I picked up George Orwell’s short book, Why I Write, at Librarie des Colonnes (Probably the best bookstore in all of Morocco. If you’re ever in Tangier, make sure you stroll down the boulevard from the Terrace of the Lazy Persons (Soor el-Maagazeen) and pop in for a visit and buy a book.) I was in Tangier for the weekend with my wife, a native Tangaouia, on our way home from Spain. I had just finished the thesis for my MFA and was struggling with the very question implied by the statement that is Orwell’s title: Why Do I Write?
Like Orwell, my writing tends to run toward illuminating social injustice. Whether in Animal Farm or 1984, this is something Orwell is known for. He ends Why I Write with the thought that “Political language… is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give the appearance of solidarity to pure wind.” Much of the rest of the book paints how we use language to soften the truth, to make the horrible seem mundane, to justify war and the most treacherous, violent human deeds.
Needless to say, I gobbled up every word of it.
It is short book divided into four parts: “Why I Write,” “The Lion and the Unicorn,” “The Hanging,” and “Politics and the English Language.” The second of these, “The Lion and the Unicorn,” takes up the majority of the book in dissecting the political climate, heart and ideology of England during World War II. It begins simply enough with a simple declaration that as Orwell is writing, “civilized human beings flying overhead,” are trying to kill him. This sets the tone for much of the rest of the essay wherein Orwell consolidates his points on Socialism in England while ostensibly under constant shelling from the Germans air force. What is perhaps the most compelling at first read is toward the end of the essay when he begins predicting the future of the Great Britain’s Labour Party. Strangely (or perhaps not-so-strangely), much of what Orwell predicted has gone to pass. To read this is a strange look at exactly how powerful and intuitive Orwell was as a writer.
Of course, Orwell is well known for his socialist politics. It was not surprising to see this sort of championing of the blue-collar worker visible in the other sections more directly focused on writing and language usage, whether he discusses the more personal impetus of the writer (broken down into four categories: Sheer Egoism, Aesthetic Enthusiasm, Historical Impulse, and Political Purpose) or the more absolute nature of language, the responsibility of writers to language and to their possible readership, to make themselves as clear as possible, is always apparent. Perhaps it’s worth repeating here, for readers and writers, Orwell’s rules for writing.
As a sort of coupling to this, Orwell adds that any “scrupulous writer” would ask him/herself at least four questions:
Furthermore, a writer will probably ask to more questions of him/herself:
A great exercise in the type or writing Orwell preaches is ‘The Hanging,” a brilliant short story buried in these essays. It follows the author’s experience of an execution in India and the uneasy aftereffects of having watched someone coldly put to death. The prose is exactly the sort of use of language that Orwell champions. There are no wasted words. It is an active piece bereft of all but the most needed foreign words. All this serves to bring the piece alive, to give it the energy and the vitality needed to shine the light on the horrible things that are covered in language which is meant to make murder respectable. The narrator reflects on the man walking the forty yards to the gallows and sees “the mystery, the unspeakable wrongness, of cutting a life short when it is in full tide.”
Such us the power of language when wielded properly.
George Saunders said that, in writing, “the deeper goal is to be more loving, more courageous, more accepting, more patient, but also less full of shit. To be able to step up to the beauties of life and the horrors of it without any kind of flinching and really for once open your eyes and see it.”
Orwell writes of the these horrors in cool, clean prose and he does not flinch. But we should. I suppose that's why I write, to balance out the political language and paint reality. That, and sheer egoism, of course.
Like Orwell, my writing tends to run toward illuminating social injustice. Whether in Animal Farm or 1984, this is something Orwell is known for. He ends Why I Write with the thought that “Political language… is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give the appearance of solidarity to pure wind.” Much of the rest of the book paints how we use language to soften the truth, to make the horrible seem mundane, to justify war and the most treacherous, violent human deeds.
Needless to say, I gobbled up every word of it.
It is short book divided into four parts: “Why I Write,” “The Lion and the Unicorn,” “The Hanging,” and “Politics and the English Language.” The second of these, “The Lion and the Unicorn,” takes up the majority of the book in dissecting the political climate, heart and ideology of England during World War II. It begins simply enough with a simple declaration that as Orwell is writing, “civilized human beings flying overhead,” are trying to kill him. This sets the tone for much of the rest of the essay wherein Orwell consolidates his points on Socialism in England while ostensibly under constant shelling from the Germans air force. What is perhaps the most compelling at first read is toward the end of the essay when he begins predicting the future of the Great Britain’s Labour Party. Strangely (or perhaps not-so-strangely), much of what Orwell predicted has gone to pass. To read this is a strange look at exactly how powerful and intuitive Orwell was as a writer.
Of course, Orwell is well known for his socialist politics. It was not surprising to see this sort of championing of the blue-collar worker visible in the other sections more directly focused on writing and language usage, whether he discusses the more personal impetus of the writer (broken down into four categories: Sheer Egoism, Aesthetic Enthusiasm, Historical Impulse, and Political Purpose) or the more absolute nature of language, the responsibility of writers to language and to their possible readership, to make themselves as clear as possible, is always apparent. Perhaps it’s worth repeating here, for readers and writers, Orwell’s rules for writing.
- Never use a metaphor, simile or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
- Never use a long word where a short one will do.
- If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
- Never use the passive when you can use the active.
- Never use a foreign word, scientific phrase or jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
- Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.
As a sort of coupling to this, Orwell adds that any “scrupulous writer” would ask him/herself at least four questions:
- What am I trying to say?
- What words will express it?
- What image or idiom will make it clearer?
- Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?
Furthermore, a writer will probably ask to more questions of him/herself:
- Could I have put it more shortly?
- Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly?
A great exercise in the type or writing Orwell preaches is ‘The Hanging,” a brilliant short story buried in these essays. It follows the author’s experience of an execution in India and the uneasy aftereffects of having watched someone coldly put to death. The prose is exactly the sort of use of language that Orwell champions. There are no wasted words. It is an active piece bereft of all but the most needed foreign words. All this serves to bring the piece alive, to give it the energy and the vitality needed to shine the light on the horrible things that are covered in language which is meant to make murder respectable. The narrator reflects on the man walking the forty yards to the gallows and sees “the mystery, the unspeakable wrongness, of cutting a life short when it is in full tide.”
Such us the power of language when wielded properly.
George Saunders said that, in writing, “the deeper goal is to be more loving, more courageous, more accepting, more patient, but also less full of shit. To be able to step up to the beauties of life and the horrors of it without any kind of flinching and really for once open your eyes and see it.”
Orwell writes of the these horrors in cool, clean prose and he does not flinch. But we should. I suppose that's why I write, to balance out the political language and paint reality. That, and sheer egoism, of course.