The Road to Sanctity: George Orwell and the NS

To celebrate George Orwell Day, we take a look back through the archive and republish five importance pieces this week.

For some reason, religious language sticks to George Orwell. The late historian Angus Calder, reviewing the collected non-fiction in the late 1960s, described Orwell’s decision to join the Imperial Police in Burma as “the first of those individualistic decisions which mark his life like the stations of the cross”. Unimpressed by the biographical “study” by George Woodcock (Orwell attempted to forbid authorised biographies), Tom Nairn invoked “Orwell the individualist, the angry man of conscience who wanted to battle against all ‘smelly little orthodoxies’, [who] ended up as the foremost literary apostle of anti-communism.” In 2012, New Yorker journalist Katherine Boo was described as “George Orwell’s greatest living acolyte”.

“No doubt alcohol, tobacco and so forth are things that a saint must avoid,” Orwell wrote in his final long essay, attempting to disentangle the apotheosis of Mahatma Ghandi. “But sainthood is also a thing that human beings must avoid.”

Perhaps the root of the canonising instinct lies in V S Pritchett’s wistful eulogy, published shortly after Orwell’s death:

Orwell was the wintry conscience of a generation which in the thirties had heard the call of to the rather assumptions of political faith. He was a kind of saint and, in that character, more likely in politics to chasten his own side than the enemy. His instinctive choice of spiritual and physical discomfort, his habit of going his own way, looked like the crankishness which has often cropped up in the British characters; if this were so, it was vagrant rather than puritan. He prided himself on seeing through the rackets, and on conveying the impression of living without the solace or even the need of a single illusion.

Is this the man, the shambling ascetic set against the ordering of his house, who has been appropriated by Right, Left, liberal and indifferent? In an article entitled “What Would George Do?” (2 June 2003), Professor Scott Lucas noted the circularity of the claims made on his behalf: “For Noam Chomsky, he was the model of the ‘responsible intellectual’. For Bernard Crick he was, in post-imperial, post-welfare-state Britain, the ‘English socialist’. And since the events of September 2001 he has become, for Christopher Hitchens, a stalwart against ‘Islamic fascism’ and its pacifist accomplices (such as Noam Chomsky).”

The battle for Orwell’s soul raged bitterly in the New Statesman. Nobody can forgive the decision by editor Kingsley Martin not to publish reports sent from Barcelona, fearing they were “liable to be taken as propaganda against socialism.” But since the 1950s, the NS has produced crop after crop of aspirant political writers, imitators and champions for whom Orwell has provided both a model and night-watchman. A quick glance through the archive produces profiles by Edward Said, Bernard Crick, Christopher Hitchens, Francis Hope and Ben Pimlott. Now we have a feast on which to debate his life and legacy: 21 January, the day Orwell died in 1950. The event is being steered by the Orwell Prize and Penguin Books, who have published stylish new editions of his best-known works. For our own part, we plan to publish five important pieces from our archive throughout the week, both by and about Orwell, an index of which is at the bottom of this page.

Eric Blair

On 21 October, 1931, the NS published an assemblage of diary entries by the twenty-eight year old Eric Blair. Recently returned from Paris, Blair was encouraged by two lifelong guttersnipes to seek his fortune picking hops in Kent. “Holiday with pay,” they said, “Keep yourself all the time you’re down there, pay your fare both ways and come back.” So off he went, aping the example of Jack London, whose People of the Abyss (1903) was written from first-hand experience of dossing in east London workhouses. “[They] ought to have known better,” he concluded. “As a matter of fact, hop-picking is far from being a holiday, and, as far as wages go, no worse employment exists.”

The early novels were met with guarded praise, mingled with unguarded irritation and disdain. Burmese Days is “an extremely biased book” in which “the author lacks both the depth of Mr E M Forster and the detachment of Mr Somerset Maugham”, wrote Cyril Connolly in 1935. A Clergyman’s Daughter (1935) was “ambitious yet not entirely successful” according to Peter Quennell. The author of Keep the Aspidistra Flying (1936) “hates London and everything there” Connolly wrote on his second encounter, “Hence the realism of one book was redeemed by an operating sense of beauty, that of the other is not.” Coming up for Air (1939), reviewed by the son of H G Wells and Rebecca West, Anthony West, “is a statement of present discontents made with all the persistent disagreeableness for which Mr George Orwell is renowned; he dislikes almost everything about England today, most of all the shabby genteel England where people who have very little pretend that they are wealthy and secure.”

The non-fiction was praised, though not without caveat. When Hamish Miles reviewed The Road to Wigan Pier (1937), he applauded the “thwacks at Anglo-Communism, tinned food, Punch, the highbrows of ‘the snootier magazines,’ the ‘leisure’ Utopians, and much else”, but felt it necessary to shoot the elephant in the room, adding, “It may be hard for Mr Orwell to accept such praise from such a notoriously snooty quarter as Great Turnstile: it is fairly clear that The New Statesman and Nation is as a pink rag to his bull-wrath. But he must take it.” He had taken it before. In 1933 the NS commissioned an outside reviewer, the poet W H Davies, who had previously led a destitute life (though not from choice), to review Down and Out in Paris and London. Davies celebrated Orwell’s scrupulousness: “We make haste to assure him that his book is packed with unique and strange information. It is all true to life, from beginning to end.”

In spite of his disagreement with Martin, Orwell continued to review military non-fiction, historical novels, travel writing from the parts of Asia he knew, pamphlets and biographies for the New Statesman until 1943. He wrote an illuminating review of Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon (1940) – “What was frightening about [the Moscow show trials] was not the fact that they happened – for obviously such things are necessary in a totalitarian society – but the eagerness of Western intellectuals to justify them.”

Orwell’s own attempts to fictionalise autocratic conditions in Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) and Animal Farm raked up old resentments. In 1945, while Martin watched the tide turn against those who had defended Stalinism, he decided to review Animal Farm himself. “There is plenty in the USSR to satirise, and Mr Orwell does it well,” he wrote. “How deftly the fairy story of the animals who, in anticipation of freedom and plenty, revolt against the tyrannical farmer, turns into a rollicking caricature of the Russian Revolution. His shaft strikes home.” Though of course, just as Orwell was made to recognise “Nazi Germany was now an even worse enemy than the British Empire”, so too he is “compelled” to accept that “the new ruling class is really very different indeed from anything that Russia has known before.”

St George

Three years after Orwell’s death (aged forty-six, from a burst artery brought on by tuberculosis), his unsteady relationship with the NS ceased to be unsteady: he was claimed for common sense. The art historian Benedict Nicolson, reviewing the early collection of essays England, Your England (1953), proffered a mea culpa on behalf of the theorising Left: “We needed an Orwell, not a Conservative politician, to point out that the intellectual had no real understanding of working-class mentality, that he could never acquire it, that whatever he did he could not deny his bourgeois background.” And it is this Orwell, the Franciscan truth-teller, half-man, half-myth, whom warring factions have debated ever since. “Orwell’s opinions,” Nicolson wrote, “largely owing to the fact that he expressed them and we absorbed them, now read as common sense, whereas at the time they read as thrilling heresies. His mistrust, for example, of Soviet ‘democracy,’ once thought perverse, is now orthodox.”

In 1971 the political theorist Bernard Crick observed, “Eric Blair was perhaps one man, but there were several George Orwells – both of his own and others’ making.” Crick contributed his own eleven years later, collaborating with Orwell’s widow Sonia Brownell to produce George Orwell: A Life (1982; revised in 1992), and reviewing every book written about Orwell for the NS in the meantime. He recognised the allure: “So many writers have selected from him, almost re-written him, as if challenged by him to come to terms with themselves.” Unable to review his own, the attempt which came closest to defying Orwell’s prohibition on biographies, Christopher Hitchens stepped in. “In the Forties Orwell was lunching with Malcolm Muggeridge at the Little Akropolis in Charlotte Street. When Kingsley Martin came in, Orwell asked Muggeridge to change places so that he could be spared the sight of ‘that corrupt face’ all through the meal.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, Hitchens found Crick “bloodless”, lacking in anecdote, character, gossip.

Why Orwell Matters (2002) provided Hitchens every opportunity to reinvigorate Orwell the man (as well as to assert that he was neither Puritan nor saint). His chapters, “Orwell and the Left” and “Orwell and the Right” follow a long line of pieces published in the magazine with names like “My country Right or Left” (Francis Hope, 1969), “Look right, look left, look right again” (1999, Geoffrey Wheatcroft) and “The socialist fallacy: Orwell’s status as the secular saint of socialism is built on a myth” (Scott Lucas, 2000) – out of which emerged an exasperated populism grounded in decency and domesticity: the “perfect English cup of tea”. Journey’s end for Orwell and his biographers. Unlike the many men who tried to claim Orwell, or to argue he was stubbornly unclaimable, Beatrix Campbell in “Wigan Pier and Beyond” (1983) tried to shrug off his influence. Aligning herself with the matured “powerful but stupid” and “apathetic masses”, who had lately found a voice and learned to think, she writes: “Although much of his work is about ‘the masses’, we, the masses, are the objects of his narrative. He is the subject.”

For all his “orthodoxies”, Orwell got plenty wrong. In “Eternal vigilance” (2009), n+1's Keith Gessen writes: “First, Orwell declares that no great novel could now be written by a Catholic (or communist) perspective; late he allows that a novel could be written from such a perspective, in a pinch; and then, in his essay on Graham Greene, he comes very near to suggesting that only Catholics can now write novels.” Part of this is down to style. Just as school friends are all right on their own, but tend to act badly in crowds, Orwell’s plain style “so resembles someone speaking honestly and without pretence directly to you”, it makes you feel “there is no way on earth you could possibly disagree with him, unless you’re part of the pansy left, or a sandal-wearer and fruit-juice drinker, or maybe just a crank.”

“So who is Orwell for,” Campbell asked on the cusp of 1984 (there was a noted resurgence of interest in Orwell under Thatcher), “in this jamboree year, when both Right and Left will be slugging it out to claim him for themselves as if, like the Bible or Capital his books were necessary to their litany?” Rather than suppose an answer, twenty-first century reviews have often focused on the work, the context in which it was written, to recognise its irreducibility.

The 1998 Complete Works of George Orwell was schematised by its harrowed reviewer: “20 volumes, 3,755 items in the last 11 volumes of essays, journalism, letters, diaries; 7,460 pages in all, 30,000 entries in the cumulative index, with footnotes and annotations beyond measure”. It holds an otherworldly price tag too, RRP £750. The text requires reviewers to deploy extended metaphors. In 2003, Scott Lucas (who received the reviewing mantle from Crick) opted for the lone frontiersman: “He had patrolled the borders of socialism as a lone ranger of decency, the authoritative voice of dissent limiting the voice of others.” He left an unreadable (in terms of size) corpus behind, which justifies little, and criticises everything as part of its operating logic. In Orwell things are found. He is still repackaged and republished, and remains an enigmatic source: a commonplace book for political journalists (and essayists) on the make.

Monday: Eric Blair, “Common lodging houses” (3 September 1932)

Tuesday: W H Davies, “Confessions of a Down and Out” (18 March 1933)

Wednesday: George Orwell, “New Novels: Darkness at Noon” (4 January 1941)

Thursday: Christopher Hitchens, “What People do not Want to Hear” (28 November 1980)

Friday: Beatrix Campbell, “Wigan Pier and Beyond” (16 December 1983)

An illustration from Animal Farm, by Ralph Steadman.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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Beautiful and the damned: a spellbinding oral history of Hollywood

West of Eden: An American Place by Jean Stein follows a specific tribe of people: the beautiful.

One day in LA, the showbiz tycoon David Geffen drove by the house that had belonged to Jack Warner, the co-founder of Warner Brothers. The gates were open, so he went in. “It was so grand and so Hollywood . . . It was an homage to an idea about the way people lived in Hollywood. I got caught up in the whole gestalt and I bought it.” Geffen then marvels that he paid $47m for the homage, while Jack had sold his whole studio for just $38m in 1956. You have to have a sense of irony.

From around 1920 there was a tribe in southern California, sometimes known as “the beautiful people”. In many cases, they were technical beauties (they appeared in dreamlets known as movies or had their photographs in magazines made of heavy, perfumed pages). Yet the true beauty talked about was a spiritual aspiration – a quest for romantic nobility, fragile elegance, or serene madness – that might offset the inner derangement, selfishness and comic vulgarity that so threatened their longing for godless class, or inscrutability. They lived within the frantic church known as Hollywood, a fierce cult or early form of terrorism (it hired intimidators, all of them called Oscar) that cherished the hopeless grail of beauty and sacrificed many lives in its pursuit.

Jean Stein is one of them; she admits as much in West of Eden, which seems to me the best book ever done on the terrifying social dysfunction of the beautiful people. Ms Stein is now 81. She is the daughter of Dr Jules Stein (1896-1981), the son of Lithuanian Jews, who became a celebrity ophthalmologist yet so loved music and show business that he founded the MCA agency – Music Corporation of America.

The marriage of medicine and ten-percenting is important to this book, and Jean Stein – who is clear-eyed, and knows where the bodies are buried – has the innate touch and scalpel smile of an expert autopsist. She does not quite write, but she composes absorbing, novelistic oral histories. In 1982 she did one on Edie Sedgwick, the Sixties model, junkie, sexpot and icon, a ghost long before her death. Now Stein delivers a calm Götterdämmerung that can be read as the fearsome annals of a haunted Hollywood, as well as an adroit response to John Steinbeck’s East of Eden (1952), earlier proof of California’s soft spot for fallen angels.

West of Eden is selective and yet, by the end of its 334 pages, you feel that the light and the shadow have fallen on nearly every­one. There are just five subjects. First: Edward L Doheny, the oil tycoon who established the architecture of Los Angeles, and helped inspire There Will Be Blood. Then there are the Warners, but chiefly Jack, the youngest of four who outlived and betrayed his brothers, and who abandoned a nice Jewish wife for an adventuress and ended up being painted by Salvador Dalí and dreaded as “a character”. There is also Jane Garland, a schizophrenic child of great wealth who drifted around with various unofficial nurses and uncertain friends. Next is the teeming casebook called Jennifer Jones; and then the Steins themselves, which means Jules and Jean, and her two daughters by William vanden Heuvel, one of whom now publishes the weekly magazine the Nation.

In shaping these five windows, Stein has interviewed numerous tribe members, many of whom have memories, wounds and nightmares for which they are in therapy (or script development – the two forms are very alike). Her tone and manner are matter-of-fact, but she knows how wary those close to Eden are about trusting stories. Life is a competing set of fantasies, and given that lies have always been allowed in LA, falsehood itself, as a moral handicap, has come to mean little. Though all “true”, this book reads like a dream.

A short review cannot cover all five windows in detail, so let me fix on the one I know best: the glass or screen in which Jennifer Jones existed like a butterfly. Born in 1919 (Gore Vidal once told me she was three years older; gossip devours fact), she was the daughter of an Oklahoma showman who thought she would act – on screen, of course, but also always and everywhere. She married a young actor, Robert Walker, and they had two sons. Then in 1941 she was seen by the mogul David Selznick: he was moved by her and she was drawn upwards by her chance of stardom. Each abandoned a spouse and two sons. They became archetypes of misjudgement, though her mediocre acting never matched the skill or glow of other Selznick employees (such as Ingrid Bergman). They had a daughter, Mary Jennifer, who lived in rivalry with her mother and loathed her, and finally killed herself.

Jennifer, as Lauren Bacall reports, could be a little nutty. She and Selznick gave lavish Sunday parties: “Jennifer was busy doing her make-up and combing her hair and changing her outfit. She was kind of playing her part. She was always trying to be noticed, to have people really care about her and be there for her.”

This is not pretty stuff; maybe that is why these people were so desperate to be beautiful. Indulgence and neglect formed a damaging mixture that left bodies lining the roadside west of Eden. Lawyers and doctors catered to the stricken beauties. Shrinks played an especially devious role, though “shrink” was the wrong word; those hired to soothe mania in fact inflated their clients’ egos and dramatised their self-pity, the movie in which we all take part.

Hard to credit, often hard to stomach, this is a spellbinding record of that ancien régime. Whatever happened to the tribe? The members may be thinner on the ground now in southern California, but their ignoble nobility is everywhere.

David Thomson’s books include “Showman: the Life of David O Selznick” (André Deutsch) and “How to Watch a Movie” (Profile Books)

West of Eden: An American Place by Jean Stein is published by Jonathan Cape (334pp, £20)

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war