Day Eighty-Two
Essays by George Orwell Page: 720
So far I’ve avoided talking too much about Orwell and his writing other than to point out how sad and depressing he is. The further I read into this collection of essays – which is arranged chronologically – the more that is confirmed. He reviews books, writes opinion columns, and constantly promotes Socialism. But throughout his writing there is a pervasive hopelessness. He believes that socialism is the only answer to mankind’s ills but that there is little to no hope of it ever being instituted properly. He continually contradicts himself and makes predictions which have manifestly not come to pass and he regularly misreads, misinterprets and misunderstands what he is writing about. I agree with him about Salvador Dali (perverted and disgusting but talented) and am at least intrigued by his views on Joyce but on the whole he reviewed apparently dull and hopelessly dated books and did so in such a way as to leave the review utterly incomprehensible to someone not living in his time and culture. He makes such up-to-date references that they are, to me, indecipherable. In one article he condemns the ugliness of “modern” life and in the next he exclaims against the inefficiency of living in single family houses rather than flats or pre-fab buildings. He condemns Chesterton for not appreciating “Englishness” and decries Dickens for not promoting a political solution to human wickedness. In fact, Orwell is so confused he’s actually quite hilarious and because he takes himself so seriously he’s doubly funny. I crack up repeatedly in the middle of reading some terribly earnest dissertation on the necessity of higher taxes and the righteousness of theft.
Day off tomorrow. Woot.