Emmanuel Goldstein: A daily ritual. Everyone assembles in front of the telescreen at eleven hundred for a two-minute program that shows Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, and marching enemy soldiers. This is a highly emotional moment and it is impossible even for Winston to avoid joining in: 'A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledgehammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.' (Part 1, Chapter 1, pg. 16) At the end of Two Minute Hate, Big Brother's face appears, inspiring everyone with relief and is followed by the three Party slogans.
Citas textuales del libro 1984 de Orwell:
The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even — so it was occasionally rumoured — in some hiding-place in Oceania itself.
The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in.
No será esta la primera vez que en Sine Metu desenmascaramos el método del discurso K:
Ya lo decíamos el
22/10/2003 desde el viejo Sine Metu.
El gran hermano siempre tiene alternativas para su "minuto de odio" de cada día.
Y lo repetíamos el
27/2/2006 desde este espacio
Desde el 25 de mayo de 2003, casi todos los días el señorito sale a vomitar sus dos minutos de odio (Big Brother dixit) con una cobertura prácticamente universal.
Hoy Kirchner nos cuenta que
Goldstein estuvo amedrentando a su vieja.
Me tocaron vivir etapas muy difíciles, me tocó ser perseguido, me tocó sentir el olvido y a mí, bandas de patoteros de esa ciudad que tanto amo, no me van a asustar por más que hagan actos como los que cometieron ayer con la pobre vieja que estaba sola y que me llamaba por teléfono para preguntarme “qué hago, Néstor”.
¡Qué hijo de puta ese Goldstein! ¿Cómo no lo vamos a odiar?
