Faith, hope and criticism.

My favourite novel of all time chronicles Gordon Comstock’s war against money and British society. That Gordon chose to live outside the system and stay true to his art tempers the optimism of most follow your dreams type aspirational story with Gordon sinking further and further into poverty much to the shame of his family. It was always my intention to buy an aspidistra and display it in the bay window on getting married in homage to this book. As it happened my wife wouldn’t hear of us owning an aspidistra and bought a cheese plant which she then proceeded to kill. This should have told me a tale in it’s self. Anyway on getting my own novel published I was determined not to brood on it in the way Gordon tracks down copies of ‘London Pleasures’ in the remaindered shelves. So whenever I catch myself checking the inventory on Abe Books or my the ranking on Amazon for ‘Here’s 2 Absent Fathers’ I find myself drawing a parallel with Gordon and his bleak world view.

Jauns, nūģīgs dzejnieks cīnās pret kapitālisma sistēmu un naudu, centīgi izvairoties strādāt normāli atalgotu darbu. No tā visa viņš daudz un tīksmi cieš, bet mazliet arī veldzējas sava morālā pārākuma apziņā.
Kapitālisma sistēmai par to visu ir pilnīgs pofigs.

Patiesībā jau grāmatas sižets nav īpaši interesants un ir iepriekš paredzams, bet Orvelam kaut kā ir izdevies to padarīt tīri baudāmu

Un racconto molto psicologico ma al tempo stesso molto concreto. L'evoluzione psicologica qui narrata ha una vaga somiglianza con quella che si trova ne La cura di Hesse - per lo meno nelle tribolazioni iniziali e nel senso di sollievo del finale - solo che qui c'è molta più immediatezza. C'è anche la dimostrazione pratica di una morale per nulla trascurabile: una scelta fatta perché "bisogna" fare così o perché tutti fanno così è una cosa che non vale niente; una scelta fatta perché la si è sentita e riflettuta e decisa, allora vale tutto. A parte questo, non giudica cosa è giusto o sbagliato, cosa è buono o cattivo: critica, ma senza sputare sentenze.

Sin dall'inizio della lettura sono andata chiedendomi: com'è che quando si parla del romanzo della normalità, della borghesità e anche della mediocrità, tutti esaltano Stoner con trionfali squilli di trombe e invece questo non viene mai - dico mai - nominato?

Se La fattoria degli animali è una racconto non solo invecchiato ma del tutto superato, e se anche 1984 può apparire per certi aspetti invecchiato malino, questo romanzo è stupefacente per la sua attualità e modernità. Di più: quella capacità di preveggenza che di solito si attribuisce a Orwell con riferimento a 1984 - anche se poi andando a vedere nel dettaglio concreto del romanzo non si sa bene a che cosa la si debba riferire - dicevo, quella capacità di preveggenza si manifesta invece qui in modo strabiliante, quasi da novello Nostradamus: nel 1935 Orwell scrive questo romanzo e fa immaginare al suo protagonista (e suo alter ego) gli aerei che sorvolano Londra per bombardarla. Da stare nel 1935 Orwell critica il capitalismo, il consumismo sfrenato e fine a sé stesso e senza via d'uscita, le pubblicità truffaldine e invadenti, l'onnipotenza del dio denaro e il senso di vuoto di milioni di esistenze, critica tutto questo proprio come se lo stesse guardando da stare nel ventunesimo secolo.

"C'è qualche cosa di terribile in Londra la sera; la freddezza, l'essere anonimi, l'isolamento. Sette milioni di persone che, in perenne andirivieni, evitano ogni contatto, appena consapevoli dell'esistenza l'uno dell'altro, come pesci nella vasca di un acquario."

"Chilometri e chilometri di case modeste, solitarie, tutte ad appartamentini e camere in affitto; non focolari, non comunità, ma semplicemente fasci di vite senza senso trascinate da una specie di caos sonnolento in lenta deriva verso la tomba! Vedeva passare uomini come cadaveri deambulanti."

Parlando di un cartellone pubblicitario: "Osserva per un momento la faccia di quel tizio che sembra guardarci con espressione beota. Puoi vedere tutta la nostra civiltà scritta su quella faccia. L'imbecillità, la vacuità, la desolazione della nostra civiltà!"

Nel corso del racconto, di pagina in pagina, di episodio in episodio, la pianta dell'aspidistra viene eletta a simbolo supremo, rappresentante assoluta del borghese e dell'uomo mediocre, e il protagonista la eleva al grado di suo nemico non solo in senso figurato ma anche in senso reale; la vede ad ogni finestra, su ogni davanzale e gli pare letteralmente di vedere un vessillo che sventola. Io di aspidistra non ne ho mai vista una, suppongo che se uno volesse fare una sorta di traduzione ragionata la si potrebbe sostituire con il ficus beniamino: non c'è appartamento, salottino, pianerottolo, ufficio, sala d'attesa, studio dentistico, hall di ingresso in cui il ficus non faccia bella mostra di sé; e se da un lato lo si può associare a un lodevole intento di ingentilire e perfezionare un ambiente, dall'altro non è poi così assurdo associarlo a un vago senso di abbandono e/o polverosità.

Il protagonista è una figura reale, completa e complessa: a tratti insopportabile, a tratti commovente, a volte è irragionevole e altre volte è impossibile non condividerne i punti di vista. E' ovvio di come si tratti di un personaggio fortemente autobiografico, ed è altrettanto ovvio di come sia il frutto di una penna capace di eccellente elaborazione che non si accontenterebbe di spiattellare lì un qualche cliché tanto per compiacersi della creazione letteraria.

La descrizione dei bassifondi e anche di tutta Londra in generale, per quanto l'epoca sia ben differente, è molto dickesiana, e questo è un aspetto che rende ulteriormente piacevole la lettura.

Lettura consigliatissima e che meriterebbe ben maggiore popolarità.

Edit: e aggiungiamola pure, un'immagine di questa aspidistra, dopo tutto un po' di visibilità se l'è meritata.

The reader’s response to Gordon Comstock’s behaviour will depend upon whether the reader has ever tried to live a “self-sufficient” life free from bourgeois respectability, or seriously pursued an artistic vocation with stubborn single-mindedness. Orwell’s novel is pretty one-track plot-wise—what happens when a person renounces money and its interminable grip?—but Comstock’s obsessive pursuit is a societal conundrum of universal proportions and makes for a frustrating and bone-deep trip to the depths. In my own case, my mother abandoned college ambitions to support her parents, and my two siblings have ditched artistic ambitions in favour of reasonably stable and well-paid occupations—as the third child, with this history of “selling out to the man,” I felt a strong need to have convictions as an artist manqué, privations being part of the plan on the road to obscurity. Comstock’s artistic drive is not strong enough to triumph over his money worries, suggesting his desire to write poetry is nothing but an excuse for rebelling against a predetermined bourgeois society (more horrible in the 1930s than it will ever be again). As with all Orwell’s fiction: it burrows into your conscience and lays eggs there.

کتاب درخت زندگی به پستی و بلندی های زندگی انسان می پردازد. جرج اورول از نویسندگان مشهور انگلیسی است و این کتاب از جمله چندین کتاب وی است که در سال های 1948 برای اولین بار به چاپ رسید.

Orwell's catalogue is done a great disservice by the public school system that offers Animal Farm and 1984 as fictional evidence of the poverty of Soviet Communism. This ignores two important qualities in their author: he was a committed British Socialist, and he was a prolific novelist.

Keep the Aspidistra Flying is a novel of characters first and a social critique second. Orwell gives his poet-unhero a confessional inner dialogue that makes his 1984 counterpart feel like a campaign poster. The romance has more breathing room than 1984 fans are used to also. But in the midst of its character sketching, the social content is not sacrificed. The poet is, of course, penniless and struggles with his rejection of consumerism while needing a little spare change to make his work and relationships work.

The read is well worth it and you'll come to care for several characters. For a film adaptation that is fun with decent acting see "A Merry War".

Our civilization is founded on greed and fear, but in the lives of common men the greed and fear are mysteriously transmuted into something nobler.

This is the story of a thirty-year-old man with issues. That's as simple a description as it gets. Simple is no good in this case though. Indeed, Orwell delivers a complex novel not so much in a literary sense, as in a psychological one. Gordon is an anti-hero whose issues revolve around money. Money is the key word here. If I had to describe him without getting too much into his character, I'd say he is one lucky son of a bitch who keeps kicking his luck away. He quits his very good job only because he doesn't want to be a slave to money. He keeps risking losing his girlfriend who loves him despite all his whims and his ill-tempered manners toward her that always have to do with his not having enough money. He also constantly tests the patience of his only friend, a loaded marxist who has a different kind of money complex. Yet, his former boss is always willing to give him back the job, his girlfriend is always understanding and never gives him a hard time about his reluctance to make money, and his friend never seems to be able to get mad at him. So big is their loyalty that one can only wonder about their motives. Afterall it's not easy banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

With the pretence of willing to make money out of his poetry, Gordon has decided to hit bottom. He actually craves to bury himself deep in the mud of poverty. Because it's either that or he is a cog in the machine of capitalism. And that's where my objection is. I wanted Orwell to assume a stance. Instead, he seems to support the aforementioned dilemma. Maybe it was my idea but that was how I perceived it. Admittedly, he is spot on, concerning the way commercialism works and what it can do to the psyche of someone who has "seen the Matrix". However, he seems to let his well-known pessimism take over which would be alright if only he, as an author, gave at least a glimmer of hope in the light of a big idea. But no such thing occurs. That said, it's still a very moving novel that goes deep into the characters' minds while describing a reality that's ever-present one way or the other.

I'm writing this review, and on my desk, next to the ashtray, four pathetically crumbled twenty-dollar bills and two battered quarters are lying around. Yesterday afternoon I went into a bookstore, wanting to buy Orwell's Keep the Aspidistra Flying, but in the end I left there slurping, cursing everything around, because now the prices for books are such that it's easier to download them online, and with the money intended for the book I bought my Dad a Gremlin Bell he's been lately wanting for his Harley.

Alas, in our time, the power of money has reached such proportions that people, worshiping the Business God and sacrificing their souls to him, gradually turn into submissive slaves, ready for anything, just to have a tidy sum in the bank, and mountains of grub in the fridge. And there's only talk of money everywhere. Everywhere the same "buy-sell", "take a loan", "get your wife a fur coat", "look stylish", "provide yourself with a decent old age". And there's no end to it! And how truly sickening all of this is. Oh, how sickening! And if you're a beggar, no one will want to look at you at all. Money, of course, gives a lot of useful and pleasant things, but it also gives a great reason to feel like a petty, dirty, disgusting nobody, especially when you don't have any! So maybe it's really worth declaring war on money and trying to throw off their oppression?

Gordon Comstock did so, but ultimately suffered a cruel defeat. Because there's no other way. Because money is initially an invincible opponent. No matter how clever and agile David you are, the money Goliath will still trample you, grind you to powder and throw you into the very epicenter of money worship for the amusement of the consumer society with its eloquent slogans and advertising posters.

You can, of course, call Gordon Comstock a pathetic loser, a bruised loser, to be exact, because he only whined, resented, frustrated, cursed, and didn't strive for something, but, allow me to say, he chose his path. The way to the bottom, away from money, away from the vile preoccupied consumer society, to where the Business God with his devoted flock will not find him. And that's his right! Another thing is that it's almost impossible to hide from all this. They'll get it everywhere, even at the bottom (especially at the bottom), and put a juicy, bursting with strength and health aspidistra on the windowsill, as an invariable symbol of material well-being, or destroy it as an extra element in the monetary system. But then what to do? What should you do? The answer, in my opinion, is simple and banal—if you don't want to fall into the clutches of a predatory, merciless beast called money, if you don't want to be dependent on crisp, pleasantly smelling bills, then just stop putting them at the forefront, turning them into the meaning of your existence and making them the center of the universe. In other words, treat them easier, don't bother. There is—good, no—well, that's fine.

I'm writing this review, the ill-fated coins and bills are still lying on the table, a cheap cigarette is smoking in the ashtray, and a song of gratitude to Orwell for his next masterpiece is playing incessantly in my head. He, once again, appeared before me like a mighty titan of writing, a giant of literature. The problem that he raised in his novel and which he so skillfully played out will remain topical for a long time. And what a language! Sharp, acrid, prickly, burning inside, penetrating to the bones. His tongue lashes out like a whip in the capable hands of a shepherd. Orwell not only makes you empathize with the main character, but also causes a kind of anger and resentment towards the whole white world, a desire to immediately challenge the power of money, and at the same time submissive humility, acceptance of all the rules of the big game called human life. So, friends, I have no choice but to go out on the balcony and shout angrily at the whole world: "Long live the damn aspidistra! Long live the damn money! Long live the damn consumer society! Long live the damn Big Brother!"

I felt I needed to pick up another George Orwell book when I was thinking about it and realized just how perfect in my mind Animal Farm and 1984 were. It's been a few years since I read either, but I was itching to read 1984 again.... in the end decided I should read something new instead though. What a great choice.


George Orwell has crafted the most realistic struggling artist character of all time, in my mind, in Gordon Comstock, the poet. Gordon has potential, talent, intelligence and good people around him. But he suffers due to his stubbornness as he wages war against money and all that it stands for. He lives an absurd paradox of life where he doesn't know if he's miserable because of money or if money makes him miserable. He doesn't know if he chose to be upset, but he knows that he is now.

I don't think Gordon is supposed to be taken too literally. I think Orwell wrote him with his tongue in cheek, poking fun at struggling artists who whine and complain instead of crafting their art and working hard. I think "money" could be anything an artist will make an excuse about for him not succeeding or coming out ahead. Gordon constantly complains about how modern art is in the gutter and how people are too stupid nowadays to grasp proper art. He is negative about mostly everything and I feel like if his character in this book were read by someone without so much humour, he could be very unlikable. He's a lot like Holden Caulfield in that way. I love Holden, but I can see why many people don't get it and hate on him. But to be honest, I really loved Gordon. He reminds me so much of myself at times or all the other artists I have known throughout my life. He has very high highs where his art is golden & great, and low lows where he feels all his work is trash. He is bitter for not being where he wants to be, even if he is there by choice. We're shown some of his bitterness and some of his pride in his thoughts and it made me laugh out loud a few times. He's a delight to read, even though he would give me a headache to hang with.

Also, there is a drunken scene in the novel... I don't think I've ever read a scene that was so realistic and pungent with it's point. It reminded me so much of one night where I had to practically babysit one of my drunken friends. Or anytime I've had with an absurdly drunk person for that matter. It also perfectly captured what it's like to talk to and with a pretentious person critiquing the arts. How tedious it can become (both the babysitting and the conversing). It was remarkable and may be one of my favorite scenes of any book I've ever read ever.

My one gripe with the book is it takes a bit of a turn in tone around 3/4 through and gets a bit more serious, sad and heavy, slowing it down. But it wasn't bad, it just slowed down, which is quite a change, considering the extreme joy I was getting at breezing through and soaking in the prose, that is. It was still very gripping and I thoroughly enjoyed taking it all in.

Orwell blows my mind with his consistency and perfectly constructed story with some of the most beautiful prose I've ever had the privilege to read. The ending gives you a lot to think about, like 1984 and animal farm. Orwell has a knack for endings, and though this isn't my favorite from the 3 books, it is still pretty great. I feel like this is a book that will only get better in my mind as time goes on and I have time to reflect on it and it's already near perfect in my eyes.

George Orwell’s Keep the Aspidistra Flying is for the reader a question of nerves. Yours versus protagonist Gordon Comstock. Are you able to cope with a deliberately aggravating central character on nothing more than the hope he will get his, in the neck or in the hinder, either one would be satisfying. It is just possible to caution you against who Gordon is not but to tell you who he is, or might be risks a massive spoiler of a type I will avoid. Orwell does write well and immerses you in the reality of life on the margins of the Pre War, British economy. While not especially explicit in with cruder words or blatantly sexual, I am not sure I can recommend this book even if it is sorta family friendly.

I suspect that many readers are so confounded by Aspidistra that they rationalize it into something it is not. Gordon is no socialist. He says so and is dismissive of any effort to make him one. In fact the only socialist in the book is comically phony. Gordon is not representative of the poor, with whom he shares no sympathetic identification. If he is making a protest he is doing nothing to make sure anyone notices. He is either misanthropic or just ignorant when it comes to women. He may be neurotic but moistly he is angry.

Having shown potential as a poet, he leaves a decent job for which he has an aptitude, declares war on the “Money God” and attempts to live a life of pure poverty. The original idea was to live simply in order that he may write with a pure soul. He winds up too dirty, too cold and too hungry and too ready with excuses to write much of anything. He further loads himself with all manner or ‘rules’ that do little more than insure hisown misery.

Orwell may be looking to satirize Henry David Thoreau, but Gordon’s version of the simple life fails to plan for any of the necessities above barest animal survival.

The final chapter comes as something… well something. If you have the patience to stay with this aggravating character long enough to reach the end, make sure to limit your take on the ending with people who have definitely read, or under no circumstances intend to read it through.

Orwell’ın parasız zamanlarında yazdığı bu kitap eski basımlarında “Ümit Çiçeği” adını taşıyor, esasında aspidistra bir zambak çeşidi. Doğruca topraktan biter gibi görünen, fazla güneş görmese de, yeterince beslenmese de yaşayabilen, gösterişsiz bir bitki bu. Kitaba muhteşem bir isim olmuş, zira bence kitabın kahramanı Gordon da bu bitkiye benziyor. Paraya karşı hayatı pahasına savaş açan bir genç Gordon; yaşam felsefesinde ne paraya yer var ne zenginlere. Olabilecek en kötü şartlarda çalışıp yaşamaya bir diyeceği yok, yeter ki kapitalizm onu kıskacına alamasın.

Şöyle bir pasaj var, çok düşündürdü beni:

- İnsanlar senden nefret etmiyor.
- Ediyor. Ve de haklılar nefret etmekte. Nefret edilecek biriyim. Şu ağız gargarası Listerine reklamlarındaki gibi. ‘Neden hep yalnız? Çünkü ağız kokusu mesleğini mahvediyor.’ Yoksulluk tinsel ağız kokusudur.

"Non scoppieranno rivoluzioni in Inghilterra finché ci saranno aspidistre alle finestre"

Il protagonista, Gordon Comstock, poeta nella Londra degli anni Trenta, conduce una vita di stenti in nome dei suoi ideali. Vuole essere libero dai lacci imposti dalla società borghese e asservita ai quattrini.
Riuscirà a vincere contro l'aspidistra, simbolo dell'agiatezza borghese?