all four of them simultaneously.

They were the homes of

the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus
of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which
concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and
the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself
with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and
order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible
for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue,
Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one.
There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been
inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it.
It was a place impossible to enter except on official business,
and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbedwire entanglements, steel
doors, and hidden machine-gun
nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were
roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed
with jointed truncheons.
Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features
into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing
the telescreen. He crossed the
room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this
time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and
he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except
a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved
for tomorrow’s breakfast. He took down from the shelf a
bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked
VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese
rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved“the hard way.”
“As long as the little people think that you have the answers, they’ll do what
you tell them,” his father continued inside his head. “But as soon as they lose
faith in you, head for the hills. People won’t give you anything! You have to take
it from them! And you have to do so in such a manner that they think it’s their
idea and to their benefit. Politicians have to be magicians, using subtle means
and misdirection to get their agendas supported by the governed.”
The elder Whittier had died while James was in his second year of college.
He was glad of it as that meant he was paroled from his father’s incessant
lecturing. At times of stress, though, all he could hear inside his head was the
endless pontificating of his father.
“People want the government to provide everything for them and to have the
power to act on their behalf,” his father’s voice continued. “To have that power,
you have to be part of that government. They must never know that governments
get in the way, most of the time, and are never for the benefit of the governed.”
James’ father had been a true disciple in the religion of government and had
wanted his son to be its acolyte.
And James had done his best to continue his father’s legacy. The first time
James had been caught cheating he was six and was punished — not for
cheating, but for getting caught.
“What most people call ‘truth’ is not as objective as they may think; in fact,
it is very subjective,” the voice inside his head continued. “To a politician,
‘truth’
is whatever the politician says it is. Therefore, no politician lies. No such thing
as a lie; facts are fluid things that can be interpreted any way that suits the
needs
of the moment.”
James had managed to get into a good prep school on his father’s name and
even managed to letter in a couple of sports without ever playing. Some of his