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‘It exists!’ he cried.
‘No,’ said O’Brien.
He stepped across the room. There was a memory hole
in the opposite wall. O’Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the frail slip of paper was whirling away on the current of warm air; it was vanishing in a flash of flame. O’Brien turned away from the wall.
‘Ashes,’ he said. ‘Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does not exist. It never existed.’ ‘But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I remember it. You remember it.’