I wish I had good things to say about this book, especially as someone who was hugely influenced by Orwell’s 1984. It must have been ages since I last read it, though.
Down and Out in Paris and London is quite short, contrary to its name, but it feels like a slog. There are many scenes of hardened men engaging in debauchery and desperation. What stands out to me more than the poverty is how Orwell writes like it’s a worthwhile endeavour to experience homelessness. He approaches it like an exotic experience one can tick off on life’s list of adventures. On one hand I don’t blame him and, of course, poverty should be examined.
I suppose the problem that I have with it is that it doesn’t teach me anything substantial. I also don’t find the ‘friends’ he makes as amusing as he does, and I often forget how blatant the bigotry is in older texts, even as someone who is used to reading them. The most significant thing perhaps is how intense, yet how fleeting these relationships are on the streets. People you rely on for money and safety can just as easily abandon and betray you when you’re not paying close enough attention.
Reading Down and Out in Paris and London gave me a bit of an identity crisis as well, because if I no longer enjoy Orwell’s writing, does that mean I’ve grown passed it or I’ve slid into some other realm of literature that I don’t have a name for? Then again, people change and that change is always fluid.
The best part for me is the last few paragraphs or pages, where he brings a more keen and intelligent analysis to it all.
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