As soon as Winston's hand touched the doorknob, he saw that his diary was on the table and unclosed, and it was full of words that said Down with Big Brother, the size of the body, and it could be seen clearly from the other end of the room. I can't imagine how it could be so stupid. But, even in his panic, he realized that he didn't want to close his notebook and stain the milky paper before the ink had dried.

He gritted his teeth and opened the door. Suddenly, I felt a warm current all over my body, and a big stone fell to the ground in my heart. Standing outside the door was a pale, haggard woman with thinning hair and a wrinkled face.

"Oh, comrade," she began to say in a tired, moaning voice, "I said I heard you enter. Could you please come and help me take a look at the sink in my kitchen? It seemed to be clogged—"She was Mrs. Pines, the wife of a neighbor on the same floor." (The term "wife" is a bit frowned upon within the party, and you have to call anyone "comrade", but for some women, you will unconsciously call them "wife".) She was about thirty years old, but she was much older. You have the impression that the wrinkles on her face are embedded with dust. Winston followed her to the other end of the aisle. This kind of amateur repair work is almost daily and annoying. The Victory Building is an old house, built around 1930 and now about to collapse.

The plaster on the ceiling and on the walls kept falling, the water pipes always froze and cracked with every frost, the roof leaked when it snowed, and the heating was generally only half burned if it was not completely turned off due to economy. Unless you can do it yourself, you have to get the approval of some high-ranking committee, which is likely to drag on for a year or two to ignore you, even if it means repairing a glass window.

"It just so happens that Tom is not at home," said Mrs. Persons mumbledly.

The Pysons house is a bit larger than Winston's, and has a gloomy atmosphere. Everything had a shriveled and crumbling appearance, as if the place had just been visited by a giant beast. The floor was littered with sporting goods — hockey sticks, boxing gloves, broken soccer balls, a pair of sweaty shorts turned out, a pile of dirty dishes and twisted exercise books on the table. On the wall are the red flags of the Youth Corps and the Junior Scout Corps and a huge portrait of Big Brother. The room, like the whole house, had the indispensable smell of boiled cabbage, but there was an even more pungent smell of sweat that you could tell when you smelled it was the sweat of a person who wasn't there at the moment, though you couldn't tell why. In another room, someone used a honeycomb and a piece of butt paper as a trumpet to play to the tune of military music still playing on the screen.

"That's the kids," Paison said, glancing at the door with a little worry. "They didn't go out today. Of course, Luo—" She had a habit of pausing for half a sentence. The sink in the kitchen was almost overflowing, and it was full of greenish, dirty water, worse than the smell of rotten cabbage. Winston bent down to inspect the joints at the bend in the pipe. He was reluctant to use his hands, nor did he bend down, for that would always easily cause him to cough. Mrs. Persons could not help, but watched from the sidelines.

"Of course, Rowe, if Tom were at home, he would be able to fix it at once," she said.

"He likes to do this kind of thing. His hands are dexterous, and Thom is like that. ”

Persons was Winston's colleague in the Ministry of Truth. He was a fat, stupid-minded man, but active in every way, imbecile and passionate—the kind of loyal pawn who didn't ask a single reason at all, and on whom the party relied for stability, even more than the ideological police. He was thirty-five years old, having just reluctantly left the Youth Corps, and before he was promoted to the Youth Corps, he had stayed in the Cadet Scout Corps for a year, regardless of his age. He held a low-level position in the ministry and required little intelligence, but on the other hand he was a leading member of the Sports Committee and all other committees that organized general voluntary activities such as group hikes, spontaneous demonstrations, and thrift campaigns. As he smokes his pipe, he tells you serenely that he has been attending the Neighborhood Center every night for the past four years. Wherever he went, a pungent smell of sweat followed. Even after he was gone, the smell of sweat remained there, which became a wordless proof of the tension of his life.

"Do you have pliers?" Winston said, feeling for the nut at the joint.

"Pliers," said Mrs. Persons, who was at once undecided. "I don't know, maybe the kids-".

As the children rushed into the living room, there was the sound of footsteps and horns blowing from honeycombs. Mrs. Persons brought the pliers. Winston let go of the dirty water and in disgust removed a clump of hair blocking the pipe. He washed his hands under the tap and went back to another room.

"Hands up!" A vicious voice shouted.

A handsome, fierce-looking nine-year-old boy jumped out from behind the desk and pointed a toy automatic pistol at him, while a sister about two years younger than him also pointed a wooden stick at him, both wearing blue shorts, gray shirts, and red scarves, the uniforms of the Junior Scouts. Winston lifted his hands over his head, uneasy, for the boy's expression was fierce, as if it weren't exactly a game.

"You're a traitor!" The boy shouted. "You're a thought prisoner! You are a spy in Eurasia! I'm going to shoot you, I'm going to exterminate you, I'm going to send you to open a salt mine! ”

The two of them suddenly jumped beside him and shouted, "Traitor! "Thought prisoner!"

The little girl's every movement she made followed her brother's example. It's a little frightening that they look like two little tiger calves that will soon grow into man-eating beasts. The boy had a fierce look in his eyes, clearly intent on knocking down and kicking Winston, and he realized that he was almost old enough to do so. Winston thought, thankfully the pistol in his hand wasn't real.

Mrs. Persons' eyes uneasily shifted from Winston to the children, and back again. The living room was well lit, and he was pleased to see that there was really dust in the wrinkles on her face.

"They're," she said. "They were disappointed that they couldn't go to see the hanging, that's why they made such a fuss. I'm too busy to take them there, and Tom doesn't have time to get off work. ”

"Why can't we go and see the hanging?" The boy asked in a loud voice.

"Look at hanging! Look at the hanging! The little girl cried out, still bouncing.

Winston remembered that several Eurasian prisoners of war crimes were to be hanged in the park that night. This kind of thing happens once a month, and everyone loves to watch it. The kids were always clamoring to take them to see it. He said goodbye to Mrs. Persons and walked towards the door, but before he had taken six steps in the aisle outside, someone had beaten him bitterly on the back of the neck with something. It was as if a red-hot wire had pierced his flesh. He jumped up and turned around, and saw Mrs. Persons dragging her son into the house, and the boy was putting the slingshot in his pocket.

When the door closed, the boy was still calling "Goldstein!" But what surprised Winston the most was the helpless fear on the woman's gray face.

When he returned to his room, he quickly walked past the curtain and sat down again at the table, groping his neck as he went. The music on the screen stopped. The voice of a crisp soldier reads aloud with relish a description of the armament of a new water fortress that has just anchored between Iceland and the Faroe Islands.

He thought to himself that with such a child, the poor woman's life must be enough to choke. In another year or two, they will be watching her day and night to see if there are any signs of impurity. In today's world, almost all children are choked enough. Worst of all, they are systematically turned into uncontrollable savages through organizations such as the Junior Scouts, but this does not create any tendency among them to be controlled by the opposition. On the contrary, they worship the party and everything about the party. Singing, parades, flags, hiking, gun drills, chanting slogans, worshipping Big Brother – all of this is a lot of fun for them.

All their murderous nature is vented and used against the enemies of the state, on foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, and criminals. It is almost common for people over the age of 30 to fear their children. This is not without reason, because every week there is always a news item in the Times that a little spy who eavesdropped on his parents' speeches – commonly known as "little heroes" – overheard some unsightly words from his parents and exposed them to the thought police.

The pain of the slingshot has subsided. He picked up the pen with little too much enthusiasm, not knowing what else to write down in his diary. Suddenly, he remembered Aubryan again.

How many years ago - how many years? It's been about seven years - he once had a dream that he was walking through a dark room. As he walked by, a man sitting next to him said, "We will meet in a place where there is no darkness." ”

It was said quietly, almost casually—an explanation, not a command.

He continued on his way without stopping. Strangely, at the time, in a dream, these words did not make a deep impression on him. It was only later that the words began to make sense. He could no longer remember whether the first time he saw Aubrian was before or after dreaming; He couldn't remember when he suddenly recognized the voice that spoke as Obrian's. But he recognized it anyway, and it was Obrean who spoke to him in the dark.

Winston had been unable to determine—even after the dawn of their eyes—whether Obrian was friend or foe. Actually, it doesn't matter. Mutual understanding between the two of them is more important than friendship or camaraderie between them. Anyway, he said, "We'll meet in a place where there's no darkness." Winston didn't understand what that meant, he just knew that no matter what, it would happen.

The sound on the electric screen stopped. A crisp horn sounded in the turbid air. The voice continued to speak harshly:

"Attention! Please note! Now we receive an urgent telegram from the Malabar front. Our army won a glorious victory in South India. I am authorized to declare that, as a result of the victory we are now reporting, the end of the war may not be far off. The emergency is as follows—" Winston thought, bad news is coming. Sure enough, after a bloody account of the annihilation of an army from a Eurasian country and the reporting of a large number of kills, wounds, and prisoners, it was announced that from next week the rationing of chocolate would be reduced from thirty to twenty grams.

Winston burped again, and the gin effect was gone, leaving only a deflated feeling. The electric screen, perhaps to celebrate the victory, or to dilute the memory of the dwindling supply of chocolate, played "This is for you, O Oceania". It is supposed to be upright, but in the current situation, others will not be able to see him.

"Oceania, This Is For You" is light music after it is played. Winston walked to the window, with his back to the electric screen. The weather is still cold and clear. A rocket exploded somewhere in the distance, and the sound of the explosion was dull and deafening. At present, about twenty or thirty such rockets are dropped in London a week.

On the street below, the cold wind blew the torn poster, and the word "Yingshe" was hidden and revealed. British Press. The sacred principles of the British Society. Neologism, doublethoughts, a fickle past. He felt as if he was wandering in an underwater forest, lost in a world of demons of which he was. He was alone. The past is dead, and the future is unimaginable. How sure could he know that a living person was on his side? How could he know that the party's rule would not last forever? Three slogans on the white walls of the Ministry of Truth caught his attention, as if they were an answer to him:

War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength.

He pulled a two-and-a-half-cent coin out of his pocket. There are also clear slogans on this coin with these three slogans in small letters, and on the other side is the head of Big Brother.

Even on this coin, the eyes are on you. On coins, on stamps, on book covers, on flags, on posters, on cigarette boxes – everywhere. The eyes are always on you, and the voice is always ringing in your ears. Whether asleep or awake, at work or eating, indoors or outdoors, in the bathtub or in bed – there is no place to hide. Nothing is your own except a few cubic centimeters in your skull.

The sun had deflected, and the countless windows of the Ministry of Truth looked as eerie as the guns of a fortress due to the lack of sunlight. In front of this massive pyramid-like shape, his heart cringed. Too strong to attack.

A thousand rockets won't destroy it. He began to wonder who he was writing the diary for. For the future, for the past – for a time that may be an imaginary illusion.

And what awaits him is not death but annihilation. The diary will be reduced to ashes, and he himself will be reduced to nothing. Only the thought cop will read what he writes and remove it from existence and memory. How can you, even an anonymous word written on a piece of paper, appeal to the future?

The clock struck fourteen times on the electric screen. He had to leave in ten minutes. He had to go back to work at 14:30.

Oddly enough, the bell seemed to cheer him up. He was a lonely ghost who spoke the truth that no one would hear for ten years. But as soon as he spoke out, somehow, the continuity was not interrupted. Not because your words are heard, but because you keep your sanity awake, you carry on the traditions of humanity. He returned to the table, dipped his pen in his pen, and wrote:

The age of uniformity, the age of loneliness, the age of Big Brother, the age of double-thinking, to the future, to the past, to an era of freedom of thought, of different people, but not to live alone—to an era in which truth exists and what has been done cannot be erased!

He thought, he was dead. He felt that it was only now, when he began to be able to sort out his thoughts, that he had taken a decisive step. The consequences of all actions are included in the actions themselves. He writes:

Thought sins do not bring death: thought sins are death in themselves.

Now that he realizes that he is dead, it is important to live as long as possible. The two fingers of his right hand cured the ink. It's the little things that can expose you. A nosy zealous person in the ministry (possibly a woman; Someone like the little woman with pale brown hair or the dark-haired girl in the ministry might begin to wonder why he writes at lunchtime, why he uses an old-fashioned fountain pen, what he is writing (hat) — and then give a hint about it. He went to the bathroom and carefully washed off the ink with a rough piece of dark brown soap, which rubbed on his skin like sandpaper, and was therefore suitable for this purpose.

He kept his diary in a drawer. It was useless to hide it, but he had to at least know exactly if its existence had been discovered. It's too obvious to clip a piece of hair. So he dipped the tip of his finger in a speck of unrecognizable white dust and placed it on the cover of the diary, which would surely fall if anyone moved it.

As soon as Winston's hand touched the doorknob, he saw that his diary was on the table and unclosed, and it was full of words that said Down with Big Brother, the size of the body, and it could be seen clearly from the other end of the room. I can't imagine how it could be so stupid. But, even in his panic, he realized that he didn't want to close his notebook and stain the milky paper before the ink had dried.

He gritted his teeth and opened the door. Suddenly, I felt a warm current all over my body, and a big stone fell to the ground in my heart. Standing outside the door was a pale, haggard woman with thinning hair and a wrinkled face.

"Oh, comrade," she began to say in a tired, moaning voice, "I said I heard you enter. Could you please come and help me take a look at the sink in my kitchen? It seemed to be clogged—"She was Mrs. Pines, the wife of a neighbor on the same floor." (The term "wife" is a bit frowned upon within the party, and you have to call anyone "comrade", but for some women, you will unconsciously call them "wife".) She was about thirty years old, but she was much older. You have the impression that the wrinkles on her face are embedded with dust. Winston followed her to the other end of the aisle. This kind of amateur repair work is almost daily and annoying. The Victory Building is an old house, built around 1930 and now about to collapse.

The plaster on the ceiling and on the walls kept falling, the water pipes always froze and cracked with every frost, the roof leaked when it snowed, and the heating was generally only half burned if it was not completely turned off due to economy. Unless you can do it yourself, you have to get the approval of some high-ranking committee, which is likely to drag on for a year or two to ignore you, even if it means repairing a glass window.

"It just so happens that Tom is not at home," said Mrs. Persons mumbledly.

The Pysons house is a bit larger than Winston's, and has a gloomy atmosphere. Everything had a shriveled and crumbling appearance, as if the place had just been visited by a giant beast. The floor was littered with sporting goods — hockey sticks, boxing gloves, broken soccer balls, a pair of sweaty shorts turned out, a pile of dirty dishes and twisted exercise books on the table. On the wall are the red flags of the Youth Corps and the Junior Scout Corps and a huge portrait of Big Brother. The room, like the whole house, had the indispensable smell of boiled cabbage, but there was an even more pungent smell of sweat that you could tell when you smelled it was the sweat of a person who wasn't there at the moment, though you couldn't tell why. In another room, someone used a honeycomb and a piece of butt paper as a trumpet to play to the tune of military music still playing on the screen.

"That's the kids," Paison said, glancing at the door with a little worry. "They didn't go out today. Of course, Luo—" She had a habit of pausing for half a sentence. The sink in the kitchen was almost overflowing, and it was full of greenish, dirty water, worse than the smell of rotten cabbage. Winston bent down to inspect the joints at the bend in the pipe. He was reluctant to use his hands, nor did he bend down, for that would always easily cause him to cough. Mrs. Persons could not help, but watched from the sidelines.

"Of course, Rowe, if Tom were at home, he would be able to fix it at once," she said.

"He likes to do this kind of thing. His hands are dexterous, and Thom is like that. ”

Persons was Winston's colleague in the Ministry of Truth. He was a fat, stupid-minded man, but active in every way, imbecile and passionate—the kind of loyal pawn who didn't ask a single reason at all, and on whom the party relied for stability, even more than the ideological police. He was thirty-five years old, having just reluctantly left the Youth Corps, and before he was promoted to the Youth Corps, he had stayed in the Cadet Scout Corps for a year, regardless of his age. He held a low-level position in the ministry and required little intelligence, but on the other hand he was a leading member of the Sports Committee and all other committees that organized general voluntary activities such as group hikes, spontaneous demonstrations, and thrift campaigns. As he smokes his pipe, he tells you serenely that he has been attending the Neighborhood Center every night for the past four years. Wherever he went, a pungent smell of sweat followed. Even after he was gone, the smell of sweat remained there, which became a wordless proof of the tension of his life.

"Do you have pliers?" Winston said, feeling for the nut at the joint.

"Pliers," said Mrs. Persons, who was at once undecided. "I don't know, maybe the kids-".

As the children rushed into the living room, there was the sound of footsteps and horns blowing from honeycombs. Mrs. Persons brought the pliers. Winston let go of the dirty water and in disgust removed a clump of hair blocking the pipe. He washed his hands under the tap and went back to another room.

"Hands up!" A vicious voice shouted.

A handsome, fierce-looking nine-year-old boy jumped out from behind the desk and pointed a toy automatic pistol at him, while a sister about two years younger than him also pointed a wooden stick at him, both wearing blue shorts, gray shirts, and red scarves, the uniforms of the Junior Scouts. Winston lifted his hands over his head, uneasy, for the boy's expression was fierce, as if it weren't exactly a game.

"You're a traitor!" The boy shouted. "You're a thought prisoner! You are a spy in Eurasia! I'm going to shoot you, I'm going to exterminate you, I'm going to send you to open a salt mine! ”

The two of them suddenly jumped beside him and shouted, "Traitor! "Thought prisoner!"

The little girl's every movement she made followed her brother's example. It's a little frightening that they look like two little tiger calves that will soon grow into man-eating beasts. The boy had a fierce look in his eyes, clearly intent on knocking down and kicking Winston, and he realized that he was almost old enough to do so. Winston thought, thankfully the pistol in his hand wasn't real.

Mrs. Persons' eyes uneasily shifted from Winston to the children, and back again. The living room was well lit, and he was pleased to see that there was really dust in the wrinkles on her face.

"They're," she said. "They were disappointed that they couldn't go to see the hanging, that's why they made such a fuss. I'm too busy to take them there, and Tom doesn't have time to get off work. ”

"Why can't we go and see the hanging?" The boy asked in a loud voice.

"Look at hanging! Look at the hanging! The little girl cried out, still bouncing.

Winston remembered that several Eurasian prisoners of war crimes were to be hanged in the park that night. This kind of thing happens once a month, and everyone loves to watch it. The kids were always clamoring to take them to see it. He said goodbye to Mrs. Persons and walked towards the door, but before he had taken six steps in the aisle outside, someone had beaten him bitterly on the back of the neck with something. It was as if a red-hot wire had pierced his flesh. He jumped up and turned around, and saw Mrs. Persons dragging her son into the house, and the boy was putting the slingshot in his pocket.

When the door closed, the boy was still calling "Goldstein!" But what surprised Winston the most was the helpless fear on the woman's gray face.

When he returned to his room, he quickly walked past the curtain and sat down again at the table, groping his neck as he went. The music on the screen stopped. The voice of a crisp soldier reads aloud with relish a description of the armament of a new water fortress that has just anchored between Iceland and the Faroe Islands.

He thought to himself that with such a child, the poor woman's life must be enough to choke. In another year or two, they will be watching her day and night to see if there are any signs of impurity. In today's world, almost all children are choked enough. Worst of all, they are systematically turned into uncontrollable savages through organizations such as the Junior Scouts, but this does not create any tendency among them to be controlled by the opposition. On the contrary, they worship the party and everything about the party. Singing, parades, flags, hiking, gun drills, chanting slogans, worshipping Big Brother – all of this is a lot of fun for them.

All their murderous nature is vented and used against the enemies of the state, on foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, and criminals. It is almost common for people over the age of 30 to fear their children. This is not without reason, because every week there is always a news item in the Times that a little spy who eavesdropped on his parents' speeches – commonly known as "little heroes" – overheard some unsightly words from his parents and exposed them to the thought police.

The pain of the slingshot has subsided. He picked up the pen with little too much enthusiasm, not knowing what else to write down in his diary. Suddenly, he remembered Aubryan again.

How many years ago - how many years? It's been about seven years - he once had a dream that he was walking through a dark room. As he walked by, a man sitting next to him said, "We will meet in a place where there is no darkness." ”

It was said quietly, almost casually—an explanation, not a command.

He continued on his way without stopping. Strangely, at the time, in a dream, these words did not make a deep impression on him. It was only later that the words began to make sense. He could no longer remember whether the first time he saw Aubrian was before or after dreaming; He couldn't remember when he suddenly recognized the voice that spoke as Obrian's. But he recognized it anyway, and it was Obrean who spoke to him in the dark.

Winston had been unable to determine—even after the dawn of their eyes—whether Obrian was friend or foe. Actually, it doesn't matter. Mutual understanding between the two of them is more important than friendship or camaraderie between them. Anyway, he said, "We'll meet in a place where there's no darkness." Winston didn't understand what that meant, he just knew that no matter what, it would happen.

The sound on the electric screen stopped. A crisp horn sounded in the turbid air. The voice continued to speak harshly:

"Attention! Please note! Now we receive an urgent telegram from the Malabar front. Our army won a glorious victory in South India. I am authorized to declare that, as a result of the victory we are now reporting, the end of the war may not be far off. The emergency is as follows—" Winston thought, bad news is coming. Sure enough, after a bloody account of the annihilation of an army from a Eurasian country and the reporting of a large number of kills, wounds, and prisoners, it was announced that from next week the rationing of chocolate would be reduced from thirty to twenty grams.

Winston burped again, and the gin effect was gone, leaving only a deflated feeling. The electric screen, perhaps to celebrate the victory, or to dilute the memory of the dwindling supply of chocolate, played "This is for you, O Oceania". It is supposed to be upright, but in the current situation, others will not be able to see him.

"Oceania, This Is For You" is light music after it is played. Winston walked to the window, with his back to the electric screen. The weather is still cold and clear. A rocket exploded somewhere in the distance, and the sound of the explosion was dull and deafening. At present, about twenty or thirty such rockets are dropped in London a week.

On the street below, the cold wind blew the torn poster, and the word "Yingshe" was hidden and revealed. British Press. The sacred principles of the British Society. Neologism, doublethoughts, a fickle past. He felt as if he was wandering in an underwater forest, lost in a world of demons of which he was. He was alone. The past is dead, and the future is unimaginable. How sure could he know that a living person was on his side? How could he know that the party's rule would not last forever? Three slogans on the white walls of the Ministry of Truth caught his attention, as if they were an answer to him:

War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength.

He pulled a two-and-a-half-cent coin out of his pocket. There are also clear slogans on this coin with these three slogans in small letters, and on the other side is the head of Big Brother.

Even on this coin, the eyes are on you. On coins, on stamps, on book covers, on flags, on posters, on cigarette boxes – everywhere. The eyes are always on you, and the voice is always ringing in your ears. Whether asleep or awake, at work or eating, indoors or outdoors, in the bathtub or in bed – there is no place to hide. Nothing is your own except a few cubic centimeters in your skull.

The sun had deflected, and the countless windows of the Ministry of Truth looked as eerie as the guns of a fortress due to the lack of sunlight. In front of this massive pyramid-like shape, his heart cringed. Too strong to attack.

A thousand rockets won't destroy it. He began to wonder who he was writing the diary for. For the future, for the past – for a time that may be an imaginary illusion.

And what awaits him is not death but annihilation. The diary will be reduced to ashes, and he himself will be reduced to nothing. Only the thought cop will read what he writes and remove it from existence and memory. How can you, even an anonymous word written on a piece of paper, appeal to the future?

The clock struck fourteen times on the electric screen. He had to leave in ten minutes. He had to go back to work at 14:30.

Oddly enough, the bell seemed to cheer him up. He was a lonely ghost who spoke the truth that no one would hear for ten years. But as soon as he spoke out, somehow, the continuity was not interrupted. Not because your words are heard, but because you keep your sanity awake, you carry on the traditions of humanity. He returned to the table, dipped his pen in his pen, and wrote:

The age of uniformity, the age of loneliness, the age of Big Brother, the age of double-thinking, to the future, to the past, to an era of freedom of thought, of different people, but not to live alone—to an era in which truth exists and what has been done cannot be erased!

He thought, he was dead. He felt that it was only now, when he began to be able to sort out his thoughts, that he had taken a decisive step. The consequences of all actions are included in the actions themselves. He writes:

Thought sins do not bring death: thought sins are death in themselves.

Now that he realizes that he is dead, it is important to live as long as possible. The two fingers of his right hand cured the ink. It's the little things that can expose you. A nosy zealous person in the ministry (possibly a woman; Someone like the little woman with pale brown hair or the dark-haired girl in the ministry might begin to wonder why he writes at lunchtime, why he uses an old-fashioned fountain pen, what he is writing (hat) — and then give a hint about it. He went to the bathroom and carefully washed off the ink with a rough piece of dark brown soap, which rubbed on his skin like sandpaper, and was therefore suitable for this purpose.

He kept his diary in a drawer. It was useless to hide it, but he had to at least know exactly if its existence had been discovered. It's too obvious to clip a piece of hair. So he dipped the tip of his finger in a speck of unrecognizable white dust and placed it on the cover of the diary, which would surely fall if anyone moved it.