Book Review: Down and Out in Paris and London

“The evil of poverty is not so much that it makes a man suffer… it rots him physically and spiritually”

To Whom It May Concern,

            I was recommended this book on the good faith that I would love it. Hence forth, I have written a review of this book for your pleasure, as well as mine. I may not be as well versed in Orwellian literature as you are, so I have yet to prove you wrong as to whether Orwell is one of the greatest writers of the 20th century (in your not-so-humble layman’s opinion). I would have to read more of his work. And I’d be delighted to. But I digress, I had a quick Google to see what others thought of this book and ‘The Times Supplement’ called this memoir “A vivid picture of an apparently mad world” Now, I could be wrong. But I don’t think they liked it all that much.

But The Times isn’t all that wrong, the first opening chapters are a rollercoaster ride. We first meet Orwell in a dirty hotel. But his descriptions and outlines of his intentions have a sublime romanticism to them. One moment he is describing the dirt, the bugs, hunger, poverty and all its benefits, the characters he meets and the communities they form in the little bistros by the hotels. Next, a violent encounter from a young man who believes that he has experienced love in the arms of a sex slave. This book really doesn’t hold back. If its intentions were to shock me, then at first it succeeded, but as Orwell delves further and further into poverty, now less so.

I thoroughly enjoyed the friendship between the Russian Boris and Orwell and their attempts to find a job in a hotel. However, as a person, Boris was somewhat tragic. Despite his optimistic outlook, it is rather sad that his entire life has whittled down to a box full of old photographs and medals from a Russia that no longer exists. Even so, I have to admire his resourcefulness at being able to get by, I suppose poverty doesn’t give you much choice. But he always seemed to know someone who owes him money as of which, he always had somewhere to stay or someone he can go to when things start to turn dire, as they soon did. Orwell even commented on how optimistic Boris was, even in the face of working for those who killed his family (communist agents) for the sake of 150 francs per article that Orwell would write. Luckily that fell through as it turned out to be an absolutely genius scam. 

I would like to interrupt the flow of this review to write to the Reader and not my dear ‘To Whom It May Concern’. It has been noted, that I have missed their favourite part of this memoir, a wrong that must be righted- apparently. I do not usually pander my creativity to others, but on this occasion I shall make an exception seeing as this book came so highly recommended by ‘To Whom It May Concern’. So, my dear Reader, I did not wish to reveal all of the books delicious little secrets, but here is one secret that must be divulged, so please forgive me. Finally, to my dear ‘To Who It May Concern’- you’re the exception to the rule- the only exception that I’d happily, and without sarcasm, oblige.

One of the wonderful things about this book, and it is indeed my favourite thing, is the many stories that Orwell collected along the way. Sort of like the guy who does Humans of New York, but with more humour, dirt, grime and less sob stories. One of the stories is by a man named ‘Valenti’ who was living with Orwell in one of the many grotty Parisian hotels. It is as much a story of poverty and joblessness than stupidity, because this Valenti was, like many others who live in these hotels, starving. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and sometimes you’ve got to pray. And he does, to a picture on the wall whom Valenti believes is Saint Eloise. After all, the street the hotel is on is called ‘Rue Sainte Eloise’ it sort of makes sense and she was the patron saint of the quarter. It is only until much later, to the merriment of one of the other lodgers, that Valenti realises that it is not Saint, but a prostitute called ‘Suzanne May’. She was the namesake of the hotel. He’d been praying to a prostitute the whole time. Bless him. I’ve added this story to the list of reasons why women shall inherit the earth.

What is the life of a ‘plongeur’? It is common knowledge that Orwell was a democratic socialist and I think living life as a ‘plongeur’ is what made him one. It is not until you’ve lived life as a slave do you begin to understand how awful it is and, retrospectively, why people who are ‘liberal’ should fight against it, but don’t. It is a form of modern slavery, but it is more than that. It is keeping a set of people in ignorance, thinking that they don’t deserve better. It was seen in the treatment that Orwell received in the 'Hotel X’ that idleness is wrong, it leads to bad habits. Therefore, a good ‘plongeur’ constantly has his/her mind on the work and nothing else even if the work is menial and wasted, it is not necessary to the cultivation of civilisation. Orwell gives the example of a rickshaw driver, now I have been to India and travelled in one of these many rickshaws all over Delhi and Jaipur. Their living is dictated by how much you agree to pay them, you haggle with them over the cost of a ride. It is considered, to Orwell, a luxury for you. And, through his eyes you are inclined to agree with him- and I do because he has had an experience that I couldn’t possibly share in, so I couldn’t argue back. At least, not without sounding like a prick. Uber doesn’t give you the luxury of haggling a price for not having to walk. Rickshaw drivers don’t because the whole idea of them is that they’re cheap and they’ll even sacrifice a few monetary principles for the sake of business. A ‘plongeurs’ life is full of backbreaking work, its harrowing and exhausting. Similar with a rickshaw driver, it feels like you’re about to be crushed by all the traffic every few minutes. These are only basic facsimiles, a small sample of ideas and thoughts perpetrated by Orwell. 

Onto London! I feel for Orwell, I really do sometimes. He makes his way from Paris to London only to find that the job he was promised is no longer available. So, what is he to do? He becomes a tramp. His experiences in the boarding houses are… interesting to say the least, if he doesn’t have someone’s nasty feet in his face, someone is trying to steal his money/food/miscellaneous bits and bobs. But it’s his nights in the ‘Spike’ that are the most insightful to me. It surprises me that they were treated like criminals, when in a lot of cases being ‘hard up’ wasn’t necessarily their fault. Take for example the man called Bozo, it was through no fault of his own that he fell 40 feet in Paris and crushed his foot, however he has chosen the life of a street artist and, takes pride in it. He does not succumb to poverty because he does not think in the way an impoverished man should, he considers himself a free man because he still had his own mind. He could think freely, he could read freely and watch the meteors and stars freely as he chooses. His liberty of choice sets him apart from the rest for he was not bitter about his circumstances. 

I have to say, I'm disappointed that the ‘slang’ used by the tramps has gone out of style because oh my word, let’s have a look at some of terms, such as ‘sprowsie’ meaning sixpence, ‘flattie’ meaning policeman. However, did they come up with these? I also will never look at lavender the same way again after reading the term ‘funkum’. Heaven knows where that came from and I think I don’t want to know. But the language is creative, inventive, hilarious and I wish it was still around today. Now I want to complain for real, there is a note in my edition of the book, written by a Victor Gollancz, that some of the language in the original and later editions has been omitted. Unfortunately, as the original manuscript no longer exists those words cannot be put back in. They were omitted in the first place during a time when- and I’m guessing here- such ‘obscene’ language would’ve risked jail time. Yet they kept in ‘funkum’.                   

It is somewhat tongue-in-cheek, or feigned humbleness, when Orwell closed this book with the words ‘it’s a fairly trivial story’. I must argue that this story has been anything but trivial. No-one could read this book and think it ‘trivial’. It is political without intending to be political because you cannot tell a human story without revealing so much of the writer’s political leanings. It is a lesson about common human decency because nothing should be taken at face value. 

So, my dear, sweet to whom it may concern, I seem to remember saying that if I didn’t love this book, I’d throw it at you. Now, sarcasm aside, it's likely that I will. Not literally speaking. Because knowing me I’d probably miss. However, I'm “throwing the book” at you because this book has absolutely no right to be stunningly beautiful and harrowing from the very beginning. Only Orwell would find grace and subliminal romanticism in the trials of extreme poverty. As much as this book made me laugh, it damn well nearly broke my heart. Therefore, I have but one question: How could you? 

With love,

  Emily X