Orwell left instructions in his will forbidding a biography, so this is as close as we presumably can get to know the man hiding behind a pseudonym (although biographies have, of course, been written). Unfortunately, it comes with a big smack in the face for me, Blair/Orwell’s misogyny coming through clearly when you read condensed notes for his books and his letters/journalism. (His love of Henry Miller, his comments that women “as usual, don’t understand politics but have adopted the views of their husbands as wives ought,” among many other examples.)
That said, I can take a deep breath and appreciate some of the bits, such as the first hint in 1932 of his desire for anonymity seen in a letter to his literary agent, Moore, asking him to “please see that it [Down and Out in Paris and London] is published pseudonymously, as I am not proud of it.” In another later, he suggests possible names to use, such as P.S. Burton, the name he uses when tramping, or possibly Kenneth Miles, George Orwell, or H.Lewis Allways. “I rather favour George Orwell.”
I also enjoyed some of the pieces I hadn’t seen before, like Clink, his description of being locked up as a drunk (intentionally), where we learn the delicious epithet of “Fucking toe-rag!”
He seems to fancy his friend Eleanor Jaques, who ends up marrying another of his friends (Dennis Collings) instead. Blair signed his letters “with much love” and was always pressing Jaques for visits. Another woman correspondent was Brenda Salkeld, on whom Blair lavished intense literary instruction, telling her what to read and what to think about Ulysses which he revered above all. (Garnett’s The Twilight of the Gods is a “positive duty” to read). He’s dismissive of Gertrude Stein (shocker!), saying that Wyndham Lewis’s takedown of her in The Enemy wasn’t worth the effort.
Several of his book reviews are included, which I enjoyed for the content and the structure (always looking for tips!), but I really dug the letters. From these, we learn that he opens a village store as a way to cover his rent while he writes in the morning (store open in the afternoon); his discussion of the benefits of a store that sells sundries vs a bookstore sticks with me—essentially people browse forever in a bookstore and never buy, but in a real shop, they come with a purpose and are less troublesome.
He also has a friend (Jack Common) stay in his cottage to care for the chickens and goats while he’s in Morocco (giving him instruction on what type of toilet paper won’t clog the septic system). And I loved the tale of stealing a copy of H.G. Wells’s Country of the Blind from his fellow school friends because they were all so eager to read it (“It’s a very vivid memory of mine, stealing alone the corridor at about four o’clock on a midsummer morning into the dormitory where you slept and pinching the book from beside your bed.”).
I hadn’t realized Orwell was in contact with John Middleton Murry as well (“I heard from Murry who seemed in the weeps about something” – which doesn’t surprise me). He also agitates friends to try and stockpile paper and printing equipment ahead of the coming war (in 1938), rightfully thinking that they’ll be in short supply when war does break out. (“I cannot believe that the time when one can buy a printing press with no questions asked will last for ever.”)
His essay on joining the Independent Labour Party is instructive: “… the era of free speech is closing down. The freedom of the press in Britain was always something of a fake, because in the last resort, money controls opinion… The time is coming… when every writer will have the choice of being silenced altogether or of producing the dope that a privileged minority demands.”
Least liked was the extensive takedown of Dickens, but he slightly redeems himself in the 5th section by saying “By this time anyone who is a lover of Dickens, and who has read as far as this, will probably be angry with me.”