A review of Orwell’s essays

Generally, Orwell’s essays are like the English food he adored so much: dry and bland if nourishing. Their greatest delights, like the food, are never the main course but rather the extras – the Yorkshire pudding rather than the roast chicken. ‘Marrakech’, to take one example, says little especially profound about Marrakech that has not been said before, and what it does say is not presented in an especially evocative way; but his seizing upon the flash of terror in a white man’s mind at the sight of black men marching past, rings with authenticity. Mostly, his subtle asides are brilliant. It is undeniable that this gaunt, gloomy figure only crackles to life when he turns, however glancingly, to political matters. He himself admitted that from 1936 on every word he put to paper was one more pinprick against the carapace of totalitarianism – not by coincidence has his most memorable and enthralling work commenced from this period.

Still, plenty of writers have chosen such a target and some have spent their whole lives, rather than merely a decade or so, arraying their verbal arsenals against it.

“Why has Orwell endured and thrived where so few others have?”

Why has Orwell endured and thrived where so few others have? Part of it must be attributed to the caprice of the literary fates. It is also worth noting that in his own lifetime Orwell was utterly ignored almost till the very end. If nothing else, perishing early is often a wonderful bolster to one’s reputation. But of course there is more to it than that. A general if rather unwelcome rule of history is that those most adept at detecting and dismantling tyranny are often those most accustomed to exercising it. One ought never forget that Orwell’s first experience of the issue, as an imperial policeman in Burma, was very much on much the opposite side of the equation to that he would later come to champion. Moreover, Orwell’s anti-totalitarian bent manifests itself not in torrents of coruscating rage, real or confected, as adopted by a polemicist like Christopher Hitchens. Rather, he seizes upon the subtle horror – above all the creeping sense of dread – that infects the oppressor to show how no one, short of grotesque psychopaths, is truly happy or fulfilled under such a system.

Naturally one cannot divorce the work from the life. Though cut down at the age of 46, Orwell managed to spend time in various far-flung corners of the world. However, the glamour of such foreign ventures often tends to obscure the dreariness of the interim periods, most of which were spent in England.

“The privilege of his background made later decisions such as excursions into tramping all the more unique”

The privilege of his background made later decisions such as excursions into tramping all the more unique. They could easily have been dismissed as a cack-handed attempt to empathise with those whom it was impossible for him to do so due to the gulf of birth and education. But he manages to hold up reasonably well. Part of the reason Orwell’s works have held up is that he often had a clear message to send – never more so than with his main successes of 1984 and Animal Farm. Moreover, Orwell decidedly lacked the requirement of a journalist to be able to melt into the background. Orwell is another drop in the stream of individuals who have a reputation as writers whose first serious literary excursions were as critics. Indeed, Orwell as literary critic is by far the most underrated of his many guises. It is worth noting that for most of his literary career, reviewing books took far greater precedence over political issues.

“The essay on Charles Dickens, in particular, is thoughtful and nuanced, taking a searching look at the depths of this cultural institution embodied in a single man”

The essay on Charles Dickens, in particular, is thoughtful and nuanced, taking a searching look at the depths of this cultural institution embodied in a single man. Much of what he says rings true, though he is hampered by his wayward structure and lack of cohesion. In this essay particularly Orwell betrays his debt to George Gissing, who was also one of his favourite novelists.

Animal Farm and 1984 are undoubtedly the foundation stones of his legacy, but to me Orwell’s prime value as a writer remains as an essayist. Aside from the aforementioned pair, his fictional works are generally thinly veiled acts of reportage distilled from his own life, with little imagination underpinning or enlivening them. The trademark dry and understated style that is permissible with essays is suffocatingly dull when turned to the task of spinning compelling narratives. It is all well and good for prose to be like a windowpane, but that is of little use if the view itself is nothing particularly enthralling.