O'Brien's manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial.'On the contrary,' he said, 'you have not controlled it. That is what has brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.'He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying to sink in.'Do you remember,' he went on, 'writing in your diary, "Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four"?''Yes,' said Winston.O'Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?''Four.''And if the party says that it is not four but five -- then how many?''Four.'The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.'How many fingers, Winston?''Four.'The needle went up to sixty.'How many fingers, Winston?''Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!'The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four.'How many fingers, Winston?''Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!''How many fingers, Winston?''Five! Five! Five!''No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are four. How many fingers, please?''Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!'