Eric Arthur Blair aka 'George Orwell'

26th May, 2011 [date of the original draft]

Sydney, Kingsgrove

I have just finished reading a selection of George Orwell’s letters and was deeply moved by his acute anxiety to protect his adopted young son, Richard, from any potential infection of the tuberculosis which was killing the famous author and essayist.[1] Orwell’s love and concern for the boy was particularly evident and tender-hearted when he was lying on his death bed at UCH in London (University College Hospital) and painfully desperate to embrace the little boy but having to push him away. He was “absolutely devoted” to his son.[2] Writers, too, like all other artists, are more than the iconic works with which they are normally identified.

For most people George Orwell will forever be connected to those classic socio-political critiques of the ‘engineered’ trajectory towards ideological monoliths and totalitarianism, Animal Farm (1945) and 1984 (1949).[3] This is unfortunate for a number of reasons. To begin with Orwell was a prolific writer and an amazingly generous correspondent, and this despite his persistent and ultimately fatal joust with TB at the age of forty-six (though given the viciousness of his disease he invariably appears much older in photographs). Towards the end of his life writing became an increasingly difficult task and the use of heavy and unreliable typewriters for a bed-ridden man made the task even more onerous. Both of the novels for which he is chiefly famous for were written towards the end of his life, 1984 was his last major literary undertaking.[4] There is then, and despite his early death, a voluminous amount of material which serves as a backdrop to these two books. To study these novels (given the special subject matter) outside Orwell’s political and social inheritance is to fall into the trap of caricaturing or misinterpreting his philosophical thought. This no less given the confusion of his position on socialism and communism and the evident distinctions he wants to make between the two, but then also with his interpretation of the unique brand of British socialism itself.[5] In the excellent introduction to his correspondence, Peter Davison pinpoints the reason why we find a none too small collection of inconsistencies to do with Orwell. Notwithstanding his own political ambivalences there are those who without reasonable knowledge of his life quote him in catchphrases which only adds to these ‘misinterpretations’:

“…many of those who refer to Orwell seem not to have read much more than Animal Farm and Nineteen-Eighty-Four, if those. The millions who have heard of Big Brother and Room 101 know nothing of their progenitor. Ignorance of Orwell is also to be found in academic circles…”[6]

This would account for some of the political contradictions and his ‘contrariness’ which Orwellian students will invariably point to.[7] It does play an important part of how we are to receive and understand these books together with the socio-political conditions, ideologies, laws and practises he wants to anatomize and to critique. It is tempting for some to put aside the actual life of the author, particularly given the cinematic translation of the works, and to miss the message altogether: that George Orwell’s stories have more to do with the ‘human condition’ as a universal experience over any political or geographical borders. And so, we can with confidence in our own times, consider how he would have ‘reviewed’ liberal democracies bent on panoptic surveillance and the resultant erosion of our private space. This is a vital point which also permits for the broader context of his work to remain both inventive and relevant as a diachronic critique as to how civil societies “form” and “change”. Particularly in the sphere of social theory, and especially with readings connected to conflict perspective. The same we could write for example of Yevgeny Zamyatin, Aldous Huxley, and Margaret Atwood. Even the same let’s say for the religious ‘eschatologist’ Seraphim Rose. The famous story which underpins 1984 itself, is only ever incidental to the greater truths of what man [ideally] is rather than what man can [potentially] become, which Orwell subtly yet effectively communicates:

“Being in a minority, even in a minority of one, did not make you mad. There was truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world, you were not mad.” (1984)

“If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love.” (1984)

There is also the graphic and unforgettable warning of what we are ‘politically’ capable of [in Aristotelian terms of “zoon politikon”] rather than a pure and simple critique of a prevailing ideology or the sinister shadow of the “political Leviathan” Big Brother.[8] There is a great deal of political philosophy to be found in these dystopian stories of a dis-functioning hierarchical social system primarily brought about not by ‘authority’, but ultimately by the consent of a vulnerable and crushed human spirit. Almost everywhere, Orwell is saying, it is unacceptable for the power elite, whatever name or label they might go under, to rule over and to tyrannize the vulnerable. ‘Hell’ begins at the point when we are no longer free and able to act as we would wish. Here is the fundamental place from where both “Big Brother” and “Uberveillance” emerge, to depth-charge into the other places of our social activity and everyday being. The irony is that nowadays we are becoming much more than just willing participants in this mushrooming surveillance ecosystem, but are in fact inviting “Room 101” and our very jailers, not only into our homes, BUT into our blood streams.[9]

[1] Orwell, A Life in Letters, Peter Davison, (Harvill, Secker: London, 1998).

[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6jdftY4j-Nc

[3] https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-foundation/orwell/biography/

[4] https://www.theguardian.com/books/2009/may/10/1984-george-orwell

[5] https://www.biographyonline.net/socialism-george-orwell/

[6] Orwell, op. cit., p. ix

[7] https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2003/01/27/honest-decent-wrong

[8] https://www.taylorfrancis.com/books/e/9780203941638/chapters/10.4324/9780203941638-7

[9] Uberveillance and the Social Implications of Microchip Implants, M. G. Michael and Katina Michael (eds), (IGI Global: PA, 2014).

A heart-warming return to the past

I was happy that Katina was able to recover this little segment from an old Vox Populi programme of long ago. [1] Not necessarily that it captures me in a more enthusiastic and youthful phase in my life, but also for the documenting of my parents George and Helen in our ‘pre-historic’ café, the legendary Reno Café [where I have elsewhere in this journal written about]. Where incidentally, they were to add at least another twelve years to their more than a few decades in our shoppe on 341 King Street, Newtown. As for that stretched red Volvo outside the shop? I still remember the delight in Mum’s eye when it was delivered one memorable afternoon from the previous owner, and the jibes from my mates that I had joined the ranks of the much maligned ‘Volvo driver’! The opening segment to the clip is not from the actual graduation of my class but presumably stock footage held by SBS [you would have noted the beloved Sir Roden Cutler inspecting the passing out parade and the former ‘colourful’ minister of police Mr Bill Crabtree]. In the picture I am with my younger cousin James and my two friends in the café are Dom and Linda. The place of worship where I am lighting a candle and where I would attend the Divine Liturgy on most Sundays, is the Church of Saint Demetrius [2], the patron saint of Thessaloniki, a fine example of Byzantine religious architecture located near the Aristotelian on Egnatias Avenue. The clip though short was a time-consuming process originally intended for a longer story, it is why I am bearded in some places [the segments shot in Thessaloniki, Greece] and ‘moustachioed’ when the filming was done here in Sydney, Australia. I had completed my first year in the School of Theology at the Aristotelian [3] in the north of Greece where I came impossibly close to topping the year and had just returned home after it was determined that I should continue with my studies as one of the inaugural students at the newly established Saint Andrew’s Greek Orthodox Theological College [4] in Sydney. On a personal note it was encouraging to show my children that their Dad’s philosophy of life has pretty much remained steadfast despite the many ‘twists and turns’, and that there was a time when he too was living in a younger man’s clothes.

Listening to my ad hoc ‘commentary’ and reminding myself this is a young fellow in his early twenties, I am not too embarrassed by what I hear. But I would not speak in such absolute terms today having crossed over into the fifth decade of my life. “Time passed”, as Pablo Neruda has said. Though I was learning and growing in some encouraging ways, there remains a naivety to my words. It is perhaps telling that it was not too long after this interview I would be ordained into the priesthood. The simple truth, I was not ready. The naivety has long since gone, I would hope, and the fundamentalism [‘the overtly spiritual confidence’] has been considerably tempered and in places broken, by the “twists and turns”. Yet, for the most part, outside my wife and children this could well be my only true success in life, that when I look into the mirror despite seeing a face too often unrecognizable, I still deeply connect with that passionate young man. At the foundation remains the incontestable purpose behind our individual ‘journey-making’, the challenge to become a decent human being (Ludwig Wittgenstein).

“Behold, I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matt. 28:20)

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vox_Populi_(SBS_Current_Affairs_program)

[2] https://orthodoxwiki.org/Church_of_Saint_Demetrios_(Thessalonica)

[3] https://www.auth.gr/en

[4] http://www.sagotc.edu.au/

Kingsgrove on the stroke of midnight

Sydney, NSW

Singularity on the keyboards; cyborgs dancing without soul; eaters of electricity; he lifts his spirit like a heavy weight; Sisyphus does not let go of hope; technology delivers at a great cost; the makers of new-fangled dreams; lost in a sandstorm without a compass; a lone saxophone brings you home; moonless nights; Mother of God ‘I am lost’; clouds blowing in the west; what fear this fear; the sky alight with fire; not prepared for the revelation; an ancient fish bursting through the shallows; tentacles of water; mazes built from rusted steel; our beloved Ellul where are you; save our ship SOS; the pain of a broken friendship; a grand piano out of tune; strands of hair in the sink; the eye more easily deceived than the ear; truth will stand no chance; except for theatre; graffiti and poetry; and mouth to mouth; here in this house where philosophy bruised my fingers; properties lost in translation; like the Filioque; and proceeds from Love; the three child saints playing hide and seek in the kitchen; the last seal opened on our deathbeds; identity revealed through suffering; life is not meaningless; the whole thing is context; “Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches” (Federico Garcia Lorca); I touch the walls rekindling the past; byzantine icons in the other room; fragrant resin dripping from gilded brows; Patmos rising from beneath the chief sea; the four horsemen of the Apocalypse; hordes pressed against the fences; they search for the righteous priests; “May your priests be clothed with your righteousness” (Ps 132:9); the terrible Mark brings the great sore; who loves you when you stretch out your hand; Father when did you die; as you enter to your left; an iron bed by the window; sanitary walls painted grey; you will find the poem beneath the pillow; outside tall trees and little birds; Francisco Goya (1746-1828); “Disasters of War”; lead white canvas primer; to be burnt in order to become charcoal; here in this room where I first saw the dream; the outer darkness; the sword of Damocles hanging over my head; it is okay brother and sister we are forgiven; the Trisaghion hymn; they will find out; then you will truly live; time to sleep it is 1.58AM; “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you” (Maya Angelou); temptation is the only constant; grace comes and goes; like the hands on the face of a clock; “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be” (Douglas Adams); time to sleep it is 2.11AM; I have heard that before; hickory dickory dock; we all like Mr Spock; top draw to the right; letters unopened from previous journeys; a broken London Clock; Miriam where are you; here are the tickets you said; Salamis Lines; Limassol to Patmos; radiant rings will speak of status; “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” (Matt 6:21); drones carrying prophecy; attacked by rogue  eagles; time to sleep it is 2.20AM; lucid dreaming; Freud psychopathology; Jung archetypes; Saint Joseph protect me; make me part of your dream; give me your breath; “Now my five senses gather into a meaning all acts, all presences” (Judith Wright); an old man in an electric wheelchair; a new-born in a layback stroller; for a brief moment their vision intersects; at that instant it is done; deliciously cynical; as beautiful as the Aegean; on Marrickville and Illawarra Roads; the tips of an angel’s wing brush the hairs on the forearm; and all this by the grace of God; “I have a world apart that is not among men”  (Li Po); though drained of life; call no man good; and he will be crushed and twisted; to be set straight before the final journey; share with me your greatest poem; burnt to fine powder; sunk in the black residue; “Who knows how to drink pain, and live?” (Gwen Harwood); Natalya Estemirova; Marie Colvin; Anna Politkovskaya; Mother is whining and coughing; these irritating noises will one day be missed; like the Great Vespers in the Cathedral of Kazan; Moorefields Road; Clemton Park; King Georges Road; Jacob’s vision at Bethel; rapid-eye movement (REM); “I got dreams to remember” (Otis Redding); Citalopram; Paroxetine; Clomipramine; fiant pilulae et pereat mundus; Thomas Szasz The Myth of Mental Illness; anti-coercive psychiatry; the roots in the lake; a straw-coloured moon; the Bucharest poem, dear Mother; here in these hallways where I grew taller; black-and-blue heart and knees; in these rooms I determined that life must go on; from this front door I left a layman; returned a priest; left again in a thousand pieces; “If we were humble the Lord in His love would show us all things” (Saint Silouan the Athonite); I saw my Father here for the last time; Cartoon Corner in the afternoon; toasted banana and peanut butter sandwiches; football training across the road; the Lion that devours in my bedroom; the ancient Dragon from the deep in my bedroom; Revelation 21 on the left wall; melodies unto a lovely madness; intricate gold sculptures; three-dimensional space; I envy how you run through the fields; it is now at last time to sleep 3.17AM; Jeremiah please pray for me; “This above all: to thine own self be true” (Polonius, Hamlet); which hat then do we put on today; the four winds hat; the pilgrim’s hat; “Hit the road Jack and don’t cha come back/No more” (Percy Mayfield); a blind sewing mistress; reading Braille by the stars; the sightless will lead the sighted; Oum Kalthoum keening before the Great Sphinx of Giza; there are four stages in the lifecycle of a butterfly; Prometheus defies the gods three times; outside the horn blast of a car is getting louder; we have underestimated Baudelaire; “Always be a poet, even in prose”; words made right on the stroke of midnight; I am the restoring drops of rain caught beneath your collar.