Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don't want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.
The owner of the antique shop where Winston first buys his diary, pen, and later on a glass paperweight. Winston rents the room above the shop from Mr. Charrington for his love affair with Julia. Mr. Charrington appears to be a kind old man interested in history and the past, but later reveals himself to be a member of the Thought Police. Mr. Charrington leads Winston and Julia into his trap, and observes their action from the hidden telescreen in the room above the shop. As he is being arrested, Winston notices that Mr. Charrington looks entirely different, and has clearly been working under disguise for quite some time.