by the amplifiers， boomed forth an endless catalogue of atrocities， massacres， deportations， lootings， rapings， torture of prisoners， bombing of civilians， lying propaganda， unjust aggressions， broken treaties. It was almost impossible to listen to him without being first convinced and then maddened. At every few moments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the voice of the speaker was drowned by a wild beast-like roaring that rose uncontrollably from thousands of throats. The most savage yells of all came from the schoolchildren. The speech had been proceeding for perhaps twenty minutes when a messenger hurried on to the platform and a scrap of paper was slipped into the speaker’s hand. He unrolled and read it without pausing in his speech. Nothing altered in his voice or manner， or in the content of what he was saying， but suddenly the names were different. Without words said， a wave of understanding rippled through the crowd. Oceania was at war with Eastasia！ The next moment there was a tremendous commotion. The banners and posters with which the square was decorated were all wrong！ Quite half of them had the wrong faces on them. It was sabotage！ The agents of Goldstein had been at work！ There was a riotous interlude while posters were ripped from the walls， banners torn to shreds and trampled underfoot. The Spies performed prodigies of activity in clambering over the rooftops and cutting the streamers that fluttered from the chimneys. But within two or three minutes it was all over. The orator， still gripping the neck of the microphone， his shoulders hunched forward， his free hand clawing at the air， had gone straight on with his speech. One minute more， and the feral roars of rage were again bursting from the crowd. The Hate continued exactly as before， except that the target had been changed.
The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was that the speaker had switched from one line to the other actually in midsentence， not only without a pause， but without even breaking the syntax. But at the moment he had other things to preoccupy him. It was during the moment of disorder while the posters were being torn down that a man whose face he did not see had tapped him on the shoulder and said， “Excuse me， I think you’ve dropped your brief-case.” He took the brief-case abstractedly， without speaking. He knew that it would be days before he had an opportunity to look inside it. The instant that the demonstration was over he went straight to the Ministry of Truth， though the time was now nearly twenty-three hours. The entire staff of the Ministry had done likewise. The orders already issuing from the telescreen， recalling them to their posts， were hardly necessary.
