Why did it take so long? A typical entry, from October 1939, offers a hint:
“Rather cold, violent wind. Picked up the first ripe walnut today. There are very few, however. Spread the manure. Hoed leeks. Spring cabbages have not taken root very well, owing to the drought. Uprooted the onions, which are very poor.”
Many readers may not be aware that Orwell was a small farmer. But as I read one weather and crop report after another, all I could think of was the Woody Allen parody that begins, “Venal & Sons has at last published the long- awaited first volume of Metterling’s laundry lists.”
So, then, do these diaries matter?
They matter a lot, for two long sections. The first records Orwell’s researches into the lives of the poor. In 1931 he worked as an itinerant hop picker, faking a Cockney accent in order to fit in.
Five years later he traveled to the coal-mining areas of northwest England, making entries on the awful food -- “Lancashire method of eating tripe (cold with vinegar) horrible” -- the blackening coal dust, the bad smell of the houses and the terrible conditions in the mines.
The book that resulted, “The Road to Wigan Pier” (1937), combined his report on the miners’ misery with his defense of socialism and became one of the works that would make Orwell a hero to the anti-Stalinist left.
(In an introduction, the late Christopher Hitchens points out that the book became the target of “a successful Communist campaign to defame it (and him) for saying that ‘the working classes smell.’”)
The second great stretch comprises the diaries Orwell kept before and during World War II. They re-create, vividly and rivetingly, the fog of war.
May 30, 1940: “There is good reason to think that the invasion of England may be attempted within a few days, and all the papers are saying this.”
June 16, 1940: “It is impossible even yet to decide what to do in the case of German conquest of England.”
Angrily quoting Lady Oxford’s complaint to the Daily Telegraph that “most people” have had to “part with their cooks and live in hotels,” he sets down a sentence that resonates in 2012: “Apparently nothing will ever teach these people that the other 99 percent of the population exist.”
In August 1941 Orwell began working for the BBC (“something halfway between a girls’ school and a lunatic asylum”), a job that led him to observe, “All propaganda is lies, even when one is telling the truth. I don’t think this matters so long as one knows what one is doing, and why.”
Even in the midst of the Blitz (he writes of “sheltering in a doorway in Piccadilly from falling shrapnel, just as one might shelter from a cloudburst”), he is disgusted by political falsehoods: “We are all drowning in filth.”
As for civilian casualties: “In a year’s time you’ll see headlines in the Daily Express: ‘Successful Raid on Berlin Orphanage. Babies Set on Fire.’”
Orwell’s achievement grew out of seemingly modest virtues: decency; good, hard sense; and clean, clear prose. Yet they added up to something monumental. His garden reports may be skimmable, but the diaries as a whole do exactly what you would expect: They confirm his greatness.
(Craig Seligman is a critic for Muse, the arts and leisure section of Bloomberg News. The opinions expressed are his own.)
To contact the writer on the story: Craig Seligman at firstname.lastname@example.org.