George Orwell

Privacy, he said, was a very valuable thing.
Everyone wanted a place where they could be alone occasionally.
And when they had such a place, it was only common courtesy in anyone else who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself.

War is a way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths of the sea, materials which might otherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, and hence, in the long run, too intelligent.

Power is not a means, it is an end.
One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship.
The object of persecution is persecution.
The object of torture is torture.
The object of power is power.

Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you happen to be insane.

Day by day and almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date.

He was alone.
The past was dead, the future was unimaginable.
What certainty had he that a single human creature now living was on his side?
And what way of knowing that the dominion of the Party would not endure FOR EVER?
Like an answer, the three slogans on the white face of the Ministry of Truth came back to him:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket.
There, too, in tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Brother.
Even from the coin the eyes pursued you.
On coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and on the wrappings of a cigarette packet--everywhere.
Always the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you.
Asleep or awake, working or eating, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or in bed--no escape.
Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull.

The one certain thing was that death never came at an expected moment.

We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness

It presupposed that somewhere or other, outside oneself, there was a 'real' world where 'real' things happened.
But how could there be such a world?
What knowledge have we of anything, save through our own minds?
All happenings are in the mind.
Whatever happens in all minds, truly happens.

It was not easy to preserve inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like.
In any case, mere control of the features was not enough.

If one is to rule, and to continue ruling, one must be able to dislocate the sense of reality.

Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible.

He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her.
There was no enquiry he could make.
She might have been vaporized, she might have committed suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end of Oceania: worst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind and decided to avoid him.