Recently looked up Orwell after reading an essay on Orwell and Powell, and another essay about his time and life towards the end of his days. I have not read Powell, but got reminded of Orwell and looked him up again. Found this book on Gutenberg, and read it on the phone/instapaper.
This one is about poverty. About his time being down and out in Paris and London. About living without food for days, and working in the worst conditions to earn the daily bread. A diary of sorts. A memoir is a better word. In Paris, he works as a 'plongeur' most of the time when he is working. Which means he is a dishwasher, or on the lowliest, most menial rung. When he is out of work, he is pawning his belongings, and trying to figure out how to find food. In London, it is the tramping life for him. No work there, just waiting for work and tramping meanwhile, and spending the nights in Salvation Army hostels, 'spikes', lodging houses. London section is a description of homeless poverty. The inefficient, random, wasted struggle.
At times, esp in the Paris sections, it starts sounding like Waiter Rant (this was a blog I used to read long time ago). Or like Anthony Bourdain writing about restaurant kitchens. (Recently, I read an old article by him in New Yorker). It makes you wonder, and makes you a bit wary of eating out. And makes you observe the waiters and kitchen staff differently when you are next out for a meal.
At some places, Orwell reminds me of Hemingway. May be, the continental Europe. The eating and living and existing. The way they write. The prose, a man's journal.
And at times like 'Hunger' by Knut Hamsun. Actually, a lot like Hunger. The pawn shops, the constant gnawing hunger.
There are observations, and a drawing of conclusions for the society, and reflections on the labours of plongeur, which in the larger scheme of things, looks like wasted labour. But then most of the edifices of the modern world are wasted, needless things. When life is so complicated, the cog, (which most of the humanity ends up becoming), questions its role and the value of its efforts. For the cog, the efforts are everything, the circle bounding its existence. For the wheel, what value?
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Thoughts on the book: The book is a memoir, not enough to excite any strong feelings. However, it did keep me in its grip. While reading, normally, one imagines and takes oneself where the protagonist is, or the circumstances they are experiencing. In this case, it was not a place or emotion I wished for myself. Most of the time, through this book, in the background, I kept wondering how Orwell found himself in such circumstances in the first place.What was he doing there. And why. And then how did he get from tramping, to being able to write and publish about it. It is indeed a viewpoint not captured enough in books, for a simple reason, that those who tramp, who are on the road, do not find the time enough to pen down their experiences. Except may be, if you are Kerouac.