As usual， the face of Emmanuel Goldstein， the Enemy of the People， had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once， long ago （how long ago， nobody quite remembered）， had been one of the leading figures of the Party， almost on a level with Big Brother himself， and then had engaged in counter-revolutionary activities， had been condemned to death， and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day， but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He was the primal traitor， the earliest defiler of the Party’s purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party， all treacheries， acts of sabotage， heresies， deviations， sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies： perhaps somewhere beyond the sea， under the protection of his foreign paymasters， perhaps even — so it was occasionally rumoured — in some hiding-place in Oceania itself.
Winston’s diaphragm was constricted. He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face， with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard — a clever face， and yet somehow inherently despicable， with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose， near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep， and the voice， too， had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party — an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it， and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people， less level-headed than oneself， might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big Brother， he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party， he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia， he was advocating freedom of speech， freedom of the Press， freedom of assembly， freedom of thought， he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed — and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the habitual style of the orators of the Party， and even contained Newspeak words： more Newspeak words， indeed， than any Party member would normally use in real life. And all the while， lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein’s specious claptrap covered， behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army — row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces， who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished， to be replaced by others exactly similar. The dull rhythmic 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 was a way of avoiding it.
