The title says it all.

George Orwell lays it out bare in an unpretentious and clear style as he tells it as it is.

Published in 1933, his first novel, this is an autobiography of sorts rather than a plot-driven thriller, and although similar in reach and urban grime to Dostoevsky, Dickens - this not A Tale of Two Cities - or even Victor Hugo, it’s not exactly thrilling, but still accessible and surprisingly relevant, alive and very informative and interesting.

I’m a big fan of Animal Farm and 1984 and this was my third foray into the mind of George Orwell. It’s great if you’re looking for a fact-driven insight into the slums and poverty of two of the world’s greatest capitals.

The book consists of two distinct sections, about 60% of it in Paris, mostly focused on the hotel industry while working as a plongeur (dishwasher) for 17 hours a day with no time off, and then as a tramp or hermit in London.

A plongeur is a slave of a slave at the lowest rung of the hotel business, responsible for washing and cleaning, serving employee meals and being a general dogsbody. It’s impossible to save money or think about investments or relationships.

The only real luxuries are food because of the restaurant work and the satisfaction of having employment over unemployment and poverty.

Poverty itself isn’t the problem, but the fear of it happening and the downward slide into the lowest depths. Once you hit rock bottom, you get on with the real process of living and surviving as the fear stops and life becomes more straightforward. The only way is up.

Poverty is juxtaposed by the paying patrons of the hotel industry who pay a fortune for services in contrast to the grime and filth of the workers, to emphasize how unfair life can be.

The rest of the book is on the other side of the English channel in London where Orwell becomes a penniless tramp for a couple of months before accepting full-time work, literally surviving on a diet of tea and two slices of bread and margarine, tramping each day between workhouses, spikes and charitable accommodations.

The caveat is that his circumstances are only temporary, which detracts from the harshness, but even for a short period of time, living at the truly lowest level of society is scary, full of diseases, demoralisation, crime and grotesque habits picked up along the way.

This tramping experience was undoubtedly the bleak dystopian cornerstone of Orwell’s most famous and amazing novels and I totally respect him for it!

This is an eye-opening and relevant book at how bad things can get because of bad luck, ill health and lack of personal care. Some people live in relative poverty their entire lives with no way of getting out of it.

A much more exciting and heartwarming tale than it has any right to be, it rarely feels dour, biting or sanctimonious.

Its biggest fault is a continuously negative attitude towards the church and a rather preachy call to pay no attention to any of that, which feels old fashioned. Charities exist to help poor people, through commitment, prayer, hymns, etc., as a tradeoff for receiving help. They are essentially good.

The book also gets a little bit stiff in places as it recounts the stark facts, but it's still a recommended read due to the grimy realism and startling insight into how it is at rock bottom.

وسط درس خواندن خواستم تعریفی را جستجو کنم که گیر کتاب افتادم و نتوانستم رهایش کنم.
واقعا معرکه است. موقعیتی که توصیف می شود اگروحشتناک نباشد اقلا بسیار دردناک وملال آور است اما طنز اورول باعث شده با یک داستان کاملا شیرین روبرو باشیم که بلندبلند می خندیدم ومی خواندم!
کمی مرا یاد ینگه ی دنیا انداخت ازجهت مشابهت موضوع ولی ادبیات کاملا متفاوتی دارند و ینگه دنیا را می شود اثرسیاسی به حساب آورد.
اظهارنظرهای اورول هم در میانه ی داستان ساده ومنطقی بود.از آن جنس حرف هایی که آدم با خودش می گوید منم همین نظر را دارم ولی نمی توانم به این سادگی و صراحت بیانش کنم.
واقعا خوشم آمد.

How many novelists have had their name turned into an adjective? Although there may be more, at the moment I can only think of three: Proust, Dickens and Orwell. The adjective “Orwellian”, of course, refers to the kind of totalitarian state Orwell depicted so brilliantly in 1984. Maybe there should also be an adjective to refer to the kind of poverty Orwell described equally brilliantly in this, his first published novel. In writing it, Orwell drew on his experiences working as a dishwasher in a Paris hotel and the time he spent living rough in England, researching what life was like for the homeless and unemployed. This is powerful stuff and it's confronting and disturbing to realise that so much of what Orwell describes remains true today for people marginalised by extreme poverty.

There are two scenes in the work which are confronting in a different way. These scenes contain negative descriptions of Jewish characters. Had the characters been, say, Polish, Armenian or Australian, the descriptions would not be controversial. But the linking of the characters' negative traits with their Jewishness reflects the anti-semitism rampant in England in the pre-war period from which Orwell was clearly not immune. A casual internet seach indicates that much has been written about the anti-semitism in Orwell's early works, as well as about his strong denunciation of anti-semitism in later years. The scenes are unfortunate and will make any modern reader cringe. However, they do not detract from the power of what Orwell had to say about the treatment of the poor. This is not an enjoyable book to read, but it's powerful, memorable and extremely well-written. It makes me want to read a lot more of Orwell's writing.

Life Below the Poverty Line
8 September 2016 - London

tThere is so much in this book and it is actually really hard to know where to start, however I will start off by saying that it is not strictly an autobiography. Sure, Orwell did land up in a situation in Paris when all of his money had been stolen and had to work as a plounger, which is basically another name for a minimum wage kitchen hand (if the minimum wage actually existed back then), and he did live for a time on the streets of London as a tramp, but he did so not by necessity but rather because he was looking for something to write about. However it is certainly going to the opposite end of the spectrum from Mrs Dalloway, the previous book that I read, which dealt mainly with the upper eschelons of society (and their first world problems).

tActually I'm starting to wonder about this whole idea of the first world problem. Sure, my issues at the moment relate to the fact that I am in a small hotel room with no wifi, limited credit on my mobile phone, and the fact that the cord for my laptop not only doesn't reach from them socket to the bed upon which I am sitting, but it also has a European adaptor which means I am going to have to spend money on an adaptor for Australia so I don't have to fork out the money for a new power supply once I get home. I'm sure that these problems are minor compared to the beggar sitting on Praed Street in Paddington with a cup in his hand relying upon the generosity of those walking by, or the guy on Paul Mall that could hardly stand up because his legs were simply not working and the men that were dressed in suits that were worth more than he would ever earn in his lifetime simply threw their noses up and him and wandered to the nearest wine bar.

tWhile the issues that Orwell raises in this book certainly apply to Australia, since I am currently in London (though I am leaving very soon), and have recently travelled the continent (even if it was only the Low Lands and France), I will try to stick to what I have seen here. Also, the book can be easily divided into two parts – the life of a tramp, or a beggar, and the life of a minimum wage worker (if such a thing actually existed back in Orwell's day). The thing with what Orwell experienced is the harsh reality of capitalism where human beings are simply given a worth based on their productive capability, and when we have unskilled labour, and plenty off it, then the laws of supply and demand simply say that their wages are based upon the available workforce, and when there is a lot of people going for the same jobs, then the laws of economics simply say that their pay should be based as such. This is why we have minimum wage laws, because people who work should be able to earn enough money to at least be above the poverty line.

tAs with beggars though; things have changed since Orwell wrote this book. We no longer have spikes, or work houses, where the beggar would get a room for a night, and a simple meal, in return for half a days work, and then had to move on to the next one. What we do have is an allowance that theoretically should put them above the poverty line, so that they at least can have food to eat, clothes to wear, and a roof over their head. The problem is, and this hasn't changed at all, is that many of the people that rely on these benefits are uneducated, which means that they are idle. As such the free money, and in reality it is free money, means that it is going to be used to relieve that boredom – cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs. Governments are attempting to deal with that through a basic income card, but what is happening is that the store keepers, much as was the case in Orwell's time, are adding fees on top of purchases to basically skim off to the top these people who aren't actually able to use this income card in any place other than places that accept this card.

tThen there is a term used in Australia called 'Work for the Dole'. That is a recipient of unemployment benefits has to do a set number of hours of work a week to receive their benefits. I'm actually in favour of this, but it is open to abuse. First of all left wing agitators are dead against it claiming that it not only puts other people out of work, but it creates what is in effect a slave workforce. Mind you, they are generally guiding the lily a lot because McDonalds simply cannot sack its entire workforce and use 'work for the dole' labour, namely because only certain organisations, those who rely entirely on voluntary labour, can actually employ somebody through a work for the dole scheme. However, if somebody is doing such work then I feel that they should be entitled to an increased payment than what they are receiving, especially if it hinders their ability to find a full time job.

tOne interesting thing that I discovered as I wandered through Europe is that on the continent you find a lot more beggars that will be carrying babies, or have children with them. This is simply not seen in either England or Australia. On the continent you do need to watch out for them, especially since they train their children to steal from you. For instance if somebody approaches you at the Eiffel Tower with a clip board and asks if you speak English, scream at them in a language that is neither French, nor English, and get as far away from them as possible.

tAnother thing that I picked up from this book are the type of beggars. Many of us simply consider that a beggar is somebody who is sitting at the side of the road with a cup in hand. This is not always the case – for instance Orwell suggests that those people who busk in the local public space, draw pictures on the sidewalk, or make sculptures out of sand, are basically in the same position, except that they have some artistic ability. In fact I remember wandering through the streets of Brussels and seeing a couple of girls playing the violin. They were good, really really good, but it makes me wonder whether they spent all that time at university learning how to play the violin only to land up on the streets of Brussels begging for small change. Actually, I remember sitting at a cafe in Naples once and a guy wandered through the streets playing an accordion. Now, my brother loves the accordion, and started giggling and looking at the guy, much to the horror of the waiters. Sure enough he comes up to us, and plays in front of us until we actually give him money. It sort of reminds me of that Cheech and Chong film where they set up in the middle of some French town, start playing rock music, and everybody comes out of their houses and throws money at them to make then shut up.

tNow the minimum wage thing is also interesting because there is one thing that I discovered as I was wandering around London – that is that I would land up with a lot of small change, change that would eventually become useless. Normally I just tell the service attendant to keep the change, but in places like Sainsbury's, McDonalds, and such, they actually can't do that. In fact if you tell them to keep the change they have to put it in a donation box on the counter. Personally that absolutely appals me, particularly since these guys are being paid a minimum wage (which is about seven quid in England). I don't mind the tip jar, where the staff divide the tips among themselves at the end of the night, but after discovering that the small change at KFC goes to their 'special charity' I decided that I would pass on that and give it to the guy with his cup in his hand. Sure, he might end up using the money to go and buy drugs, but then again at least I know where that is going – I really don't know what KFC are doing with the money that they are refusing to give as tips to their staff.

tOh, English beer – I should mention English beer since Orwell made a comment about it as well. What he was doing was that he was debunking the myth that the tramps use their money to get drunk. Well, as it turns out English beer is little more than coloured water, which means you need an awful lot (something like thirty pounds worth) to actually get tipsy. However, he is gilding the lily a bit there because while it is true that English beer is pretty weak, gin is not – and it is also pretty cheap. If you want to get plastered in England, you don't go for the beer, you go for the gin – that will definitely do the job for you. In fact, I'm just going to pop down to the off license just to see how much a bottle of gin will actually set me back (about twelve pounds for a small bottle, so no, it's not cheap now, but it probably was back in Orwell's day).

Five stars from me. I would use three words to describe this book: “somber, side-splitting, shrewd”. “Somber” refers to the subject matter, which is about abject poverty and hunger in urban cities, as seen through Orwell’s eyes in Paris and London on his experimental tour. “Side-splitting” is my reaction to the ironic and dry humor that he effortlessly displays in describing some episodes. “Shrewd” refers to his observation of the lives of those barely surviving in society’s lowest echelons, often down to the most trivial minutiae and with keen insight.

The book is a unique kind of partly fictional, semi-autobiographical, travel diary in which Orwell tells the experiences of a British writer working alongside plongeurs (dishwashers or scullions) in a Paris hotel kitchen, and then living with tramps (homeless people) upon his return to England. His description of the Paris hotel kitchen will make you think twice before stepping into a high-class hotel restaurant ever again!

These are some trenchant passages from the book:-

When one is overworked, it is a good cure for self-pity to think of the thousands of people in Paris restaurants who work such hours (seventeen-hour day, seven days a week), and will go on doing it, not for a few weeks, but for years.

I believe that this instinct to perpetuate useless work is, at bottom, simply fear of the mob. The mob (the thought runs) are such low animals that they would be dangerous if they had leisure; it is safer to keep them too busy to think……But the trouble is that intelligent, cultivated people, the very people who might be expected to have liberal opinions, never do mix with the poor. For what do the majority of educated people know about poverty?

Why are beggars despised? I believe it is for the simple reason that they fail to earn a decent living…. Money has become the grand test of virtue. By this test beggars fail, and for this they are despised.

Do not kid yourself. Orwell’s novel about the consequences of living in poverty is not fiction. This might sound like a paradox, a very strange oxymoron, but it isn’t. And I’ll explain why.

This is the “made-up” story of an English writer who goes to France. Once there, he is faced with a sudden lack of wealth income. Living with almost no money, he finds it is imperative to find work. After weeks without a job, a job at an expensive Hotel in Paris surfaces when he meets a friend who tells him about it. Working as a Plonguer (in French, “dishwasher”) in the underground caves of the Hotel’s kitchen, he becomes submerged in drudgery.

In 1929, Paris was far from a paradise city, as some like to conceive it. It was a slum filled with vagrancy and indecency, masqueraded by a veneer of pomposity and luxury. Orwell wants to make sure the reader grasps this point of view.

The plotting of the book is a mere pretext for Orwell. In truth, he tries to explore the narrative as a dissertation mechanism. The book’s genius resides in its accurate, vivid description of humanity. In it, the reader is faced with a disturbing series of first-person accounts of what it was like to be deprived of money in a society that depends upon it.

Known for his pertinent essays, George Orwell cannot write novels that feed themselves solely on escapism. The subject matter of his stories often serve as subtle ploys. All he desires to do is make people think about the world in which they are so idly involved. It concerns itself with tickling one’s conscience.

I've loved everything I've ever read by Orwell, including this book which is very autobiographical "fiction", written in the first person. The temporal setting of the "novel" is sometime in the 1920s I think. This is actually not a bad book to sample Orwell with, of course nowhere near as famous as Animal Farm or 1984, but it reads much like a memoir (a very interesting one) and hence can be experienced as a sample of Orwell's writing style and views on society, without those things being masked by the futurist/fantasy plots of the more famous books.

Much like Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, Orwell's heavily autobiographical journalistic novel makes me vaguely uncomfortable—I just can never quite bring myself to fully embrace depictions of "playing poverty" by young white men from bourgeois (or better) backgrounds. Granted, the comparison is a bit unfair, as Hemingway was clearly indulging in a project of retroactive self-mythification and intentionally fudging details while Orwell was attempting something akin to a social exposé, using his experiences to expose the European middle class readership of the realities of menial labor and begging. It's not that I intrinsically have a problem with these men's social privilege, it's the fact that it's never explicitly accounted for, which quickly leads to an untruthful romanticization of the disempowerment and disenfranchisement that is legitimately experienced by many people (who I'm quite sure don't find it a bit glamorous or romantic).

The narrative (if it can be accurately described as such) is an often awkward blend of colorful picaresque storytelling and stern Marxist-influenced polemics, but Orwell is at his best when relishing in the detailed minutia of the social microcosms he often finds himself enmeshed in, ranging from a posh French hotel to the British vagrant community. Because I have worked in the hospitality industry I was fascinated by the rigid workplace hierarchies of Parisian hotels and restaurants, and I thoroughly enjoyed the depictions of the countless creative ways that the sparking facades presented to paying tourists are undermined behind every kitchen and closet door ("roughly speaking, the more one pays for food, the more sweat and spittle one is obliged to eat with it"). Things might be much more sanitary now, but the behind-the-scene subversions and resentments were on occasion remarkably familiar.

Once Orwell transfers from Paris to London, however, things get progressively more dull—the witty, stylistic flourishes and the vibrant characterizations and anecdotes Orwell employs in his presentation of Paris gives way to a serious, plodding social-realist depiction of British street people, and the diatribes also become more frequent. At which point I had to force myself to finish the last few chapters, which unfortunately means I ended on a more sour note, which isn't very indicative of my experience with the majority of the text. C'est la vie.

[Read for ENG630:02 - Expatriate Writers in Paris: 1930's, 1940's and Beyond]


"Poverty is what I am writing about, and I had my first contact with poverty in this slum. The slum, with its dirt and queer lives, was first an object-lesson in poverty, and then the background for my own experiences. It is for that reason that I try to give some idea of what life was like there."

"پیروزی نصیب کسی خواهد شد که در جنگ بیشتر مقاومت کند; باید شهامت داشت، شهامت"

وااییی چقدر زیبا فقر رو توصیف کرد

متشرداً في باريس ولندن

هذه حكاية أوضاع الطبقة العاملة في باريس وأوضاع متشردي لندن يرويها لنا أورويل والذي عاش التجربة بكل مرارتها في ثلاثينات القرن الماضي، كان أورويل قد ترك الشرطة البريطانية في بورما حينها، وانتقل إلى باريس حيث أمضى زمناً صعباً من البحث عن عمل، ومن ثم في غسل الصحون في مطاعم وفنادق باريس القذرة، ينقل لنا أورويل الحياة في ذلك الوقت، كيف يعيش الناس على فتات الفتات، تمر عليهم أيام بلا طعام ولا أمل، يخبرنا كيف رهن ملابسه ليحصل على مال يشتري به طعامه ويدفع أجرة مسكنه، نطل على قذارة وبؤس نكاد لا نصدق أنهما في باريس.

ينتقل أورويل بعدها إلى لندن تحت وعد وظيفة أفضل، ولكنه يصل ليجد أن الوظيفة غير مؤكدة وأنه سيعيش لأسابيع متشرداً بلا مأوى ولا غذاء إلا ما تقدمه بيوت الصدقة والتي لا تسمح للشخص في المبيت فيها إلا لليلة واحدة في الشهر، هكذا عليه أن يتحرك طيلة الوقت، وأن يبحث عن مكان يقدم له الطعام والمبيت في أنحاء لندن، ينتقد أورويل هذه الظروف، ويقدم حلولاً لها، كما يعرفنا على بعض شخصيات المتشردين الذين التقى بهم.

Few other books give so much credit to the dishwasher. Based on my experience of discovering a cockroach on my spoon just before shovelling it into my mouth, I think I would have drunk the milk, even if a bedbug had fallen in it, but then unlike Orwell I didn't have the spit and polish of a private education.

Quite fun, but you probably already know that after lunch is when you get the best deals from the pawnbrokers.

نویسنده‌ای که خودش زندگی خوبی داشته، از خانواده‌ی مرفه‌ای بوده و زندگی نسبتا راحت و خوبی داشته و در عین حال بتونه کتابی بنویسه و کاراکترش رو یک انسان فقیر، تنها، پر از مشکلات و خانه به دوش خلق بکنه واقعا آفرین داره.