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D. J. Taylor: A brief life

GEORGE ORWELL, the pen-name of Eric Arthur Blair, was born on 25 June 1903 in Motihari, Bengal, where his father, Richard Walmesley Blair, was working as an Opium Agent in the Indian Civil Service, into what – with the uncanny precision he brought to all social judgments – he described as ‘the lower-upper-middle classes’. In fact the Blairs were remote descendants of the Fane Earls of Westmoreland. Like many a child of the Raj, Orwell was swiftly returned to England and brought up almost exclusively by his mother. The Thames Valley locales in which the family settled provided the background to his novel Coming Up For Air (1939).

Happily for the family finances – never flourishing – Orwell was a studious child. From St Cyprian’s preparatory school in Eastbourne, a legendary establishment that also educated Cyril Connolly and Cecil Beaton, he won a King’s Scholarship to Eton College, arriving at the school in May 1917. Orwell left a caustic memoir of his time at St Cyprian’s (‘Such, Such Were The Joys’) but also remarked that ‘No one can look back on his schooldays and say with truth that they were altogether unhappy.’ At Eton he frankly slacked, leaving the school in December 1921 after only a term in the sixth form. The following June he passed the entrance examination of the Indian Imperial Police and was accepted into its Burma division.

Orwell’s five-year stint in Burma is often seen as a mournful period of parentally-ordained exile. However both sides of his family were professionally attached to the Eastern Empire, and his stated reason for applying for the Burma posting was that he had relatives there. Almost nothing is known of Orwell’s time in the province, other than that it offered the material for two of his best-known essays, ‘A Hanging’ and ‘Shooting an Elephant’ and his first novel Burmese Days (1934). It also ruined his health. Although disillusioned by the Imperial ‘racket’ he had helped to administer, he left Burma in June 1927 on a medical certificate. The decision to resign from the Burma Police was taken after his return.

For the next five years he led a vagrant life. Some of this time was spent at his parents’ home in Southwold, Suffolk. There were periods teaching in private schools, living in Paris and masquerading as a tramp, the background to his first published work, Down and Out in Paris and London (1933). His professional alias, which combined the name of the reigning monarch with a local river, was adopted shortly before publication. His teaching career was brought to a close by a bout of pneumonia and at the end of 1934, having used a long, recuperative stay in Southwold to complete a second novel, A Clergyman’s Daughter (1935), he decamped to London to work in a Hampstead bookshop. This was a productive period. Here he met and married his first wife, Eileen O’Shaughnessy, and wrote a third novel, partly based on his book-trade experiences, Keep the Aspidistra Flying (1936).

The Orwells began their married life in a tiny cottage in Wallington, Hertfordshire, where Orwell worked up the material gathered on a recent tour of the industrial north into The Road to Wigan Pier (1937). Although the book’s second half consists of a long, inflammatory polemic on Socialism, Orwell’s political views were still not fully formed. The defining political experience of his life, alternatively, was the six months he spent in Spain, in 1937, as a Republican volunteer against Franco. He was wounded in the throat – the bullet passing within a few millimetres of his carotid artery – and was present in Barcelona when Soviet-sponsored hit-squads attempted to suppress the Trotskyist POUM militia, of which he had been a member. Spain made Orwell ‘believe in Socialism for the first time’, as he put it, while instilling an enduring hatred of totalitarian political systems.

Homage to Catalonia, an account of his time in Spain, was published in April 1938. He spent most of the next year recuperating, both in England and Morocco, from a life-threatening lung haemorrhage. At this stage Orwell was determined to oppose the looming international conflict, only changing his mind on the announcement of the Russo-German pact in August 1939. Initially Orwell had high hopes of the war, which he believed would instil a sense of Socialist purpose: this view was developed in the pamphlet essay The Lion and the Unicorn: Socialism and the English Genius (1941). Rejected for military service on health grounds, he became a talks producer in the BBC’s Eastern Service, a job he came to dislike. The BBC’s atmosphere, he complained, ‘is something between a girls’ school and a lunatic asylum, and all we are doing at present is useless, or slightly worse than useless’. In 1943 he secured a more congenial billet as literary editor of the left-wing weekly magazine Tribune, to which he also contributed a column under the heading ‘As I Please’.

Animal Farm, his bitter satire of the Soviet experiment, was written by the middle of 1944. Publishers’ timidity, and the covert pressure exerted by a Russian spy working for the Ministry of Information, delayed its appearance until August 1945. By this time Orwell’s personal life was in ruins. Five months previously Eileen had died of heart failure during a routine operation. The couple had previously adopted a small boy, Richard Horatio Blair, whom Orwell, with the help of his sister Avril, determined to raise on his own.

Through his friend David Astor, he had already begun to explore the possibility of living on the remote Scottish island of Jura. Much of the last half-decade of his life was spent in the Inner Hebrides struggling against worsening health to complete his final novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four. After finishing a final draft at the end of 1948 he suffered a complete physical collapse and was taken away to a nursing home in the Cotswolds suffering from advanced tuberculosis. The novel’s enormous international success, on publication in June 1949, came too late for its author. He was transferred to University College Hospital in September and died there on 21 January 1950, aged 46. Shortly before his death he made an unexpected second marriage to Sonia Brownell, an editorial assistant on the literary magazine Horizon. Sitting down to read his obituaries on the day of his funeral, his friend Malcolm Muggeridge thought that he saw in them ‘how the legend of a human being is created’.

D. J. Taylor was born in Norwich in 1960. He is the author of five novels, including English Settlement, which won a Grinzane Cavour prize, Trespass and The Comedy Man. He is also well-known as a critic and reviewer, and is the author of A Vain Conceit: British Fiction in the 1980s, After the War: The Novel and England since 1945 and an acclaimed biography, Thackeray. His critically acclaimed Orwell biography, Orwell: The Life (2003) won the Whitbread Biography Award, and he gave the 2005 Orwell Lecture entitled ‘Projections of the Inner “I”: George Orwell’s Fiction’. He is married with three children and lives in Norwich.

Naomi Thomas

The Michelin Woman

 

Extract from ‘The Michelin Woman’, by Sophie Ritchell

I gave in that week. Signed up for TT. Call me a pushover, hell, maybe I was. But you kind of get used to being pushed over when you’re on the streets. It’d become second nature.

Two days in, and I’d pretty much adjusted to it. Her. Rhoda. The way she worked, the fact she squirmed if someone ate crisps too loudly next to her, how she saw old school teachers in the faces of cars. She reminded me of a character in some popular Brit Flick, the sort of person that Empathy Grant would win a Bafta for playing.

It didn’t really click that we lived in the same universe until that afternoon.

• • •

Rhoda wouldn’t give it directly to him, couldn’t trust someone like that with a couple of quid, might spend it on drink, drugs, whatever, but Greggs did steak bakes and sandwiches, and she could just nip in, the Deliveroo guy wasn’t coming until quarter past anyway so she had ten minutes.

She landed on a bean and cheese pasty in case he was veggie, which was sweet. Shame Pops was lactose intolerant, but no-one thinks to ask about that sort of thing, and he was always chuffed with anyone’s donation, even if it meant he spent the following night barfing it up behind the recycling bins.

Wish I was as nice as Pops.

We called him Pops because he had grey hair and someone said he used to live in Boston, and that was why he sounded like he was pinching his nose when he asked for change. Never asked him if it was true though. That back of the roof of the mouth ‘a’ could have just been untreated dysphagia.

Pops was one of those guys who you kind of just like. We met at St Joseph’s Soup Kitchen on Radford Av, and – I swear I’ll never forget this – as soon as he saw me, his chest started to heave up and down like he was lugging a sack of baking potatoes around in his rib-cage, and he started to hiccup. A bit of me thought maybe I looked so bad I’d given him a heart attack or something (crazy, I know, but my brain had sort of turned to mush by this point). Anyway, turned out he was cracking up, cracking up over my white puffer coat. Said he’d always wanted to meet the Michelin Man in person, shame he had to go for his female counterpart, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And so I got my name.

Pops was better than WikiHow, told me to tie my backpack with a piece of string and wear it back-to-front when I went to sleep so I didn’t have to learn the hard way, and that job interviewers stop paying attention when they get wind that you have no fixed address. Lent me cash once when I couldn’t afford tampons, and never stopped making that gag about BGT and the purple buzzer once he figured it made me laugh. That sort of thing meant a lot back then. A whole lot.

It killed me that Rhoda had absolutely no clue.

• • •

She gave Pops the pasty and headed down the road to the block of red brick flats next to the Jolly Taxpayer. Her sister, Andi, had that day become legally able to watch Alien and The Walking Dead, and was sat with her mum in the front room opening every birthday card like a book and flicking through the orange pages inside. Seemed everyone had learnt from their mistakes on Rhoda’s fifteenth six years ago and steered well clear of the pink unicorn slippers or sex toys (their granny had always been a bit wild).

They knelt on the carpet and scrapped over who got the biggest slice of pizza, which was plonked in the middle of them, sagging into its biodegradable packaging like a round table missing the good old days of chivalry. Rhoda knocked her unwanted olives all over the floor and had to spend the next ten minutes leeching the stains out with a wet tea-towel (they couldn’t find the sponge). Andi didn’t help. Cleaning up other people’s leftovers every Saturday was enough, she didn’t need to get rid of her sister’s muck too. Then, when it got to seven, she grabbed her purse and made for the door, ducking out of the way of her mum’s slobbery goodbye kisses. Party. Friend’s house. Back by eleven.

At eight Rhoda and her mum watched a rerun of Avatar 4. At half ten, Rhoda went to bed.

It was two when she woke up again; someone was choking on swear words. She flumped out of her mattress and shuffled along the corridor to the kitchen door.

Her mum, back against the wall, had sunk down into a stool and was scraping words out of the sobs in the bottom of her throat.

“How did she get hold of them?”

Someone shifted slightly, and through the frosted glass Rhoda could now see the navy blue of a policeman’s uniform next to the breakfast bar.

“Friend bought them. She paid him back – birthday money, was it?”

Her mum swore again and sunk further down, leaving marks above her where the shaking curve of her spine had rubbed the paintwork raw.

“But you said, you’re saying she’s ok? Shit, please. Please, I swear she’s barely fifteen,
she’s young, stupid, so, so stupid, but she’s my baby. She’s fifteen.”

Oh, man. Her face at that moment. A skull vacuum-packed in red plastic and two ping-pong ball eyes that had forgotten to blink.

“She’s in hospital now. They’re assessing the possibility of other hallucinogens too, but if she’s clear, the medical advisor thinks it won’t be too long till she’s out.”

A pause.

“There’ll be other consequences though.”

The volume dial switched up several notches.

“Of course there’ll be other consequences – they’ve been playing heavy metal in my head for
the past half hour! Do you think I’m stupid? They fucking killed someone!”

At this, Rhoda swore and went in.

• • •

The Thursday after, myself again, I went back to St Joseph’s. It was snowing, and those of us without a place at a shelter had turned sort of grey, like the slush you sometimes get trying to stuff itself down the neck of the gutter. I got talking to Rocky in the queue, said I was counting down the seconds till Pops came up to me and asked if I sold winter tyres (it was a running joke). He looked at me like I’d just kicked a dog.

“Shut up. Shut up, that’s nasty. It’s only been a week.”

I was dumbfounded. “What the hell?”

What the hell? What is wrong with you? It’s been six days since some fucking off their heads teenagers beat Pops to a pulp, and it’s okay to make jokes about it now, is it? That’s sick.”

That’s sick.

That’s sick, that’s

I’d driven over a smashed beer bottle and was slowly deflating –

this couldn’t have happened – this could not have happened –

fuck.

 

Sophie Ritchell is a human rights activist and writer. She was the first candidate to undergo Temporary Transplantation in 2057, when she was transferred into the mind and body of Rhoda Hatherford (now Johnson-Smith). Following this, she has become a formidable advocate for the campaign against addiction among vulnerable young people, speaking in schools, colleges and youth organisations across the UK. Her firm conviction in the power of empathy to bring about fundamental social and political change has led to her uniting with millions of others in championing the adoption of TT on a global scale.

Five years ago, a Quiri investigation reported that since the transplantation process became common practice in the late seventies, it has eradicated worldwide discrimination, conflict, poverty and preventable causes of illness. It was also one of the key reasons for the termination of climate change. Without it, we would not be able to live and breathe today.

Sophie’s complete autobiography is currently available online and in selected bookstores.

***

This piece contained some of the most unique and stand out prose of the entire competition. I feel like there’s a longer piece (perhaps a novel?) in the making. Kerry Hudson, Orwell Youth Prize Judge

“Hugely enjoyable, clever, multi-layered, lying in wait to entertain you on every level.The Michelin Woman draws you into its world and story with affecting language, vivid characters, and dialogue; it makes you look, listen, think, genuinely care, before springing a completely unexpected final trick on the reader. Playing with the format of the competition itself, this story reads you. I loved it.”  Nicola Baldwin, Playwright and Scriptwriter

Naomi Thomas is a senior Orwell Youth Prize 2020 Runner Up, responding to the theme ‘The Future We Want’.

 

Grace Donaldson

Perpetual

 

Letty presses her fingers against the glass windowpane and wonders, idly, how hard she would have to press to shatter it.

It’s dark outside this little room, the only source of light the caustic glow of the streetlamps, garish brightness diluted by the thin layer of grime serrating the window. It seeps in and spills over the slumped bodies which drip over sofas and pool on the floor, sated by sleep. Corpses, rotting in the tomb of a remarkably average party, the remnants of which are still scattered across the room and festering in corners-bottles, little plastic packets, contents long since consumed, a lurid glint of pink lace flashing from under one of the sofa cushions.

She’s got a decent vantage point from her current place of rest, half-drunk, and sprawled unceremoniously across someone’s couch (she can remember the face of the girl hosting, but couldn’t tell you her name for a million quid, or a case of booze). Her hair, dark, and damp with sweat, clings uncomfortably to her scalp like grease, hot and sticky as motor oil as it pours over her collarbones. She scrunches it back behind her head, shifts slightly to get more comfortable, top riding further up her umber midriff. If her mother were here, she thinks, imagination spiralling tipsily away from her, she would pull her top down, eyes flickering hawkishly around the room to ensure nobody saw anything they shouldn’t have, even though everyone has been passed out for at least an hour now. It’s a sort of sixth sense for her mother, bred into her, a wariness as intrinsic to her daily life as breathing, or boredom. Fuelled by a life of hungry gazes that linger just a bit too long, wandering hands and wandering eyes, hot breath that clings to your skin like condensation on a windowpane. Accustomed to thick, persistent fingers kneading you like bread, like something malleable, passive as a cadaver. It’s not an unpleasant image, hits her with a bitter little jolt of warmth, like downing a glass of whisky, her mother, looking out for her, fingers rough and warm against her abdomen, the skin over her joints worn thin, as though she’s boiled her hands along with endless bowls of soup and loads of washing.

She’s not like her mother (rather an understatement, but she chooses to leave it at that). She sprawls back comfortably, adjusts nothing, feels sleep creeping in, not bothered by the fact that the room around her is clogged up with bodies, all twitching and mumbling and sighing, an unconscious cacophony of tiny, somnolent noises, or that the air is thick and soupy, reeking with the potent stench of sweat and indecision. Uncaring. She could find a home in a hurricane.

‘Perpetually unbothered’, a teacher had once written on her school report, and she had passed the report around with a jagged, shark-tooth grin, laughed, low and creaky, the laugh of someone who’s been filling her lungs with smoke since she was twelve, because everyone around her was breathing it out anyway and no-one saw the point in stopping her. She prides herself on this, the fact that everything about her has always been laid-back, indolent, the way her tongue winds lazily around her mouth, scrounging for words, the way her eyes roll in her head, slow and deliberate, the way her body rolls and undulates as she moves, almost graceful in its sheer passivity. She is someone who gave up a long time ago, perhaps before she even knew what she was giving up on, perhaps before she even had a fair chance to take a shot at anything. She is not bothered by this transitory half-existence because she has always hinged her life on futile things – a lazy afternoon spent lolling on someone’s front lawn, before the neighbourhood went to rot, and grass bled into gravel, warm evenings when her mother would bring home a takeaway on payday.

She wishes she could stop thinking about her mother, but she’s certain no higher power has ever really listened to her wishes before, doesn’t know why this particular spell of tipsiness has dragged up so much unpleasantness, but supposes this her lot for the night, a moulting couch and an unexpected bout of melancholy. They had unravelled quietly, her and her mother. There hadn’t been any screaming matches, no acidic eruptions of fury, spewing venom from forked tongues. It was more akin to gnawing silently at the inside of your mouth for years on end, and only noticing when you open your lips to speak and your teeth are stained red. She had simply sidled into the kitchen one morning to find her mother making toast for her father, something she did every day, just the way he liked it, yellow butter oozing over the bread like pus, and realised the garish glare of the sun streaming in through the window wasn’t the only reason she couldn’t look her mother in the eye anymore.

That’s the thing about eyes, bright and glassy, twinkling like a mirror-a window to the soul, but whose? If she can’t meet her mother’s gaze anymore, is it because she can no longer bear to see the resigned boredom muddying her irises, the inexorable exhaustion underlining the already-prominent creases seeping from the corners, or because, more than anything else, she dreads the idea of seeing herself staring right back at her? Can’t, won’t process the fact that this is what her own eyes will look like in ten, fifteen years, that maybe one day she will stand in a kitchen, halfway through making her umpteenth plate of toast, across from a daughter who shies away from her as though she is a story-book monster?

She doesn’t know her mother, not really. There is a difference between recognising something, and knowing something. She could pick her mother out of a crowd of thousands, sketch her hunched shoulders and stooped back from memory, but she would be hard pressed to tell you anything truly substantive about her. Sometimes, when she was younger, she would sneak glances at her mother in the mirror as she brushed her hair, deftly teasing out knots, and feel her tongue throb with questions, pounding against the walls of her throat, practically tripping over themselves as they clamoured desperately to be heard. Simple questions, the kind teenagers could be asked by well-meaning aunts at family gatherings, the kind of questions you might find bothersome, if you’re used to them. What are you interested in? What do you care about? What do you want to be? Or, rather, what did you want to be? Any opportunities for Letty’s mother to make something of herself are long gone, stolen, a quiet kind of robbery. Siphoning chances away from her gradually, her whole life, things it had never even occurred to her to want, because nobody had told her she could, the way nobody bemoans not having a unicorn for a pet. We do not long for things we believe are impossible.

It’s a familiar tale, a modern classic. Girl meets boy (this is where the story begins, any inner life the girl may have had prior to this point evidently not relevant), girl drops what little she has to begin with, a child is born, the door, which has been half-shut this entire time, creeping closer and closer to the doorframe, slams in the girl’s face. A perpetual cycle, sick of its own equilibrium, lived by her mother, her aunts, any hypothetical daughters she may be obedient enough to pop out. She has never understood people who talk about the future with starry-eyes and glowing reverence, as though it’s a land of endless possibility and unknowable outcomes. Here is the truth, as she sees it-your future is spawned solely from your past, your ending decided the moment you are born. It’s about your gender, the size of your parent’s bank account, the colour of your skin, the name of the street you grew up on, your catchment. A thousand tiny hands, nudging your fingers as you scrawl the story of your life, ripping the pen from your grasp and taking the plot in whatever direction they please. Occasionally, she contemplates what she might have been if she had been drip-fed a diet of expectations rather than inevitability, taught to strive instead of succumb. In some, awful, twisted way, she is almost glad that people do not ask her, or her mother, what they want to do in the future-she could not come up with an answer, not in a million years. 

Letty presses her fingers against the glass windowpane and wonders, idly, how hard she would have to press to shatter it.

***

“I loved Perpetual for its deftly focussed anger, suffused with love, about feminism, mothers / daughters, breaking glass ceilings and the politics of boredom. Written with intense energy, propulsive, assured; like a one-take, super-slo-mo, opening shot, a teaser-trailer for a movie not-yet-made, the future shimmers in every moment. This is what it feels like to be young. This is a voice I want to hear more from.”  Nicola Baldwin, Playwright & Scriptwriter

‘Perpetual’ is a senior Orwell Youth Prize 2020 Runner Up, responding to the theme ‘The Future We Want’.

What inspired your piece? 
My piece was inspired by wanting to put a darker and slightly more pessimistic twist on the ‘future we want’ prompt, which sounds almost inherently optimistic. I also wanted to feature a more unconventional protagonist, with an outlook on life I felt I hadn’t necessarily seen portrayed all that much before.
What prompted you to pick fiction as your form?
I chose fiction, because I felt that taking a creative slant on the prompt would allow me to explore it in a more inventive way than an essay might have, and come up with different scenarios I couldn’t have written about otherwise. It also gave me more room to flesh out the characters and situations I was seeking to write than poetry might have, and let me establish a stronger narrative voice.
Given the global pandemic, has your idea about the future you want changed since you wrote the piece?
Yes – I think my idea of the future I want is now more tied to mundane things like being able to socialise! It seems like everybody’s expectations for the future have been dramatically reshaped, and not in a good way, but we just have to hope that as time passes, we gradually draw closer to a return to normality.

Victoria Glendinning

Victoria Glendinning is a freelance writer, well-known for her successful biographies and novels. She also writes reviews and articles, and does broadcasts and talks on all kinds of subjects.

Her biographies include A Suppressed Cry: Life and Death of a Quaker Daughter; Elizabeth Bowen: Portrait of a Writer; Vita: the Life of V.Sackville-West (winner of the Whitbread Prize for Biography); Edith Sitwell: A Unicorn Among Lions (winner of the Duff Cooper Prize and the James Tait Black Prize); Anthony Trollope (another Whitbread Prize for Biography). Her novels include The Grown-Ups, Electricity and Flight.

Victoria has been President of English PEN and a Vice-President of the Royal Society of Literature, and although she has never had an academic post she has four honorary doctorates.

 

 

Antisemitism in Britain

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There are about 400,000 known Jews in Britain, and in addition some thousands or, at most, scores of thousands of Jewish refugees who have entered the country from 1934 onwards. The Jewish population is almost entirely concentrated in half a dozen big towns and is mostly employed in the food, clothing and furniture trades. A few of the big monopolies, such as the I.C.I., one or two leading newspapers and at least one big chain of department stores are Jewish-owned or partly Jewish-owned, but it would be very far from the truth to say that British business life is dominated by Jews. The Jews seem, on the contrary, to have failed to keep up with the modern tendency towards big amalgamations and to have remained fixed in those trades which are necessarily carried out on a small scale and by old-fashioned methods.

I start off with these background facts, which are already known to any well-informed person, in order to emphasize that there is no real Jewish ‘problem’ in England. The Jews are not numerous or powerful enough, and it is only in what are loosely called ‘intellectual circles’ that they have any noticeable influence. Yet it is generally admitted that antisemitism is on the increase, that it has been greatly exacerbated by the war, and that humane and enlightened people are not immune to it. It does not take violent forms (English people are almost invariably gentle and law-abiding), but it is ill-natured enough, and in favourable circumstances it could have political results. Here are some samples of antisemitic remarks that have been made to me during the past year or two:

Middle-aged office employee: ‘I generally come to work by bus. It takes longer, but I don’t care about using the Underground from Golders Green nowadays. There’s too many of the Chosen Race travelling on that line.’

Tobacconist (woman): ‘No, I’ve got no matches for you. I should try the lady down the street. She’s always got matches. One of the Chosen Race, you see.’

Young intellectual, Communist or near-Communist: ‘No, I do not like Jews. I’ve never made any secret of that. I can’t stick them. Mind you, I’m not antisemitic, of course.’

Middle-class woman: ‘Well, no one could call me antisemitic, but I do think the way these Jews behave is too absolutely stinking. The way they push their way to the head of queues, and so on. They’re so abominably selfish. I think they’re responsible for a lot of what happens to them.’

Milk roundsman: ‘A Jew don’t do no work, not the same as what an Englishman does. ‘E’s too clever. We work with this ‘ere’ (flexes his biceps). ‘They work with that there’ (taps his forehead).

Chartered accountant, intelligent, left-wing in an undirected way: ‘These bloody Yids are all pro-German. They’d change sides tomorrow if the Nazis got here. I see a lot of them in my business. They admire Hitler at the bottom of their hearts. They’ll always suck up to anyone who kicks them.’

Intelligent woman, on being offered a book dealing with antisemitism and German atrocities: ‘Don’t show it to me, please don’t show it to me. It’ll only make me hate the Jews more than ever.’

I could fill pages with similar remarks, but these will do to go on with. Two facts emerge from them. One – which is very important and which I must return to in a moment – is that above a certain intellectual level people are ashamed of being antisemitic and are careful to draw a distinction between ‘antisemitism’ and ‘disliking Jews’. The other is that antisemitism is an irrational thing. The Jews are accused of specific offences (for instance, bad behaviour in food queues) which the person speaking feels strongly about, but it is obvious that these accusations merely rationalize some deep-rooted prejudice. To attempt to counter them with facts and statistics is useless, and may sometimes be worse than useless. As the last of the above-quoted remarks shows, people can remain antisemitic, or at least anti-Jewish, while being fully aware that their outlook is indefensible. If you dislike somebody, you dislike him and there is an end of it: your feelings are not made any better by a recital of his virtues.

It so happens that the war has encouraged the growth of antisemitism and even, in the eyes of many ordinary people, given some justification for it. To begin with, the Jews are one people of whom it can be said with complete certainty that they will benefit by an Allied victory. Consequently the theory that ‘this is a Jewish war’ has a certain plausibility, all the more so because the Jewish war effort seldom gets its fair share of recognition. The British Empire is a huge heterogeneous organization held together largely by mutual consent, and it is often necessary to flatter the less reliable elements at the expense of the more loyal ones. To publicize the exploits of Jewish soldiers, or even to admit the existence of a considerable Jewish army in the Middle East, rouses hostility in South Africa, the Arab countries and elsewhere: it is easier to ignore the whole subject and allow the man in the street to go on thinking that Jews are exceptionally clever at dodging military service. Then again, Jews are to be found in exactly those trades which are bound to incur unpopularity with the civilian public in war-time. Jews are mostly concerned with selling food, clothes, furniture and tobacco – exactly the commodities of which there is a chronic shortage, with consequent overcharging, black-marketing and favouritism. And again, the common charge that Jews behave in an exceptionally cowardly way during air raids was given a certain amount of colour by the big raids of 1940. As it happened, the Jewish quarter of Whitechapel was one of the first areas to be heavily blitzed, with the natural result that swarms of Jewish refugees distributed themselves all over London. If one judged merely from these war-time phenomena, it would be easy to imagine that antisemitism is a quasi-rational thing, founded on mistaken premises. And naturally the antisemite thinks of himself as a reasonable being. Whenever I have touched on this subject in a newspaper article, I have always had a considerable ‘come-back’, and invariably some of the letters are from well-balanced, middling people – doctors, for example – with no apparent economic grievance. These people always say (as Hitler says in Mein Kampf) that they started out with no anti-Jewish prejudice but were driven into their present position by mere observation of the facts. Yet one of the marks of antisemitism is an ability to believe stories that could not possibly be true. One could see a good example of this in the strange accident that occurred in London in 1942, when a crowd, frightened by a bomb-burst nearby, fled into the mouth of an Underground station, with the result that something over a hundred people were crushed to death. The very same day it was repeated all over London that ‘the Jews were responsible’. Clearly, if people will believe this kind of thing, one will not get much further by arguing with them. The only useful approach is to discover why they can swallow absurdities on one particular subject while remaining sane on others.

But now let me come back to that point I mentioned earlier – that there is widespread awareness of the prevalence of antisemitic feeling, and unwillingness to admit sharing it. Among educated people, antisemitism is held to be an unforgivable sin and in a quite different category from other kinds of racial prejudice. People will go to remarkable lengths to demonstrate that they are not antisemitic. Thus, in 1943 an intercession service on behalf of the Polish Jews was held in a synagogue in St John’s Wood. The local authorities declared themselves anxious to participate in it, and the service was attended by the mayor of the borough in his robes and chain, by representatives of all the churches, and by detachments of R.A.F., Home Guards, nurses, Boy Scouts and what-not. On the surface it was a touching demonstration of solidarity with the suffering Jews. But it was essentially a conscious effort to behave decently by people whose subjective feelings must in many cases have been very different. That quarter of London is partly Jewish, antisemitism is rife there, and, as I well knew, some of the men sitting round me in the synagogue were tinged by it. Indeed, the commander of my own platoon of Home Guards, who had been especially keen beforehand that we should ‘make a good show’ at the intercession service, was an ex-member of Mosley’s Blackshirts. While this division of feeling exists, tolerance of mass violence against Jews, or, what is more important, antisemitic legislation, are not possible in England. It is not at present possible, indeed, that antisemitism should become respectable. But this is less of an advantage than it might appear.

One effect of the persecutions in Germany has been to prevent antisemitism from being seriously studied. In England a brief inadequate survey was made by Mass Observation a year or two ago, but if there has been any other investigation of the subject, then its findings have been kept strictly secret. At the same time there has been conscious suppression, by all thoughtful people, of anything likely to wound Jewish susceptibilities. After 1934 the ‘Jew joke’ disappeared as though by magic from postcards, periodicals and the music-hall stage, and to put an unsympathetic Jewish character into a novel or short story came to be regarded as antisemitism. On the Palestine issue, too, it was de rigueur among enlightened people to accept the Jewish case as proved and avoid examining the claims of the Arabs – a decision which might be correct on its own merits, but which was adopted primarily because the Jews were in trouble and it was felt that one must not criticize them. Thanks to Hitler, therefore, you had a situation in which the press was in effect censored in favour of the Jews while in private antisemitism was on the up-grade, even, to some extent, among sensitive and intelligent people. This was particularly noticeable in 1940 at the time of the internment of the refugees. Naturally, every thinking person felt that it was his duty to protest against the wholesale locking-up of unfortunate foreigners who for the most part were only in England because they were opponents of Hitler. Privately, however, one heard very different sentiments expressed. A minority of the refugees behaved in an exceedingly tactless way, and the feeling against them necessarily had an antisemitic undercurrent, since they were largely Jews. A very eminent figure in the Labour Party – I won’t name him, but he is one of the most respected people in England – said to me quite violently: ‘We never asked these people to come to this country. If they choose to come here, let them take the consequences.’ Yet this man would as a matter of course have associated himself with any kind of petition or manifesto against the internment of aliens. This feeling that antisemitism is something sinful and disgraceful, something that a civilized person does not suffer from, is unfavourable to a scientific approach, and indeed many people will admit that they are frightened of probing too deeply into the subject. They are frightened, that is to say, of discovering not only that antisemitism is spreading, but that they themselves are infected by it.

To see this in perspective one must look back a few decades, to the days when Hitler was an out-of-work house-painter whom nobody had heard of. One would then find that though antisemitism is sufficiently in evidence now, it is probably less prevalent in England than it was thirty years ago. It is true that antisemitism as a fully thought-out racial or religious doctrine has never flourished in England. There has never been much feeling against intermarriage, or against Jews taking a prominent part in public life. Nevertheless, thirty years ago it was accepted more or less as a law of nature that a Jew was a figure of fun and – though superior in intelligence – slightly deficient in ‘character’. In theory a Jew suffered from no legal disabilities, but in effect he was debarred from certain professions. He would probably not have been accepted as an officer in the navy, for instance, nor in what is called a ‘smart’ regiment in the army. A Jewish boy at a public school almost invariably had a bad time. He could, of course, live down his Jewishness if he was exceptionally charming or athletic, but it was an initial disability comparable to a stammer or a birthmark. Wealthy Jews tended to disguise themselves under aristocratic English or Scottish names, and to the average person it seemed quite natural that they should do this, just as it seems natural for a criminal to change his identity if possible. About twenty years ago, in Rangoon, I was getting into a taxi with a friend when a small ragged boy of fair complexion rushed up to us and began a complicated story about having arrived from Colombo on a ship and wanting money to get back. His manner and appearance were difficult to ‘place’, and I said to him:

‘You speak very good English. What nationality are you?’

He answered eagerly in his chi-chi accent: ‘I am a Joo, sir!’

And I remember turning to my companion and saying, only partly in joke, ‘He admits it openly.’ All the Jews I had known till then were people who were ashamed of being Jews, or at any rate preferred not to talk about their ancestry, and if forced to do so tended to use the word ‘Hebrew’.

The working-class attitude was no better. The Jew who grew up in Whitechapel took it for granted that he would be assaulted, or at least hooted at, if he ventured into one of the Christian slums nearby, and the ‘Jew joke’ of the music halls and the comic papers was almost consistently ill-natured.[1] There was also literary Jew-baiting, which in the hands of Belloc, Chesterton and their followers reached an almost continental level of scurrility. Non-Catholic writers were sometimes guilty of the same thing in a milder form. There has been a perceptible antisemitic strain in English literature from Chaucer onwards, and without even getting up from this table to consult a book I can think of passages which if written now would be stigmatized as antisemitism, in the works of Shakespeare, Smollett, Thackeray, Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, T. S. Eliot, Aldous Huxley and various others. Offhand, the only English writers I can think of who, before the days of Hitler, made a definite effort to stick up for Jews are Dickens and Charles Reade. And however little the average intellectual may have agreed with the opinions of Belloc and Chesterton, he did not acutely disapprove of them. Chesterton’s endless tirades against Jews, which he thrust into stories and essays upon the flimsiest pretexts, never got him into trouble – indeed Chesterton was one of the most generally respected figures in English literary life. Anyone who wrote in that strain now would bring down a storm of abuse upon himself, or more probably would find it impossible to get his writings published.

If, as I suggest, prejudice against Jews has always been pretty widespread in England, there is no reason to think that Hitler has genuinely diminished it. He has merely caused a sharp division between the politically conscious person who realizes that this is not a time to throw stones at the Jews, and the unconscious person whose native antisemitism is increased by the nervous strain of the war. One can assume, therefore, that many people who would perish rather than admit to antisemitic feelings are secretly prone to them. I have already indicated that I believe antisemitism to be essentially a neurosis, but of course it has its rationalizations, which are sincerely believed in and are partly true. The rationalization put forward by the common man is that the Jew is an exploiter. The partial justification for this is that the Jew, in England, is generally a small businessman – that is to say a person whose depredations are more obvious and intelligible than those of, say, a bank or an insurance company. Higher up the intellectual scale, antisemitism is rationalized by saying that the Jew is a person who spreads disaffection and weakens national morale. Again there is some superficial justification for this. During the past twenty-five years the activities of what are called ‘intellectuals’ have been largely mischievous. I do not think it an exaggeration to say that if the ‘intellectuals’ had done their work a little more thoroughly, Britain would have surrendered in 1940. But the disaffected intelligentsia inevitably included a large number of Jews. With some plausibility it can be said that the Jews are the enemies of our native culture and our national morale. Carefully examined, the claim is seen to be nonsense, but there are always a few prominent individuals who can be cited to support it. During the past few years there has been what amounts to a counter-attack against the rather shallow Leftism which was fashionable in the previous decade and which was exemplified by such organizations as the Left Book Club. This counter-attack (see for instance such books as Arnold Lunn’s The Good Gorilla or Evelyn Waugh’s Put Out More Flags) has an antisemitic strain, and it would probably be more marked if the subject were not so obviously dangerous. It so happens that for some decades past Britain has had no nationalist intelligentsia worth bothering about. But British nationalism, i.e. nationalism of an intellectual kind, may revive, and probably will revive if Britain comes out of the present war greatly weakened. The young intellectuals of 1950 may be as naïvely patriotic as those of 1914. In that case the kind of antisemitism which flourished among the anti-Dreyfusards in France, and which Chesterton and Belloc tried to import into this country, might get a foothold.

I have no hard-and-fast theory about the origins of antisemitism. The two current explanations, that it is due to economic causes, or on the other hand, that it is a legacy from the Middle Ages, seem to me unsatisfactory, though I admit that if one combines them they can be made to cover the facts. All I would say with confidence is that antisemitism is part of the larger problem of nationalism, which has not yet been seriously examined, and that the Jew is evidently a scapegoat, though for what he is a scapegoat we do not yet know. In this essay I have relied almost entirely on my own limited experience, and perhaps every one of my conclusions would be negatived by other observers. The fact is that there are almost no data on this subject. But for what they are worth I will summarize my opinions. Boiled down, they amount to this:

There is more antisemitism in England than we care to admit, and the war has accentuated it, but it is not certain that it is on the increase if one thinks in terms of decades rather than years.

It does not at present lead to open persecution, but it has the effect of making people callous to the sufferings of Jews in other countries.

It is at bottom quite irrational and will not yield to argument.

The persecutions in Germany have caused much concealment of antisemitic feeling and thus obscured the whole picture.

The subject needs serious investigation.

Only the last point is worth expanding. To study any subject scientifically one needs a detached attitude, which is obviously harder when one’s own interests or emotions are involved. Plenty of people who are quite capable of being objective about sea urchins, say, or the square root of 2, become schizophrenic if they have to think about the sources of their own income. What vitiates nearly all that is written about antisemitism is the assumption in the writer’s mind that he himself is immune to it. ‘Since I know that antisemitism is irrational,’ he argues, ‘it follows that I do not share it.’ He thus fails to start his investigation in the one place where he could get hold of some reliable evidence – that is, in his own mind.

It seems to me a safe assumption that the disease loosely called nationalism is now almost universal. Antisemitism is only one manifestation of nationalism, and not everyone will have the disease in that particular form. A Jew, for example, would not be antisemitic: but then many Zionist Jews seem to me to be merely antisemites turned upside-down, just as many Indians and Negroes display the normal colour prejudices in an inverted form. The point is that something, some psychological vitamin, is lacking in modern civilization, and as a result we are all more or less subject to this lunacy of believing that whole races or nations are mysteriously good or mysteriously evil. I defy any modern intellectual to look closely and honestly into his own mind without coming upon nationalistic loyalties and hatreds of one kind or another. It is the fact that he can feel the emotional tug of such things, and yet see them dispassionately for what they are, that gives him his status as an intellectual. It will be seen, therefore that the starting point for any investigation of antisemitism should not be ‘Why does this obviously irrational belief appeal to other people?’ but ‘Why does antisemitism appeal to me? What is there about it that I feel to be true?’ If one asks this question one at least discovers one’s own rationalizations, and it may be possible to find out what lies beneath them. Antisemitism should be investigated – and I will not say by antisemites, but at any rate by people who know that they are not immune to that kind of emotion. When Hitler has disappeared a real enquiry into this subject will be possible, and it would probably be best to start not by debunking antisemitism, but by marshalling all the justifications for it that can be found, in one’s own mind or anybody else’s. In that way one might get some clues that would lead to its psychological roots. But that antisemitism will be definitively cured, without curing the larger disease of nationalism, I do not believe.

Contemporary Jewish Record, April 1945 (written February 1945)

Orwell’s Note

[1] It is interesting to compare the ‘Jew joke’ with that other stand-by of the music halls, the ‘Scotch joke’, which superficially it resembles. Occasionally a story is told (e.g. the Jew and the Scotsman who went into a pub together and both died of thirst) which puts both races on an equality, but in general the Jew is credited merely with cunning and avarice while the Scotsman is credited with physical hardihood as well. This is seen, for example, in the story of the Jew and the Scotsman who go together to a meeting which has been advertised as free. Unexpectedly there is a collection, and to avoid this the Jew faints and the Scotsman carries him out. Here the Scotsman performs the athletic feat of carrying the other. It would seem vaguely wrong if it were the other way about.

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