A Trip to the Bookstore
by Glen Draeger
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Hello Everyone,
I want to tell you about an experience I had some years ago. This is not something I'll do often, but if events in my personal life relate to class I'd like to share them with you.
I went to a large local bookstore to see if I could find a good biography about George Orwell so I could give you more information about him than your book does. When I arrived there I started roaming the aisles. It would have been more efficient for me to ask someone who worked at the store if they had any biographies of Orwell, but I prefer perusing the stacks of books at my leisure until I come across either the section where the book might be or the book itself. I find this to be relaxing.
After about forty-five minutes I came across the biography section and found a couple of books on Orwell. I started to grab one when a man placed his hand directly in front of the book I wanted. He wore gray slacks and white shirt. He wasn't as tall as I am nor as heavy, but he had an intense look about him and it unnerved me. I had no idea what this guy's problem was so I decided against telling him to remove his hand. You don't know what kind of person you're dealing with in a situation like that. Maybe he had serious problems. So, instead of confronting him I thought I'd walk away, wait around for awhile and go back when he was gone.
Before I could leave, however, he spoke to me.
"What are you looking for?" he asked with an English accent.
"Do you work here?" I replied with some irritation.
"No, but I'm interested," he said as if "interest" was a character trait he possessed in great quantity. He dropped his hand then motioned his head toward the books. "Do you like Orwell?" He asked this as if it was an interrogation, as if I had better like Orwell or else. The situation had a strangeness about it and to be honest I felt uncomfortable and my main concern was to get away from him without seeming like I was trying to get away from him. I didn't know what he would do and I didn't want him to start yelling or create some kind of scene in the middle of the store with me as the central character.
"Yes," I said a little defensively. "I like Orwell."
"Good," he said. "That's very good. My name is Eric." He held out his hand and I shook it. "Eric Blair." His whole demeanor changed. It was as if he had met a long lost friend from some forgotten war. "I'm a bit of an Orwell fan," he confessed. "Well, more than a fan, I've read everything he's ever written, most of it three or four times, some of it even more. I teach adult classes about him."
Now I was interested. "Really," I said. "I have literature web site and one of the books I'm suggesting students read is Animal Farm. I was just looking for some information on Orwell."
He smiled. "What do you want to know?"
I like preparing things for this site, but if he could help me by simply offering the information I was looking for—that would be great. I began peppering him with questions. "Where was he born?" I asked.
"India in 1903."
"India? I thought he was from England."
The thin man settled himself against the bookcase as if this was the thing he had wanted to do all evening. He spoke almost as if he were lecturing to a large group. "Orwell moved to England when he was a year old. He attended a small private school, but was not able to earn a university scholarship."
"Not able?"
"No. The mighty Orwell was unable to get a scholarship so he joined the colonial police and went to Burma in 1922 where he was stationed for five years. Have you read Burmese Days?"
"No," I said feeling a little embarrassed.
"He based that novel on his experiences there. Anyway, he was very dissatisfied with his country's imperialism, so he left the police service and lived in the poor sections of London and Paris."
"Wasn't his novel Down and Out in Paris and London based on those experiences?" I felt good about being able to throw in that bit of information for this Orwell aficionado.
"Yes," he replied. "That's when he first tried to make a living as a writer. He worked in restaurants mostly. That's also when he decided to write under a different name and used George Orwell. If he was a failure at writing he did not want his friends and contacts to know."
While we were talking I noticed a scar on Eric's neck. It was round, about the size of a nickel. I think he saw me looking at it, but he didn't say anything about it.
"In 1936," he continued, "Orwell married Eileen O'Shaughnessy. She died in 1943. He went to Spain late in '36 to fight against General Francisco Franco. Soon after that he was wounded by a bullet and returned to England."
"So when did he die?"
"In 1950 of tuberculosis not long after he married for a second time. He was only forty-six."
"Forty-six," I said. "Man, that's younger than I am. What was he like?"
"Oh, he was a passionate man. He was a man who believed in principles. In England when it was popular to praise the Russian Communists he was one of the few who would not and one of the few willing to criticize them. He was also a man who considered language and its use important. He thought that too many people, particularly intellectuals, used language to try to impress people rather than to communicate ideas clearly."
"What do you know about Animal Farm?" I asked.
"He started writing it in 1943 and finished it in 1944. Between 1945 and 1950 the book sold 25,000 copies in Britain and 600,000 in the United States. My other famous novel is 1984. "
"'My?'" I asked.
"Oh," he said with a chuckle. "Sorry, I didn't mean that."
"Boy," I said. "You do know a lot about Orwell."
"I've visited the place in India where he lived, I've been to Burma, Paris and London. In fact I've visited his homeland several times."
"You have an English accent; I figured England was your homeland," I said a little confused.
"Well," he said as if he was confiding in me, "I've kind of adopted the accent because I like Orwell so much. I'm from Texas."
That was a little too strange for me and I started to feel uncomfortable that I had begun feeling so comfortable with him. I had been thinking about asking him if he wanted to go get a bite to eat to continue our conversation, but after that revelation I decided against it. "Thanks a lot," I said. "This really helps. Any suggestions on which one of these to get?" I asked motioning toward the books.
He pulled one out. "This one's good," he said. I thanked him and went on my way.
I don't know whether or not I should tell you what I'm going to tell you now. I've been thinking about what to do about this and my main concern is that you will not believe me and that disbelief might undermine my credibility in your eyes and make this web site less effective. I have, however, decided to take the risk. When I arrived home that night I started looking through the biography. The first thing I noticed was that George Orwell's real name was Eric Arthur Blair. Yeah, Eric Blair. Well, I guess a guy who would fake an English accent might also name himself after a famous author. The second thing, however, borders on insanity. As the gentlemen in the store said, Orwell was wounded in Spain, what he didn't say was that Orwell was shot in the neck. So it would appear that this guy gave himself a scar in memory of Orwell. That's out there—somewhere past Pluto—but the last thing is even more absurd. There were pictures of Orwell in this book. The guy in the store did not simply resemble Orwell . . . he looked exactly like him—exactly! I don't think I'm exaggerating—I keep asking myself if I'm remembering this all correctly and I think I am. The only thing I can figure is that he had plastic surgery. But who would do that? Why would he do that? I'd say that's being a little more than a fan of Orwell. Sounds to me like the guy had an obsession.
In any case, I thought this might interest you. I hope it did.
Regards,
Mr. Draeger
Source:
Readings on Animal Farm, edited by Terry O'Neill, Greenhaven Press, San Diego, CA, 1998, pp. 13-28.
©2005-2012 Glen Draeger (all rights reserved)
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