- This book was published in 1936 and written from 1934 to 1935.
- George Orwell only lived 46 and a half years (5 June, 1903 – 21 January, 1950).
- An English author and considered one of England's best chroniclers of the 20th century.
- His gravestone bore the simple epitaph: "Here lies Eric Arthur Blair, born 25 June 1903, died 21 January 1950"; no mention is made on the gravestone of his more famous pen-name.
- Buried in Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire in All Saints' Churchyard
Note to self: something to visit when visiting England in the future: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sutton_Cou
------> DK's note: What a great intro to a book......... meant to prick at your emotions and agitate you by replacing a positive connatation with a negative one (or what most people would consider negative); and especially rearranging words from a holy book that says you will have eternal damnation if you manipulate words within it. Speaking of course of the disciple John's words in Revelation 21:19 - "And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book".... if this is truly the case though then one could likely find 90% of all the greatest authors somewhere between the 7th and 9th circles of Dante's black burning abyss, which would be such a ridiculous notion if there is indeed a God, since these writers were probably some of the most honest men and women that ever walked the planet. So saying this is the absolute truth would obviously be obsurd, unless (assuming there is a god) that God himself is a sadistic asshole. In any case, the words that Orwell has exchanged are genius and have pure truth in them in a capitalist regime:
"Though I speak with the tongue of men and of angels, and have not money, I am become a sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though i have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that i could remove mountains, and have not money, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor and though i give my body to be burned, and have not money, it profiteth me nothing. Money suffereth long, and is kind; money envieth not; money vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave unseemingly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.... And now abideth faith, hope money, these three; but the greatest of these is money. "
1 Corinthians 13 (adapted version)
------> DK's note: Background of when i read this for future reference for myself - Have not read any of George Orwell's works for a very long time and the only other book I've read from him was 'Animal Farm'. Apparently he was strongly against any form of regime involving totaliltarianism even though he was closely confidentially observed by British Intelligence as a potential Communist. This book in particular i found in a used bookstore in Peurto Natales where one can exchange any used book for another + 1000 Chilean pesos. The bookstore was called 'Cafe Book' and was 1 block from Baquadano near the central Plaza (was given instructions to find it from Kate, a friendly Canadian volunteer from Ontario at the Hostal Patagonia who just finished her 2 month volunteer program at the Torres del Paines). After looking at literally every title of all the used books they had in the store, I decided on this one because it was the only author worth reading. All the other books were Danielle Steele and other equivalent shit of that nature. I think if one burned all of her books on earth then then world would incrementally be a better place. The other 2 that i had found earlier that week were the Pullitzer Prize winning fiction novel Lonesome Dove and the classic Scarlet Letter by Hawthorne, but both disappeared off the shelf by the time i was ready to exchange. Similar to A Farewell to Arms (which I exchanged for this one), this novel was written in between the two World Wars. The interesting commonalities one finds when reading literature during this period, especially from the greats, is that there is a consistent theme when comparing various authors who are completely unrelated. They always focus around the topic of Socialism/Communism vs. Capitialism. And it is also very interesting to see that it is always the same outcome. The 'good-natured' characters and 'naturally-caring' characters always somehow take it up the ass in the end because obviously they are on the Socialist side of things within a Capitalist regime; which history has told us that the resultant absolute truism is that it leads to a useless existence if you follow it down to its extreme. To anyone whom rejects this notion, let the empirical evidence that has unveiled itself over the last 2000 years be the proof of this notion to see if it stands on its own merits. Pure socialists should reject the concept of money because that should never be the incentive in the first place if they truly believe in the nature of mankind to always be in the act of serving another without any compensate in return except to expect and almost know that another will give the same in return. How naive Communism was and is. Marx was a great man and probably extremely well natured and probably very giving.... but good in theory, of course. He would've likely regretted his Manifesto if he realized how many instances of useless existence it caused in the end (although its not the end yet). Perhaps this entire debate of humanity will always go on; through literature, movies, government, media, religion......It reminds me of Magneto vs. Professor X, Black vs. white in chess which is of course the greatest game of truth on earth, Klingons vs. the Starfleet, The Empire vs. the Rebel fleet, Galileo vs. the Church, philanthropy vs. private business, US vs. Russia, the NFLs system of revenue sharing vs. the MLB's system of representation by population. Communism is euphoria. But it obviously does not coincide with the laws of humanity. Again the proof of this is every single regime has fallen under it. Also, of course.... which is why im even writing these stupid ideas.... is that this was Orwell's point in his book.... In capitalism, ignoring money in its absolute extreme leads down a very dark path.... useless existence and eventually human destruction. One other note; this book reminded me very much of Rand's works except that Orwell follows the single path of 1 useless individual in society who is extremely idealistic, where Rand, through Roark, focuses on almost the exact opposite. Both lead to the exact same conclusion and the authors were correct.... which is why they continue to live on and deserved to be remembered. Through merit.
DK's SUMMARY: Gordon Comstock wishes above everything else to be able to become a poet by not 'selling out' his soul and treasured goal to the money-god. His parents' generation had a total of 10 siblings on the father's-Comstock side of the family, although not a single one had any offspring with the exception of his father, who bore 2 children; himself and his sister Julia. They were all raised just below the middle class, so enough to get by but never to be wealthy enough to be considered successful. Julia, because she was kindly and good-natured supported her brother when their parents passed away and she was so poor that she was unable to get married and was now to old to do so. Gordon was able to get a 'decent' education but not at a school like Oxford or Cambridge. With his education he desired to write and be able to make a living off his poems. He had one published called 'Mice', which he had gotten excited over for nothing because it eventually went nowhere. He intentionally did not take high paying jobs because he did not want to focus on money; he actually ends up quiting a job as a copyright at a prestigious advertising company called the New Albion. He could barely afford food, after he paid rent in his miserable filthy little apartment. Before he quit the New Albion he had started courting a girl named Rosemary. He was always extremely self-conscious about not having enough money and was constantly thinking about how little he had. He was paranoid that the entire world was against him and that Rosemary didn't love him enough to sleep with him because he had no money, which initially one could argue was true because she was worrying about whether she could marry him and raise a child with him. He owns an apidistra which apparently is extremely difficult to kill and an unattractive plant. This imagery parallels his own life as he looks at himself as a weed, but he thinks he can outlast the plant by holding out against money longer than the plant can outlive him. He works at a bookstore on a very small wage upon his own request after resigning from the New Albion. He continues to court Rosemary and remains very insecure about letting her pay for anything. After finally receiving a check from an American company for one of the poems that he submitted he spends all of it on one night without any control because he is so happy. He takes out his best friend Ravelston and Rosemary to an exquisite dinner at the Madigliani with expensive wine. He then becomes drunk and tries to pressure Rosemary to sleep with him. She is very offended and runs off home. He then continues that night to drink more and then eventually takes 2 prostitutes to a hotel room later that night. He can't perform because of his drunken state and the girls take his money. He wanders out on the street and gets arrested after punching a police sergeant in the face. Bailed out the next day by Ravelston, he gets evicted and fired from his job. He stays on Ravelston's couch hating his existence and hating money and hating that he has to 'sponge' off Ravelston with no choice. He tries to find a job but is unsuccessful and really at this point he doesnt care if he finds one or not. Rosemary sees him from time to time and tries to convince him to back to the New Albion, but he refuses to try because he thinks its against everything he believes in. When she realizes how offended he gets over the subject she doesnt discuss it with him anymore to respect his beliefs. He eventually leaves Ravelston's place and finds another lower paying job at another bookstore and then moves out to a filthier place with shared bathrooms and litter everywhere. Gordon now doesnt care about writing anymore and just wants to go down deeper and sink into 'the mud' until there is no existence. She cries constantly around him and he becomes indifferent to her crying. She says she cant follow down his path and says she must leave him. He says and thinks because its because he has no money. She obviously thinks this is unfair for him to behave and think this way. She leaves. Later she comes back in the week and says she can't leave him because she loves him too much and then decides to sleep with him and loses her virginity that night in the filthy apartment, she essentially held out for the entire book until the last 20 pages. She becomes pregnant in this act and then Gordon realizes she either needs to go through an abortion or he needs to marry her and find a good paying job, likely go back to the New Albion. He decides after researching at the library what happens in the state of pregnancy and that he has no choice but to care for the baby and Rosemary so he chooses on the latter and goes back to become a writer for advertisements and becomes somewhat successful; much of this is because of his strong grasp for words since this is all he focussed on through his poetry. He also can't stand the thought of having an abortion; it disgusts him. Advertisements are essentially just words at the end of the day so he becomes talented at coming up with slogans and shows signs of promise. He becomes very happy when he starts earning and being able to afford his own place and furniture for himself, Rosemary and for the baby and he realizes that money is great and that at the end of the day allows him to have and experience all that matters in life. They choose, after much discussion and arguing, to have a apidistra in the living room.
Favorite passages:
In all bookshops there goes a savage Darwinian struggle in which the works of living men gravitate to eye level and the works of dead men go up or down - down to Gehenna or up to the throne, but always away from any position where they will be noticed. Down in the bottom shelves the 'classics', the extinct monsters of the Victorian age, were quietly rotting. p12
Religion always sells provided it is sloppy enough. p12
That noxious horn-spectacled refinement! And the money that such refinement means! For after all, what is there behind it, except money? Money for the right kind of education, money for influential friends, money for leisure and peace of mind, money for trips to Italy. Money writes books, money sells them. Give me not righteousness, O Lord, give me money, only money. p 13
Shall we ever again get a writer worth reading? p 17
As Gordon threw away the match his eye fell upon the aspidistra in its grass green pot. It was a peculiarly mangy specimen. It had only seven leaves and never seemed to put forth any new ones. Gordon had a sort of secret fued with the aspidistra. Many a time he had furtively attempted to kill it - starving it of water, grinding hot cigarette-ends against its stem, even mixing salt with its earth. But the beastly things are practically immortal. In almost any circumstances they can preserve a wilting, diseased existence. Gordon stood up and deliberately wiped his kerosiny fingers on the apidistra leaves. p 33
None of the boys had proper professions, because Gran'pa Comstock had been at the greatest pains to drive all of them into professions for which they were totally unsuited. Only one of them - John, Gordon's father - had even braved Gran'pa Comstock to the extent of getting married during the latter's lifetime. It was impossible to imagine any of them making any sort of mark in the world, or creating anything, or destroying anything, or being happy, or vividly unhappy, or fully alive, or even earning a decent income. They just drifted along in an atmosphere of semi-genteel failure. They were one of those depressing families, so common among the middle-middle classes, in which NOTHING EVER HAPPENS. p 43
Since the Comstocks were genteel as well as shabby, it was considered necessary to waste huge sums on Gordon's education. What a fearful thing it is, this incubus of 'education'! It means that in order to send his son to the right kind of school (that is a public school or an imitation of one) a middle-class man is obliged to live for years on end in a style that would be scorned by a jobbing plumber. p46
Gordon, in those days still a believer, used actually to pray that his parents wouldn't come down to school. His father, especially, was the kind of father you couldn't help being ashamed of; a cadaverous, despondent man, with a bad stoop, his clothes dismally shabby and hopelessly out of date. He carried about with him an atmosphere of failure, worry, and boredom. And he had such a dreadful habit, when he was saying good-bye, of tipping Gordon half a crown right in front of the other boys, so that everyone could see that it was only half a crown and not, as it ought to have been, ten bob! Even twenty years afterwards the memory of that school made Gordon shudder.
The first effect of all this was to give him a crawling reverence for money. In those days he actually hated his poverty sticken-relatives - his father and mother, Julia, everybody. He hated them for their dingy homes, their dowdiness, their joyless attitude to life, their endless worrying and groaning over threepences and sixpences. By far the commonest phrase in the Comstock household was, 'We can't afford it'. In those days he longed for money as only a child can long. Why shouldn't one have decent clothes and plenty of sweets and go to the pictures as often as one wanted to? He blamed his parents for their poverty as though they had been poor on purpose. Why couldn't they be like other boys' parents? They PREFERRED being poor, it seemed to him. That is how a child's mind works. p47
It was great fun. Every intelligent boy of sixeteen is a Socialist. At that age one does not see the hook sticking out of the rather stodgy bait. p48
Gordon thought it all out, in the naive selfish manner of a boy. There are two ways to live, he decided. You can be rich, or you can deliberately refuse to be rich. You can possess money, or you can despise money; the one fatal thing is to worship money and fail to get it. He took it for granted that he himself would never be able to make money. It hardly even occured to him that he might have talents which chould be turned to account. That was twhat his schoolmasters had done for him; they had rubbed it into him that he was a seditious little nuisance and not likely to 'succeed' in life. He accepted this. Very well, then, he would refuse the whole business of 'succeeding'; he would make it his especial purpose not to 'succeed'. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven; better to serve in hell than serve in heaven, for that matter. Already, at sixteen, he knew which side he was on. He was against the money-god and all his swinish priesthood. He had declared war on money; but secretly, of course. p 50
He could put up with this meaningless office-life, because he never for an instant thought of it as permanent. Somehow, sometime, God knew how or when, he was going to break free of it. After all, there was always his 'writing'. Some day, perhaps, he might be able to make a living of sorts by 'writing'; and you'd feel you were free of the money-stink if you were a 'writer', would you not? The types he saw all round him, especially the older men, made him squirm. That was what it meant to worship the money-god! To settle down, to Make Good, to sell your soul for a villa and an aspidistra! To turn into the typical little bowler-hatted sneak- Strube's 'little man' - the little docile cit who slips home by six-fifteen to a supper of a cottage pie and stewed tinned pears, half an hour's listening-in to the BBC Symphony Concert p 53
*** POWERFUL PASSAGE.....
The next seven months were devastating. They scared him and almost broke his spirit. He learned what it means to live for weeks on end on bread and margarine, to try to write when you are half starved, to pawn your clothes, to sneak trembling up the stairs when you owe three weeks' rent and your landlady is listening to you. Moreover, in those seven months he wrote practically nothing. The first effect of poverty is that it kills thought. 55
------> DK's note: and it should for someone so stupid as to think you can exist as a pure socialist.
It is in the brain and the soul that lack of money damages you. Mental deadness, spiritual squalor - they seem to descend upon you inescapbly when your income drops below a certain point. Faith, hope, money - only a saint could have the first two without having the third. p63
------> DK's note: if this is not true, give me all your money and everything you will own and earn in the future and see how you live. you will eventualy come to agreement with this statement.
Possibly there were some other, more distantly related Comstocks, for Gran'pa Comstock had been one of a family of twelve. But if any survived they had grown rich and lost touch with their poor relations; for money is thicker than blood. As for Gordon's branch of the family, the combined income of the five of them, allowing for the lump sum that had been paid down when Aunt Charlotte entered the Mental Home, might have been six hundred a year. Their combined ages were two hundred and sixty-three years. None of them had ever been out of England, fought in a war, been in prison, ridden a horse, travelled in an aeroplane, got married, or given birth to a child. There seemed no reason why they should not continue in the same style until they died. Year in, year out, NOTHING EVER HAPPENED, in the Comstock family. p 67
------> DK's note: reminds me of the lameness, indifference, passionless existence of Calgary.
=)
No matter. What do they think? Money, money! Rent, rates, taxes, school bills, season tickets, boots for the children. And the life insurance policy and the skivvy's wages. And, my God, suppose the wife gets in the family way again! And did I laugh loud enough when the boss made that joke yestserday? And the next instalment on the vaccuum cleaner. p71
------> DK's note: isn´t this what we still go through in the year 2009; the same mindless waste of existence amongst everyone... the same repetitive shit day in and day out even 75 years later after this book was written the thoughts of humans are still the same inside one's head.
In the deadly glare of the Neon lights the pavements were densely crowded. Gordon threaded his way, a small shabby figure, with a pale face and unkempt hair. The crowd slid past him; he avoided and was avoided. There is something horrible about London at night; the coldness, the anonymity, the aloofness. Seven million people, sliding to and fro, avoiding contact, barely aware of one another's existence, like fish in an aquarium tank. p 77
------> DK's note: reminds one of NYC at times. Perhaps every major metropolitan area is the same.
How many girls alive wouldn't be manless sooner than take a man who's moneyless. p78
------> DK's note:: Kanye West makes the exact same point 70 years later??
His eyes fell upon the apidistra. Two years he had inhabited this vile room; two mortal years in which nothing had been accomplished. Seven hundred wasted days, all ending in the lonely bed. Snubs, failures, insults, all of them unavenged. Money, money, all is money! Because he had no money the Dorings snubbed him, because he had no money the Primrose had turned down his poem, because he had no money Rosemary wouldn't sleep with him. Social failure, artistic failure, sexual failure - they are all the same. And lack of money is at the bottom of it all. p84
"I didn't mean that". I meant the poems themselves are dead. There's no life in them. Everything i write is like that. Lifeless, gutless. Not necessarily ugly or vulgar; but dead - just dead". The word 'dead' reechoed in his mind, setting up its own train of thought. He added: "My poems are dead because I'm dead. You're dead. We're all dead. Dead people in a dead world". p90
------> DK's note: this is the end result of a purely idealistic socialist in a capitalist regime.
"God knows. All we know is what we don't want. That's what's wrong with us nowadays. We're stuck, like Buridan's donkey. Only there are three alternatives instead of two, and all three of them make us spew. Socials-s only one of them."
"And what are the other two?"
"Oh, i suppose suicide and the Catholic Church". p95
------> DK's note: Buridan's ass is a figurative description of a man of indecision. It refers to a paradoxical situation wherein an ass, placed exactly in the middle between two stacks of hay of equal size and quality, will starve to death since it cannot make any rational decision to start eating one rather than the other. The paradox is named after the 14th century French philosopher Jean Buridan.
Ravelston rubbed his noese reflectively. "It seems to me tha's only another form of suicide".
"In a way. But so's Socialism. At least it's a counsel of despair. But I couldn't commit suiicde, real suicide. It's too meek and mild. I'm not going to give up my share of earth to anyone else. I'd want to do in a few of my enemies first". p 96
Gordon didn't listen. "What rot it is to talk about Socialism or any other ism when women are what they are! The only thing a women ever wants is money; money for a house of her own and two babies and Drage furniture and an apidistra. The only sin they can imagine is not wanting to grab money. No woman ever judges a man by anything except his income. Of course she doesn't put it to herself like that. She says he's such a nice man ' meaning that he's got plenty of money. And if you haven't got money you aren't nice. You're dishonoured, somehow. You've sinned. Sinned against the apidistra." p 101
This woman business! What a bore it is! What a pity we can't cut it right out, or at least be like the animals ' minutes of ferocious lust and months of icy chastity. Take a cock pheasant, for example. He jumps on the hens' backs without so much as a with your leave or by your leave. And no sooner is it over than the whole subject is out of his mind. He hardly even notices his hens any longer; he ignores them, or simply pecks them if they come too near his food. He is not called upon to support his offspring, either. Lucky pheasant! How different from the lord of creation, always on teh hop between his memory and his conscience! p 110
------> DK's note: found this passage hilarious
This woman business! Perhaps you'd feel differently about it if you were married? But he had taken an oath against marriage long ago. Marriage is only a trap set for you by the money-god. You grab the bait; snap goes the trap; and there you are, chained by the leg to some 'good' job till they cart you to Kensal Green. And what a life! p122
"Women! What nonsense they make of all our ideas! Because one can't keep free of women, and every women makes one pay the same price. 'Chuck away your decency and make more money' - thats what women say. 'Chuck away your decency, suck the blacking off the boss's boots, and buy me a better fur coat than the woman next door.' Every man you can see has got some blasted woman hanging round his neck like a mermaid, dragging him down and down - down to some beastly leittle semi-detatched villa in Putney, with hire-purchase furniture and a portable radio and an aspidistra in the window. It's women who make all progress impossible. Not that i believe in progress," he hadded rather unsatisfactorily. p 122
------> DK's note: the idiocy of one who does not believe in progress and a medium for exchange.
She looked up at him an instant longer, and then buried her face in his breast as suddenly as though ducking from a blow. It was because she had burst into tears. She wept against his breast, angry with him, hating him, and yet clinging to him like a child. It was the childish way in which she clung to him, as a mere male breast to weep on that hurt him most. With a sort of self-hatred he remembered the other women who in just this same way had cried against his breast. It seemed the only thing he could do with women, make them cry. p 128
------> DK's note: somehow i can relate frighteningly well to this passage.
It's not easy to make love in a cold climate when you have no money. The 'never the time and the place' motif is not made enough of in novels. p131
------> DK's note: can do nothing but pity this character at this point in the book
But in the end he let himself be persuaded. He had known that he would let himself be persuaded. He stayed onat the flat, and allowed Ravelston to go round to Willowbed Road and pay his rent and recover his two cardboard suitcases; he even allowed Ravelston to 'lend' him a further two pounds for current expenses. His heart sickened while he did it. He was living on Ravelston - sponging on Ravelson. How could there ever be real frendship between them again? Besides, in his heart he didn't want to be helped. He only wanted to be left alone. He was headed for the gutter; better to reach the gutter quickly and get it over. Yet for the time being he stayed, simply because he lacked the courage to do otherwise. p 204
"Will you go back to the New Albion?"
So that was it! Of course he had foreseen it. She was going to start nagging at him like all the others. She was going to add herself to the band of peoplewho worried him and badgered him to 'get on'. But what else could you expect? It was what any women would say. The marvel was that she had never said it before. Go back to the New Albion! It had been the sole significant action of his life, leaving the New Albion. It was his religion, you might say, to keep out of that filthy money-world. Yet at this moment he could not remember with any clarity the motives for which he had left the New Albion. All he knew was that he would never go back, not if the skies fell, and that the argument he foresaw bored him in advance. p207
There were further argements. It was the first time she had eer spoken to him like this. Once again the tears came into her eyes, and once again she fought them back. She had come here swearing to herself that she would not cry. The dreadful thing was that her tears, instead of distresssing him, merely bored him. It was as though he could not care, and yet his very centre there was an inner heart that cared because he could not care. If only she would leave him alone! Alone! Alone! Free from the nagging consciousness of his failure; free to sink, as she had said, down, down into the quiet worlds where money and effort and moral obligation did not exist. Finally he got away from her and went back to the spare bedroom. It was definitely a quarrel - the first really deadly quarrel they had ever had. Whether it was to be final he did not know. Nor did he care, at this moment. He locked the door behind him and lay on the bed smoking a cigarette. He must get out of this place, and quickly! Tomororrow morning he would clear out. No more sponging on Ravelston! No more blackmail to the gods of decency! Down, down, into the mud - down to the street, the workhouse and the jail. It was only there that he could be at peace. p209
But of course, in his inmost heart, he didn't really like having Gordon there. How should he? it was an impossible situation. There was a tension between them all the time. It is always so when one person is living on another. However delicately disguised, charity is still horrible; there is malaise, almost a secret hatred, between the giver and te receiver. Gordeon knew that his friendship with Ravelston would never be the same again. Whatever happened afterwards, the memory of this evil time would be between them. The feeling of his dependent position, of being in the way, unwanted, a nuisance, was with him night and day. p211
Gordon accepted promptly. Mr. Cheeseeman was perhaps faintly disappointed. He had expected an argument, and would have enjoyed crushing Gordon by reminding him that beggars can't be choosers. But Gordon was satisfied. The job would do. There was no trouble about a job like this; no room for ambition, no effort, no hope. Ten bob less - ten bob nearer the mud. It was what he wanted. p215
Yet it was not death, actual physical death, that he wished for. It was a queer feeling that he had. It had been with him ever since that morning when he had woken up in the police cell. The evil, mutinous mood that comes after drunkennes seemed to have set into a habit. That drunken night had marked a period in his life. It had dragged him downward with straeg suddenness. Before, he had fought against the money-code, and yet he had clung to his wretched remnant of decency. But now it was precisely from decency that he wanted to escape. He wanted to go down deep down, into some world where decency no longer mattered; to cut the strings of his self-respect, to submerge himself - to sink, as Rosemary had said. It was all bound up in his mind with the thought of being underground. He liked to think about the lost people, the underground people, tramps, beggars, criminals, prostitutes. It is a good world that they inhabi, down there in their frowzy kips and spikes. p217
To sink! How easy it ought to be, since there are so few competitors! But the strange thing is that often it is harder to sink than to rise. There is always something that drags one upwards. After all, one is never quite alone; there are always friends, lovers, relatives . Everyone Gordonn knew seemed to be writing him letters, pitying him or bullying him. Aunt Angela had written, Uncle Walter had written, Rossemany had written over and over again, Ravelston had wrtten, Julia had written. Even Flaxman had sent a line to wish him luck. p223
------> DK's note: had never really thought of life in this manner. But suppose this is true. That your support system will always try and keep you afloat if you attempt to consciously make a decision to sink your life deeper and deeper into a hellhole.
"The mistake you make, don't you see, is in thinking one can live in a corrupt society without being corrupt oneself. After all, what do you achieve by refusing to make money? You're trying to behave as though one could stand right outside our economic system. But one can't. One's got to change the system, or one changes nothing. One ca0t put things right in a hole-and-corner way, if you take my meaning". p225 by Ravelston
It was a curious fact - rather a shameful fact from a Socialist's point of view - that the thought of Gordon, who had brains and was of gentle birth, lurking in that vile plaec and that almost menial job, worried him more than the thought ten thousand unemplyed in Middlesbrough. Several times, in hope of cheering Gordon up, he wrote asking him to send contribrutions to Antichrist. Gordon never answered. Their friendship was at an end, it seemed to him. The evil time when he had lived on Ravelston had spoiled everything. Charity kills friendship. p 227
"We shall have to get married, I suppose," he said flatly.
"Well, shall we? That's what i came here to ask you."
"But I suppose you want me to marry you, don't you?"
"Not unless YOU want to. I'm not going to tie you down. I know its against your ideas to marry. You must decide for yourself."
"But we've no alternative - if you're really going to have this baby."
"Not necessarily. That's what you've got to decide. Because after all there is another way."
"What way?"
"Oh, you know. A girl at the studio gave me an address. A friend of hers had it done for only five pounds." p 241
He knew it was a dreadful thing they were contemplating - a blasphemy, if that word had any meaning. Yet if it had been put otherwise he might not have recoiled from it. It was the squalid detail of the five pounds that brought it home.
"No fear!," he said. "Whatever happens we're not going to do that. It's disgusting."
"I know it is. But I can't have the baby without being married." p 242
"Of course, you´d like me to go back to the New Albion," he said.
"No, I wouldn't. Not if you don'twant to."
"Yes, you would. After all, it's natural. You want to see me earning a decent income again. In a GOOD job, with four pounds a week and an aspidistra in the window. Wouln't you, now? Own up."
"All right then, yes, I would. But it's only something I'd like to see happening; I'm not going to make you do it. I'd just hate you t o do it if you didn't really want to. I want you to feel free."
"Really and truly free?"
"Yes." p244
Yes, war is coming soon. You can't doubt it when you see the Bovex ads. The electric drills in our streets presage the rattle of the machine guns. Only a little while before the aeroplanes come. Zoom - bang! A few tons of TNT to send our civiliation back to hell where it belongs.
He crossed the road and walked on, southward. A curious thought had struck him. He did not any longer want that war to happen. It was the first time in months - years, perhaps - that he had thought of it and not wanted it. p246
But what about Rosemary? He thought of the kind of life she would live at home, in her parents' house, with a baby and no money; and of the news running through that monstrous family that Rosemary had married some aweful rotter who couldn't even keep her. She ould have the whole lot of them nagging at her together. Besides, there was the baby to think about. The money-god is so cunning. If he only baited his traps with yachts and race-horses, tarts and champagne, how easy it would be to dodge him. It is when he gets at you through your sense of decency that he finds you helpless. p 246
But perhaps it had not been going on quite so long as that. He turned back a page or two and found a print of a six weeks' foetus. A really dreadful thing this time - a thing he could hardly even bear to look at. Strange that our beginnings and endings are so ugly - the unborn as ugly as the dead. This thing looked as if it were dead already. p 249
*** POWERFUL PASSAGE...finally he sees the LIGHT!
He seemed to be walkin faster than usual. There was a peculiar sensation, an actual physical sensation, in his heart, in his limbs, all over his limbs, all over him. What was it? Shame, misery, despair? Rage at being back in the clutch of money? Boredom when he thought of the deadly future? He dragged the sensation forth, faced it, examined it. It was relief.
Yes, that was the truth of it. Now that the thing was done he felt nothing but relife; relief that now at last he head finsihed with dirt, cold, hunger, and loneliness and could get back to decent, fully human life. His resolutions, now that he had broken them, seemed nothing but a frightful weight that he had cast off. Moreoer, he was aware that he was only fulfilling his destiny. In some corner of his mind he had always known that this would happen. He thought of the day when he head given them notice at the New Albion; and Mr Erskine's kind, red, beefish face, gently counselling him not to chuck up a 'good' job for nothing. How bitterly he had sworn, then, that he was done with 'good' jobs for nothing. How bitterly he had sworn, then, that he was done with 'good' job for nothing. How bitterly he had sworn, then, that he was done with 'good' jobs for ever! Yet it was foredoomed that he should come back, and he had known it even then. And it was not merely becase of Rosemary and the baby that he had done it. That was the obvious cause, the precipitating cause, but even without it the end would have been the same; if there had been no baby to think about, something else would have forced his hand. For it was what, in his secret heart, he had desired.
After all he did not lack vitality, and that moneyless existence to which he had condemned himself thrust him ruthlessly out of the stream of life. He looked back over the last two frightful years. He had blasphemed against money, rebelled against money, tried to live like anchorite outside the money-world; and it had brought him not only misery, bt also a frightful emptiness, an inescapable sense of futility. To abjure money is to abjure life. Be not reighteous over much; why shouldst thou die before thy time? Now he was back in the money-world, or soon would be.
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