“From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I
grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and
twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness
that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to
settle down and write books.”
Many of us
resolve to write before we have anything to say (and some never progress beyond
that point, which doesn’t slow them down). “To be a writer” is not the same as “to
write,” and sometimes the two are mutually exclusive. The first is a romantic
whim; the second, hard work. As Orwell explains it, he was the real thing but
distrusted it before consciously accepting and applying his “true nature.” This
sounds like an eminently healthy strategy. When he writes that “from the very start my literary
ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued,” we
shouldn’t assume that every maladjusted introvert has it in him to write, or
that writing is somehow therapeutic. The urge isn’t the actuality, and one
wishes that more of life’s wallflowers chose more productive careers as podiatrists
or millwrights.
We don’t think of Orwell as an eminent stylist, perhaps
because the mature Orwell, the Orwell we know and respect, had already given up
the wish to write books, as he says, “full of purple passages in which words
were used partly for the sake of their own sound.” That decision to eschew
verbal pyrotechnics and much is the mark of a seasoned, dedicated writer. He
has already given up on empty flash, and instead is actually saying something
in as concise and precise a fashion as he can. See how he describes the pro in
action: “It is his job, no doubt, to discipline his temperament and avoid
getting stuck at some immature stage, in some perverse mood; but if he escapes
from his early influences altogether, he will have killed his impulse to write.”
Like everything else done well, writing is a balance among competing tensions. Immaturity
spells self-indulgent mush; an exaggerated version of its opposite, imaginative
desiccation.
Near the conclusion comes one of Orwell’s greatest hits: “Good
prose is like a windowpane.” This is true but incomplete and not terribly
helpful, as is Swift’s “Proper words in proper places, make the true definition of a style.” Some
good prose is “like a window pane.” Some is translucent rather than
transparent. Some appears to be window-like but on closer inspection proves not
to be, for better or worse. Some is transparent but brightly colored, and the
prose shades the world like a filter on a camera. It all depends on
the job at hand, though it’s fair to say that intentional opacity can never be enjoyed
or admired. Here is the Orwell I treasure, the fallible man and the
hard-working, sometime conflicted writer:
“So long
as I remain alive and well I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style,
to love the surface of the earth, and to take a pleasure in solid objects and
scraps of useless information. It is no use trying to suppress that side of
myself. The job is to reconcile my ingrained likes and dislikes with the
essentially public, non-individual activities that this age forces on all of
us.”
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