Three and a half stars. (Why not more? I had to think about it, but eventually decided that (a) not everything Orwell wrote about was of compelling interest to me and (b) compared to say the roughly contemporary musical journalism of G. B. Shaw, Orwell's writings convey a relatively dour sense of personality.)
George Orwell was primarily a journalist, and assuming this selection is representative, his interests were social, political and literary. (He appreciatively reviews a couple of musical-hall shows and speculates about the potential of the cinema, but I don't recall a mention of classical music, or any of the visual arts. Names like Einstein, Eddington or Oppenheimer were also evidently beyond his professional event horizon.) Still, within those areas, his interests were wide and his thoughts penetrating.
Peter Davison is the lead editor of the 9000-page Collected Works of Orwell. It would have been nice to know how he chose the examples that make up this volume (omitting such essays as "A Hanging", "Shooting an Elephant" and "Why I Write"), but perhaps he can claim anthologist's privilege. His selection is pretty wide: among other material it includes poetry; book, film and theatre reviews; autobiographical essays, polemics, pieces of political analysis, radio broadcasts, including the script of an interview with Jonathan Swift.
Orwell was very productive. In his introduction Davison illustrates this statement with some of Orwell own (probably typical) figures for the mid 1940s when, despite the fact that he was never in the best of health and had to endure the tensions and frustrations of life in wartime and postwar Britain, in 30 months he wrote—and published—the equivalent of three substantial books. It's clearly futile to represent the scope of his work here. Unfortunately it's equally tempting to try to do so.
This collection is ordered chronologically. The first article (from 1929, as by E. A. Blair and restored from a French translation) is a measured and almost clinical denunciation of British policies in Burma, ending with the bitter prediction that once the country was depleted of resources, its population would "be able to appreciate how capitalism shows its gratitude to those to whom it owes its existence."
It is typical of these writings (and presumably of Orwell's working life) that the next item is a review of J. B. Priestley's novel Angel Pavement. Orwell is again caustic but measured, debunking what he sees as absurd overpraise of "a blatantly second-rate novelist" who had still produced an enjoyable light novel.
And this in turn is followed by a scathing description (almost certainly based on personal experience) of conditions in "Common Lodging Houses" (where unemployed homeless men paid to put roofs over their heads). Characteristically his diatribe includes practical suggestions for reform. Then some poems, reviews of Chesterton on Dickens, of Tropic of Cancer, of a Chinese travelogue by Peter Fleming, brother of James Bond's Ian, reporting on the influence of the USSR in the province of Sinkiang. (Orwell comments: "It is a queer tribute to the moral prestige of Communism that we are always rather shocked when we find that the Communists are no better than anybody else.") Kipling, a Defence of the Novel, and a poem bring us to 1937 and the Spanish Civil War.
Another twenty pages (including Bertrand Russell, more on Spain, an explanation of "Why I Join the I[ndependentl] L[abour] P[arty]" and some self-critical biography) and we're into 1940. And the first major representative of the war years takes the bull by the horns. Mein Kampf, Orwell says, is "the fixed vision of a monomaniac." His discussion is both honest and perceptive. (Presciently he surmises, "the Russo–German pact represents no more than an alteration of time-table.") Of Hitler himself Orwell says he would certainly kill him if he could, but he could feel no personal animosity. In fact he finds something deeply appealing about Hitler, who has a "pathetic doglike face, the face of a man suffering under intolerable wrongs. . . . If he were killing a mouse he would know how to make it seem like a dragon." He attributes part of Hitler's success to his understanding that sometimes people do want "struggle and self-sacrifice, not to mention drums, flags and loyalty parades." Orwell then cites Hitler's "I offer you struggle, danger and death" ("and as a result a whole nation flings itself at his feet")—which Davison aptly compares to Churchill's later "blood, toil, tears and sweat" speech.
Orwell is rational and practical about means to oppose a Nazi invasion, but in these articles he does not have a great deal to say about the progress of the war. As far as I can recall the only victories he celebrates are at Rostov and Kharkov.
The end of the war passes virtually unmarked. Apart from one description of liberated Paris, the sound of V-1's falling is followed by a series of occasional pieces that carry us into 1946. One of these pieces is a discussion and defence of P. G. Wodehouse, who had been vilified for contributing to Nazi broadcasts while interned in Germany during WWII. (Others had done worse, Orwell maintained, and been treated much less harshly or even ignored.) He argues Wodehouse was naive not traitorous. (In an interview Wodehouse had wondered whether the kind of people he wrote about would still live after the [second] war. Orwell comments that mentally Wodehouse was still living in the times he wrote about, and Bertie Wooster, if he ever existed, had been killed around 1915.) Orwell suggests that Goebbels' department had hoped for more than they got from Wodehouse, because the latter's amiable exaggeration of upper-class stereotypes was easily mistaken by foreigners for bitter satire.
The postwar years represent about a third of the book; the mixture is as eclectic as before, but offers periodic reminders of how different the world was in the early postwar years: in some circles, for example, it was apparently a real question whether Britain should seek to ally itself with the US or with the USSR.
Anticipations of 1984 become increasingly apparent. Orwell had written about totalitarian visions in Wells and Jack London, Huxley and Zamyatin, as well as about real oppression in Spain and Russia. Now he discusses an attempt to rationalise English spelling. (Orwell suggests doing it a a few words at a time, as sometimes happens anyway; he also favours metric units in science and engineering but traditional units elsewhere.) And he sees the world starting to divide into two or three superstates that he believes will be permanently at low-level war with one another. He evidently discounted the changes in policy nuclear weapons would entail—but then, full-scale thermonuclear weapons were still two years away when Orwell died in 1950.
I am more interested in Orwell's views on literature than on his politics, and his knowledge of English letters seems quite comprehensive. Wherever he turns he produces continual jabs of common sense. Discussing the detective story, he points out how much of the literary quality of the Sherlock Homes stories stems from the preliminary "irrelevant" scenes involving Holmes and Watson alone. He also reflects that such earlier stories were much less formulaic than their murder-centred descendants, often dealing with petty crimes, or even no crime at all. On poetry he argues that rhymed, metrical verse makes poetry easy to memorise, and therefore gives it a chance to escape from the printed page. (What we see see of Orwell's own poetry is indeed traditionally structured.) He first introduces these ideas in an essay on T. S. Eliot. "I know a respectable volume of Eliot's earlier work by heart", Orwell says: "it simply stuck in my mind." But of the three recently published poems that were to form part of Eliot's Four Quartets he recalls only a few isolated lines—surprisingly none of which are from the magnificent passage in "The Dry Salvages" beginning "The river is within us, the sea is all about us" and running to the end of the first section. Perhaps more had changed than Eliot's poetry. His postwar review of Graham Greene's The Heart of the Matter is quite scathing—dubious about the choice of the African setting and incredulous about the behaviour of the major characters. His reading doesn't fit my own experience of Greene's novel; but that was a long time ago and I'm not prepared to say Orwell was wrong.
But there is no escaping the importance of Orwell's social conscience. Whatever he wrote or did, social justice was never far from his mind. He seems to have felt obliged to seek out wrongs and strive to redress them, almost as though a sense of struggle and striving (an impulse that perhaps originally stemmed from a need to expiate upper-class, imperialist guilt) had become essential to him. Some of his comments on Brave New World are perhaps revealing about the place of such struggle in his life: "though everyone is happy in a vacuous way, life has become so pointless that it is difficult to believe such a society could endure."