Squealer performs the commandment edits, justifies the milk and apples (brainworkers' necessity), rewrites the Battle of the Cowshed, and announces Boxer's death with fabricated tenderness. He is the Soviet press apparatus personified: statistics issued, figures adjusted, gratitude demanded.
Every press secretary, spokesperson, and communications director who explains why this cut is actually an increase now works in Squealer's shadow. The name is applied wherever language is used not to describe reality but to invoice it.
The darkest available reading: Squealer is not cynical. The skipped eyes, the twirled tail, the trembling voice, he believes each version as he says it, the true node between Newspeak and doublethink. A liar can be caught; a man who metabolizes his own lies cannot.
Is the propagandist a servant of the tyrant, or the tyrant's actual product?