You would think I am about to launch into a mystical reverie about a painter of folk or a composer who turned the painter of folk into a musical. Neither actually.

While this does not detract one jot from my passionate admiration for both painter George Seurat and that American master of lyric and song , Stephen Sondheim, this particular Sunday in the Park with George, refers to that fateful Italian autumn Sunday afternoon, I opened the hardback cover of David .J Taylor's Orwell. The Life. The picture of George Orwell as father, cigarette in mouth, steeped in domestic ordinariness, clipping his son's shoe closed, while the toddler, seated on Orwell's lap stares distractedly off camera at something or other, is striking anomalous: it is a difficult image to digest for me and the reason is how hard for mortals like you and I to figure, that such deeply creative minds, could possibly breathe ordinary air.
 

I was with my own toddlers in the park and mine was a warm to sultry autumn afternoon, typical of that time of year in northern Italy.  Around me typical familial scenes between mothers and children (over several generations, without fail) played themselves out around me, against an aural backdrop of typically warm and sultry, loud and unapologetic Italian verbiage: deep, dramatic, intense and ordinary.

Now, I had come to Orwell by the circuitous route of serendipity on the internet:

As a subscriber to Book2Book, I opened an article headline and read a short, succinct and pointed article by David Taylor on the pointless-ness of having an opinion: in this instance it was in the context of the Iraq war against an historical literary tradition of writers' opinions having had some meaning, having carried some degree of socio-political gravitas in the past: but now no more….

Mr Taylor's opinion hit several nerve ends of mine which extend back into the socio-political milieu of apartheid South African. So I answered him on the given email address, thoroughly clueless then as to whom in fact was at the receiving end. I am glad to say my response was appreciated and so began an occasional genteel exchange of mails: which revealed among other things, that there was a reason I recognised the name: I had had my copy of his After Bathing at Baxters stolen. He made mention of the imminent release of Orwell and I got myself a copy, meanwhile discovering I was exchanging tid-bits with no other than one of the 2004 Booker Man prize judges!: I fought one of those recurring DNA freeze-drying overly-awed “ah-hah” moments that have you neurotically scrumming your memory banks for stupid, silly and inane comments you might have made along the way….. breathlessly dreading the syntax, flow and meaning of any sentence you might string together for his mille-second attention the next time around…

And here I was opening the first pages of his biography on George  - one of the several that Orwell had never wanted written, written by a short story hero of mine, for whom Orwell had been a shadowy presence ever since he(Taylor )had taken his first ever “adult novel” off  a bookshelf at home and began to read A Clergyman's Daughter and means it deeply when I comments indirectly how formed by Orwell he feels. I know the feeling and the last thing one looks to find and never dares imagine is that the perpetrator of such influence can be human contradictory and of al things abhorred by those of us living it…ordinary.

Ordinary: It surfaces over and over again as if by some fate of the Gods, dare not decree such lowly status on the creative animal …. Even less on creative artistic genius: literary in the specific here, “How dare, one hears the echo holler, ” a man of such literary stature dare be ordinary?”

It resounds off the pages I have read in the meantime, of critique and critics critting critics… and I am left with one singular impression: There is no substantive impression by such people  of  real biography, of the passion by author for his subject( however mixed the feelings), or even for the man, the fallible human George Orwell was…. But it is all hunger to tear at his posthumous carcass for his lifetime crime of being ordinary to the latent heat of being even, in ways, deadly dull and then even, with mouths engorged with sated malice

turn to glut on the admirable literary endeavour and commitment of its author…

I owe Mr Taylor more than a thank you for an intriguing tale and a deeply fascinating read of a man and his life beyond his pen and imaginings, but for leading me into an incredible virtual labyrinth that is the cyberspace dedicated to one man, his life and his work: it can only be described as a thoroughly Orwellian experience!

So what is so terribly shameful is being ordinary and dull I dare ask?

So what If George was not at his literary romantic best on his deathbed when he proposed marriage: at least he had the guts to…. And as much as I can fathom

He entrusted his life's work with one smart woman, despite the extent of the literary chagrin it caused…. No woman out to purely exploit a dead man's legacy would bother to commit the amount of dedicated time of her own life,  to  custodial editorship of her late husband's work and defend his last will with Sonia's kind of fervour and rigor. Of course the literary establishment hated it, ridiculed Orwell's judgement and were likely eaten up with envy it had not been one of them as the named custodian.

As for Orwell.The Life. I loved it. I like the fact that Taylor isn't always blindly infatuated with his hero: that there are moments within Taylor's writing which  even reveal possible dislike: it is healthy and refreshing….as for the literary quality of the book, being awarded the 2004 Pulitzer Prize for Biography, says it all. Anything I add is superfluous. What I would suggest is treating yourself to a read.

During our occasional exchanges the launch of this magazine came up and David generously gave me permission to reprint a post publication of his about his feelings towards his subject and am please to include it in this section.

In much the same vain, I am finding my self increasingly addicted to the Orwellian world which has unfolded out in front of me and to give you a taste of what I am talking about….. take a look at these two reviews and pay attention to the author names….