Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell

 

After ten days I managed to find a free quarter of an hour, and wrote to my friend B. in London, asking him if he could get me a job of some sort - anything, so long as it allowed more than five hours sleep. I was simply not equal to going on with a seventeen-hour day, though there are plenty of people who think nothing of it. When one is overworked, it is a good cure for self-pity to think of the thousands of people in Paris restaurants who work such hours, and will go on doing it, not for weeks, but for years. (p. 112)

It is a good cure for self pity for anyone to read Down and Out in Paris and London; revealing life in the early 1930’s when people everywhere were willing to work for anything. 

George Orwell does not tell how, or exactly why, he goes to Paris. But, he tells of his life there, going for days without food as he looks for a job of any sort. When the French find out he is not French, they are unwilling to hire him. When Russians opened a restaurant named Auberge de Jehan Cottard, the working conditions were worse than those he suffered under Hotel X working as a plongeur (dishwasher) with hard water and soft soap. Which wouldn’t lather. With an inch of fish heads and vegetable matter on the floor. With people scurrying, and yelling, and dropping food which may, or may not, be rinsed off before it is put on the plate.

This washing up was a thoroughly odious job - not hard, but boring and silly beyond words. It is dreadful to think that some people spend their whole decades at such an occupation. The woman whom I replaced was quite sixty years old, and she stood at the sink thirteen hours a day, six days a week, the year round; she was, in addition, horribly bullied by the waiters. (p. 69)

So I sat in an Adirondack chair at Centennial Beach, reading this book for both Paris in July and Reading Orwell 2024, most grateful for the jobs that I have had. (Not to mention the retirement I now enjoy!) Their onerous quality could never compare to that which I read described here, with courage and strength.

Sunday Salon, Classics Club Spin 38, and Hitting Two Challenges With One Book

 

When I’m not swimming, I’m walking, and it is such a delight to be outside. This path is at Herrick Lake, which I have been walking since a little girl, and then seriously again after Covid. When we had to be isolated, I refused to be stuck indoors.

I’m home from church now, and eager to begin a post. Isn’t that funny about blogging, how it comes and goes? At least that is the way it is for me…I have added a new header because why not? And this one is so inviting, as if I could sit by that window and read forever.

The Classic Club has revealed the number for Spin 38, and the number is 17. So, I will eagerly embark on this reread:

I have been wanting to reread it for so long! My father was a cattleman with the Chicago Stockyards before it closed in 1971. I know the stories of cowboys well, and these resonate beautifully within my heart.

Did you participate in The Classics Club this time around? Are you taking lovely walks to clear your head? Have you opened a book you particularly enjoy? 

I’m finishing Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell, to wrap up Paris in July 2024 and get a book in for ReadingOrwell2024. It’s nice when it works out that way…

May your week be blessed,

Bellezza

Classic Club Spin Number 38…to be revealed this Sunday

Thanks to Sylvia, I (re)discovered the Classics Club. Long ago, I had such a list published somewhere…but it is all too vague to remember now. So I created a new Classics Club list, and now I will choose twenty which I’d really like to read for CCSpin #38. The number of the book we are to read will be revealed on Sunday, July 21, so, if you’re like me, you’re just in time!

My twenty books, from a list of fifty:

1. A Wrinkle In Time by Madeleine L’Engle
2. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
3. 1984 by George Orwell
4. Cat’s Eye by Margaret Atwood
5. We The Living by Ayn Rand
6. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
7. Animal Farm by George Orwell
8. Walden by Thoreau
9. Watership Down by Richard Adams
10. A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
11. The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis
12. The Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsyth
13. The Sea by Jon Banville
14. East of Eden by John Steinbeck
15. Possession by A. S. Byatt
16. The Pillars of The Earth by Ken Follett
17. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry (finished August 2024)
18. It Can’t Happen Here by Sinclair Lewis
19. The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien
20. The New York Trilogy by Paul Auster

The  challenge is to read whatever book falls under that number on your Spin List by Sunday, September, 22. I am eager to see which one it will be, as all of these are either great favorites, or books I’ve long been meaning to read. 

p.s. A comment below has caused me to wonder just what it is, exactly, that qualifies a book as a “classic.” It cannot be age alone, I thought, and proceeded to look for a definition. This comes as close as any I can find from PanMacmillan:

“ A classic brilliantly articulates universal themes – like love, morality, death, adversity – and offers revelatory insight and clarity to readers of any era. It always feels fresh.”

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (Paris in July 2024)

Madame Bovary has come to me twice in my life. Both times were when my heart was ripped and torn by another. When I was seventeen, I sympathized with her; now I blame her.

She was the lovely daughter of a farmer, who caught Charles Bovary’s eye when he came to attend to her father. After repeatedly visiting their home, for Charles is enraptured, he asks her to marry him. And so, she becomes the wife of a well-meaning, but not very proficient, doctor.

This is not enough for her. When invited to a ball, she dances with a dashing viscount, and thereafter yearns for such romance. For someone who would carry a green leather cigarette case, with his initials monogrammed on the outside. Her life begins to bore, and eventually dissatisfy her, in small amounts at first. She makes eyes with a clerk, Leon, and he with her, until he leaves the town afraid of compromising them both.

And then, she meets Rodolphe. He is a master at enticing women, intending nothing more lasting than a momentary dalliance. But, to Emma Bovary, he becomes everything.

“Oh, I will have her,” he cried, striking a blow with his stick at a clod in front of him. And he at once began to consider the political part of the enterprise, “Where shall we meet?” 

She leaves her home at dawn, to walk to his, waking him in his bed with her tender kisses. They meet in the garden of her home, finding every opportunity to be together. She buys him beautiful things which she cannot afford, from Lheureux, who obsequiously gives her everything she desires. Until he does not.

Rodolphe sends her word, the night before they are to leave together, that he cannot come. She is too good for him, blah, blah, blah. Emma is thrown into despair, which only becomes worse when Lheureux demands the money for what she has so carelessly bought. He will not be assuaged any longer, and in utter panic Emma goes to the chemist shop next door, stuffing handfuls of arsenic into her mouth.

Hers is a death most horrific; I will never forget the black liquid flowing from her mouth when she is being dressed for burial. Charles mourns her with everything he is; she was too foolish to see what she had in his love.

Flaubert has described the hunger some women possess to be loved by someone who thrills them; the steadfast love of a husband does not suffice. Instead, they are drawn to danger, to romance, to fulfillment which is not possible from a lover. It cannot satisfy, it cannot last. We find this in Anna Karenina, and again in Emma Bovary. They are two of my favorite novels, reminding me not to put my love where it should not go. 

As Gustave Flaubert has written, “We must not touch our idols, the gilt sticks to our fingers.”

(I read this book specifically for Paris in July, the links for which can be found here.)