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the corresponding cubicle on the
other side a small, precise-looking, dark-chinned man named Tillotson was
working steadily away, with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth
very close to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite. He had the air of trying to
keep what he was saying a secret between himself and the telescreen. He
looked up, and his spectacles darted a hostile flash in Winston's
direction.
Winston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what work he was
employed on. People in the Records Department did not readily talk about
their jobs. In the long, windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles
and its endless rustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into
speakwrites, there were quite a dozen people whom Winston did not even know
by name, though he daily saw them hurrying to and fro in the corridors or
gesticulating in the Two Minutes Hate. He knew that in the cubicle next to
him the little woman with sandy hair toiled day in day out, simply at
tracking down and deleting from the Press the names of people who had been
vaporized and were therefore considered never to have existed. There was a
certain fitness in this, since her own husband had been vaporized a couple
of years earlier. And a few cubicles away a mild, ineffectual, dreamy
creature named Ampleforth, with very hairy ears and a surprising talent for
juggling with rhymes and metres, was engaged in producing garbled versions
-- definitive texts, they were called -- of poems which had become
ideologically offensive, but which for one reason or another were to be
retained in the anthologies. And this hall, with its fifty worker