Anything that hinted at corruption always filled him with a wild hope. Who knew? Perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, its cult of strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing iniquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Anything to rot, to weaken, to undermine! He pulled her down so that they were kneeling face to face.
“Listen. The more men you’ve had, the more I love you. Do you understand that?”
“I hate purity, I hate goodness. I don’t want any virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.”
“Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I’m corrupt to the bones.”
“You like doing this? I don’t mean simply me; I mean the thing in itself?”
“I adore it.”
That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the love of one person, but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear the Party to pieces.
— George Orwell, 1984
I know this is long. I’m listening to this on audiobook, and it all just kind of unfolds.