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.
