“You haven’t a real appreciation of Newspeak， Winston，” he said almost sadly. “Even when you write it you’re still thinking in Oldspeak. I’ve read some of those pieces that you write in The Times occasionally. They’re good enough， but they’re translations. In your heart you’d prefer to stick to Oldspeak， with all its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. You don’t grasp the beauty of the destruction of words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year？”
Winston did know that， of course. He smiled， sympathetically he hoped， not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the dark-coloured bread， chewed it briefly， and went on：
“Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought？ In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible， because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed， will be expressed by exactly one word， with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already， in the ， we’re not far from that point. But the process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words， and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now， of course， there’s no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It’s merely a question of self-discipline， reality-control. But in the end there won’t be any need even for that. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc is Newspeak，” he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. “Has it ever occurred to you， Winston， that by the year 2050， at the very latest， not a single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation as we are having now？”
“Except—” began Winston doubtfully， and he stopped.It had been on the tip of his tongue to say “Except the proles，” but he checked himself， not feeling fully certain that this remark was not in some way unorthodox. Syme， however， had divined what he was about to say.
“The proles are not human beings，” he said carelessly. “By 2050 earlier， probably — all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. The whole literature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer， Shakespeare， Milton， Byron — they’ll exist only in Newspeak versions， not merely changed into something different， but actually changed into something contradictory of what they used to be. Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will change. How could you have a slogan like ‘freedom is slavery’ when the concept of freedom has been abolished？ The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact there will be no thought， as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking — not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.”
One of these days， thought Winston with sudden deep conviction， Syme will be vaporized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly and speaks too plainly. The Party does not like such people. One day he will disappear. It is written in his face.
Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned a little sideways in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table on his left the man with the strident voice was still talking remorselessly away. A young woman who was perhaps his secretary， and who was sitting with her back to Winston， was listening to him and seemed to be eagerly agreeing with everything that he said. From time to time Winston caught some such remark as “I think you’re so right， I do so agree with you”， uttered in a youthful and rather silly feminine voice. But the other voice never stopped for an instant， even when the girl was speaking. Winston knew the man by sight， though he knew no more about him than that he held some important post in the Fiction Department. He was a man of about thirty， with a muscular throat and a large， mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little， and because of the angle at which he was sitting， his spectacles caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of eyes. What was slightly horrible， was that from the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once Winston caught a phrase—“complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism”— jerked out very rapidly and， as it seemed， all in one piece， like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise， a quack-quack-quacking.
And yet， though you could not actually hear what the man was saying， you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs， he might be fulminating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army， he might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front-it made no difference. Whatever it was， you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy， pure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and down， Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. It was not the man’s brain that was speaking， it was his larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words， but it was not speech in the true sense： it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness， like the quacking of a duck.
Syme had fallen silent for a moment， and with the handle of his spoon was tracing patterns in the puddle of stew. The voice from the other table quacked rapidly on， easily audible in spite of the surrounding din.
“There is a word in Newspeak，” said Syme， “I don’t know whether you know it： duckspeak， to quack like a duck. It is one of those interesting words that have two contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent， it is abuse， applied to someone you agree with， it is praise.”
